The Guarded Heights
There was a curious light in her eyes, reminiscent of something he had
seen there the night of his confession.
"You've just remarked," she laughed, softly, "that rumours seldom
materialize."
What did she mean by that? Before he could go after an answer Mrs.
Sinclair came down, joined them, and explained that Sylvia was tired and
didn't want any one bothered. George's exaltation increased. He hoped he
had hurt her, as he had always wanted to. Blodgett, accompanied by
Wandel and Dalrymple, wandered from the smoking-room, seeking news.
George felt every muscle tighten, for Blodgett, at sight of Mrs.
Sinclair, roared:
"Where is Sylvia?"
The gross familiarity held him momentarily convinced, then he
remembered that Blodgett was eager to make progress with such people,
quick to snatch at every advantage. Sylvia wasn't here to rebuke him.
Under the circumstances, the others couldn't very well. As a matter of
fact, they appeared to notice nothing. Of course it wasn't Blodgett.
"In her room with a headache," Mrs. Sinclair answered. "She may come
down later."
"Headaches," Wandel said, "cover a multitude of whims."
George didn't like his tone. Wandel always gave you the impression of a
vision subtle and disconcerting.
Dalrymple, in spite of his confused state, was caught rattling off
questions at Mrs. Sinclair, too full of concern, while George watched
him, wondering--wondering.
"Must have her own way," Blodgett interrupted. "Bridge! Let's cut in or
make another table. George?"
George and Betty shook their heads, so Blodgett, with that air of a
showman leading his spectators to some fresh surprise, hurried the
others away. George didn't attempt to hide his distaste. He stared at
the fire. Hang Blodgett and his familiarities!
"What are you thinking about, George?"
"Would you have come here, Betty, of your own wish?"
"Why not?"
"Blodgett."
"What about the old dear?"
George started, turned, and looked full at her. There was no question.
She meant it, and earlier in the evening Lambert had said nearly any
girl would marry Blodgett. What had become of his own judgment? He felt
the necessity of defending it.
"He's too precious happy to have people like you in his house. You know
perfectly well he hasn't always been able to do it."
"Isn't that why everyone likes him," she asked, "because he's so
completely unaffected?"
George understood he was on thin ice. He didn't deviate.
"You mean he's all the more admirable because he hasn't plastered
himself with veneer?"
Her white cheeks flushed. She was as nearly angry as he had ever seen
her.
"I thought you'd never go back to that," she said. "Didn't I make it
clear any mention of it in the first place was quite unnecessary?"
"I thought you had a reproof for me, Betty. You don't suppose I ever
forget what I've had to do, what I still have to accomplish."
She half stretched out her hand.
"Why do you try to quarrel with me, George?"
"I wouldn't for the world," he denied, warmly.
"But you do. I told you once you were different. You shouldn't compare
yourself with Mr. Blodgett or any one. What you set out for you always
get."
He smiled a little. She was right, and he must never lose his sense of
will, his confidence of success.
She started to speak, then hesitated. She wouldn't meet his glance.
"Why," she asked, "did you tell me that night?"
"Because," he answered, uncomfortably, "you were too good a friend to
impose upon. I had to give you an opportunity to drive me away."
"I didn't take it," she said, quickly, "yet you went as thoroughly as if
I had."
She spread her hands.
"You make me feel as if I'd done something awkward to you. It isn't
fair."
Smiling wistfully, he touched her hand.
"Don't talk that way. Don't let us ever quarrel, Betty. You've never
meant anything but kindness to me. I'd like to feel there's always a
little kindness for me in your heart."
Her long lashes lowered slowly over her eyes.
"There is. There always will be, George."
X
For some time after Betty had left him George remained staring at the
fire. The chatter and the intermittent banging of the piano made him
long for quiet; but it was good discipline to stay downstairs, and Mrs.
Sinclair had said Sylvia might show herself later. So he waited,
struggling with his old doubt, asking himself if he had actually
acquired anything genuine except his money.
Later he wandered again from room to room, seeking Sylvia, but she
didn't appear, and he couldn't understand her failure. Had it any
meaning for him? Why, for that matter, should she strike him before any
other knew of the weapon in her hand? From time to time Dalrymple
expressed a maudlin concern for her, and George's uncertainty increased.
If it should turn out to be Dalrymple, he told himself hotly, he would
be capable of killing.
The young man quite fulfilled his promise of the early evening. Long
after the last of the women had retired he remained in the smoking-room.
Rogers abetted him, glad, doubtless, to be sportive in such
distinguished company. Wandel loitered, too, and was unusually flushed,
refilling his glass rather often. Lambert, Blodgett, and he were at a
final game of billiards.
"You've been with Dalrymple all evening," George said, significantly, to
Wandel.
"My dear George," Wandel answered, easily, "I observe the habits of my
fellow creatures. Be they good or bad I venture not to interfere."
"An easy creed," George said. "You're not your brother's keeper."
"Rather not. The man that keeps himself makes the world better."
George had a disturbing fancy that Wandel accused him.
"You don't mean that at all," he said. "When will you learn to say what
you mean?"
"Perhaps," Wandel replied, sipping, "when I decide not to enter
politics."
"Your shot," Blodgett called, and Wandel strolled to the table.
Dalrymple didn't play, his accuracy having diminished to the point of
laughter. He edged across to George.
"Old George Morton!" he drawled. "Young George Croesus! And all that."
The slurred last phrase was as abhorrent as "why don't you stick to your
laundry?" It carried much the same implication. But Dalrymple was up to
something, wanted something. He came to it after a time with the air of
one conferring a regal favour.
"Haven't got a hundred in your pocket, Croesus? Driggs and bridge have
squeezed me dry. Blodgett's got bones. Never saw such a man. Has
everything. Driggs is running out. Recoup at bones. Everybody shoot. Got
the change, save me running upstairs? Bad for my heart, and all that."
He grinned. George grinned back. It was a small favour, but it was a
start, for the other acquired bad habits readily. Ammunition against
Dalrymple! He had always needed it, might want it more than ever now. At
last Dalrymple himself put it in his hand.
He passed over the money, observing that the other moved so as to screen
the transaction from those about the table.
"Little night-cap with me?" Dalrymple suggested as if by way of payment.
George laughed.
"Haven't you already protected the heads of the party?"
Dalrymple made a wry face.
"Do their heads a lot more good than mine."
The game ended.
Dalrymple turned away shouting.
"Bones! Bones!"
Blodgett produced a pair of dice with his air of giving each of his
patrons his heart's desire. Wandel yawned. Dalrymple rattled the dice
and slithered them across the billiard table.
"Coming in, George?" Blodgett roared.
"Thanks. I'm off to bed."
But he waited, curious as to the destination of the small loan he had
just made.
Blodgett with tact threw for reasonable stakes. Roger's play was
necessarily small, and he seemed ashamed of the fact. Lambert put plenty
on the table, but urged no takers. Wandel varied his wagers. Dalrymple
covered everything he could, and had luck.
George studied the intent figures, the eager eyes, as the dice flopped
across the table; listened to the polished voices raised to these toys
in childish supplications that sang with the petulant accents of
negroes. Simultaneously he was irritated and entertained, experiencing a
vague, uneasy fear that a requisite side of life, of which this folly
might be taken as a symbol, had altogether escaped him. He laughed aloud
when Wandel sang something about seven and eleven. His voice resembled a
negro's as the peep of a sparrow approaches an eagle's scream.
"What you laughing at, great man? One must talk to them. Otherwise they
don't behave, and you see I rolled an eleven. Positive proof."
He gathered in the money he had won.
"Shooting fifty this time."
"Why not shoot?" Dalrymple asked George. "'Fraid you couldn't talk to
'em?"
"Thing doesn't interest me."
"No sport, George Morton."
It was the way it was said that arrested George. Trust Dalrymple when he
had had enough to drink to air his dislikes. The others glanced up.
"How much have you got there?" George asked quietly.
With a slightly startled air Dalrymple ran over his money.
"Pretty nearly three. Why?"
"Call it three," George said.
He gathered the dice from the table. The others drew back, leaving, as
it were, the ring clear.
"I'll throw you just once," George said, "for three hundred. High man to
throw. On?"
"Sure," Dalrymple said, thickly.
George counted out his money and placed it on the table. He threw a
five. Dalrymple couldn't do better than a four. George rattled the dice,
and, rather craving some of the other's Senegambian chatter, rolled
them. They rested six and four. Dalrymple didn't try to hide his
delight.
"Stung, old George Morton! Never come a ten again."
"There'll come another ten," George promised.
He continued to roll, a trifle self-conscious in his silence, while
Dalrymple bent over the table, desirous of a seven, while the others
watched, absorbed.
Sixes and eights fell, and other numbers, but for half-a-dozen throws no
seven or ten.
"Come you seven!" Dalrymple sang.
"You've luck, George," Lambert commented. "I wouldn't lay against you
now. I'll go you fifty, Driggs, on his ten."
"Done!"
The next throw the dice turned up six and four.
"The very greatest of men," Wandel said, ruefully.
While George put the money in his pocket Dalrymple straightened,
frowning.
"Double or quits! Revenge!"
"I said once," George reminded him. "I'm off to bed."
The others resumed their play. Dalrymple stared at George, an ugly light
in his eyes. George nodded, and the other followed him to the door.
George handed him a hundred dollars.
"Save you running upstairs. How much do you owe me now?"
"Couple hundred."
"I shouldn't worry about that," George laughed. "When you want a good
deal more and it's inconvenient to run upstairs I might save you some
trouble."
"Now that's white of you," Dalrymple condescended, and went, a trifle
unsteadily, back to the table.
George carried to his room an impression that he had thoroughly soiled
his hands at last, but unavoidably. Of course he had scorned Blodgett
for involving Sinclair. His own case was very different. Besides, he
hadn't actually involved Dalrymple yet, but he had made a start.
Dalrymple had always gunned for him. More than ever since Sylvia's
announcement, George felt the necessity of getting Dalrymple where he
could handle him. If she had chosen Dalrymple, of course, money would
serve only until the greedy youth could get his fingers in the Planter
bags. He shook with a quick repugnance. No matter who won her it
mustn't be Dalrymple. He would stop that at any cost.
He sat for some time on the edge of the bed, studying the pattern of the
rug. Was Dalrymple the man to arouse a grand passion in her? She had
said:
"I can't always be running away from you."