The Guarded Heights
warmly. "There's no question but you've earned every penny you've had
from me. We've played and worked together a long time, George. I don't
see just because you've grown up too fast why you've got to make Papa
Blodgett unhappy."
George had no answer, but he didn't have to see much of the beaming beau
after that, nor for a long time did he encounter Sylvia at all
intimately. Lambert, himself, unwittingly brought them together in the
spring.
"Why not run down to Oakmont with me?" he said, casually, one Friday
morning. "Father's always asking why you're never around."
"Your father might be pleased to know why," George said.
"Dark ages!" Lambert said. "We're in the present now. Come ahead."
The invitation to enter the gates! But it brought to George none of the
glowing triumph he had anticipated. He knew why Lambert had offered it,
because he considered Sylvia removed from any possible unpleasant
aftermath of the dark ages. The man Morton didn't need any further
chastisement; but he went, because he knew what Lambert didn't, that the
man Morton wasn't through with Sylvia yet; that he was going to find out
why she had chosen Blodgett when, except on the score of money, she
might have beckoned better from nearly any direction; that he was
curious why she had told the man Morton first of all.
They rolled in at the gate. There he had stood, and there she, when she
had set her dog on him. Then around the curve to the great house and in
at the front door with an aging Simpson and a younger servant to compete
for his bag and his coat and hat. How Simpson scraped--Simpson who had
ordered him to go where he belonged, to the back door. What was the
matter with him that he couldn't experience the elation with which the
moment was crowded?
Mrs. Planter met him with her serene manner of one beyond human
frailties. You couldn't expect her to go back and remember. Such a
return to her would be beyond belief.
"You've not been kind to us, Mr. Morton. You've never been here before."
And that night she had walked through the doorway treating him exactly
as if he had been a piece of furniture which had annoyingly got itself
out of place.
Lambert's eyes were quizzical.
Old Planter wasn't at all the bear, cracking cumbersome jokes about the
young ferret that had stolen a march on the sly old foxes of Wall
Street. So that was what his threats amounted to! Or was it because
there was nothing whatever of the former George Morton left?
He examined curiously the bowed white head and the dim eyes in which
some fire lingered. He could still approximate the emotions aroused by
that interview in the library. He felt the old instinct to give this man
every concession to a vast superiority. In a sense, he was still afraid
of him. He had to get over that, for hadn't he come here to accomplish
just that against which Old Planter had warned him?
"Where," Lambert asked, "is the blushing Josiah?"
George caught the irony of his voice, but his mother explained in her
unemotional way that Sylvia and Blodgett were riding.
Certainly all along those early days had been in Lambert's mind, for he
led George to the scene of their fight. He faced him there, and he
laughed.
"You remember?"
"Why not?" George said. "I was born that day."
"Morton! Morton!" Lambert mused.
George swung and caught Lambert's shoulders quickly. There was more than
sentiment in his quick, reminiscent outburst. It seemed even to himself
to carry another threat.
"You call me Mr. Morton, or just George, as if I were about as good as
you."
Lambert laughed.
"We've had some fair battles since then, haven't we, George? You've done
a lot you said you would that day."
"I've scarcely started," George answered. "I'm a dismal failure. Perhaps
I'll brace up."
"You're hard to satisfy," Lambert said.
George dug at the ground with his heel.
"All the greater necessity to find ultimate satisfaction," he grumbled.
Lambert glanced at him inquiringly.
"I suppose," George continued, "I ought to thank you and your sister for
not reminding your parents what I was some years ago, for not blurting
it out to a lot of other people."
"You've shown me," Lambert said, "it would have been vicious to have put
any stumbling blocks in your way. Driggs is right. He usually is. You're
a very great man."
But George shook his head, and accompanied Lambert back to the house
with the despondency of failure.
Sylvia and Blodgett were back, lounging with Mr. and Mrs. Planter about
a tea table which servants had carried to a sunny spot on the lawn. At
sight of George Sylvia's colour heightened. Momentarily she hesitated to
take his offered hand, then bowed to the presence of the others.
"You didn't tell me, Lambert, you were bringing any one."
Blodgett's welcome was cordial enough to strike a balance.
"Never see anything of you these days, George. He makes money, Mrs.
Planter, too fast to bother with an old plodder like me. Thank the Lord
I've still got cash in his firm."
That he should ever call that quiet, assured figure mother-in-law! Mrs.
Planter, however, showed no displeasure. She commenced to chat with
Lambert. Sylvia, George reflected, might with profit have borrowed some
of her mother's serenity. Still she managed to entertain him over the
tea cups as if he had been any casual, uninteresting guest.
That hour, nevertheless, furnished George an ugly ordeal, for Blodgett's
attentions were perpetual, and Sylvia appeared to appreciate them,
treating him with a consideration that let through at least that
affection the man had surprisingly drawn from so many of his
acquaintances.
A secretary interrupted them, hurrying from the house with an abrupt
concern stamped on his face, standing by awkwardly as if not knowing how
to commence.
"What is it, Straker?" Mr. Planter asked.
"Mr. Brown's on the 'phone, sir. I think you'd better come. He said he
didn't want to bother you until he was quite sure. There seems no doubt
now."
"Of what, Straker?" Mr. Planter asked. "Wouldn't it have kept through
tea time?"
The secretary seemed reluctant to speak. The women glanced at him
uneasily. Lambert started to rise. In spite of his preoccupation George
had a suspicion of the truth. All at once Blodgett half expressed it,
bringing his fist noisily down on the table.
"The Huns have torpedoed an American boat!"
Straker blurted out the truth.
"Oh, no, Mr. Blodgett. It's the _Lusitania_, but apparently the losses
are serious."
For a moment the silence was complete. Even the servants forgot their
errands and remained immobile, with gaping faces. An evil premonition
swept George. There were many Americans on the _Lusitania_. He knew a
number quite well. Undoubtedly some had gone down. Which of his friends?
One properly asked such questions only when one's country was at war.
The United States wasn't at war with Germany. Would they be now? How was
the sinking of the _Lusitania_ going to effect him?
Old Planter, Blodgett, and Lambert were already on their feet, starting
for the door. Mrs. Planter rose, but unhurriedly, and went close to her
husband's side. In that movement George fancied he had caught at last
something warm and human. Probably she had weighed the gravity of this
announcement, and was determined to wheedle the old man from too much
excitement, from too great a temper, from too thorough a preoccupation
with the changes bound to reach Wall Street from this tragedy.
"I want to talk to Brown, too, if you please," Blodgett roared.
They crowded into the hall, all except Sylvia and George who had risen
last. He had measured his movements by hers. They entered the library
together while the others hurried through to Mr. Planter's study where
the telephone stood, anxious to speak with Brown's voice. She wanted to
follow, but he stopped her by the table where his cap had rested that
night, from which he had taken her photograph.
"You might give me a minute," he said.
She faced him.
"What do you want? Why did you come here, Mr. Morton?"
"For this minute."
"You've heard what's happened," she said, scornfully, "and you can
persist in such nonsense."
"Call it anything you please," he said. "To me such nonsense happens to
be vital. It's your fault that I have to take every chance, even make
one out of a tragedy like that."
He nodded toward the study door through which strained voices vibrated.
"Children, too!--Vanderbilt!--More than a thousand!--Good God, Brown!"
And Blodgett's roar, throaty with a new ferocity:
"We'll fight the swine now."
George experienced a fresh ill-feeling toward the man, who impressed him
as possessing something of the attributes of such animals. He glanced at
Sylvia's hands.
"You're not going to marry him."
She smiled at him pityingly, but her colour was fuller. He wondered why
she should remain at all when it would be so easy to slip through the
doorway to the protection of Blodgett and the others. Of course to hurt
him again.
"I don't believe you love him. I'm sure you don't. You shan't throw
yourself away."
Her foot tapped the rug. He watched her try to make her smile amused.
Her failure, he told himself, offered proof that he was right.
"One can no longer even be angry with you," she said. "Who gave you a
voice in my destiny?"
"You," he answered, quickly, "and I don't surrender my rights. If I can
help it you're not going to throw away your youth. Why did you tell me
first of all you were going to be married?"
She braced herself against the table, staring at him. In her eyes he
caught a fleeting expression of fright. He believed she was held at last
by a curiosity more absorbing than her temper.
"What do you mean?"
Old Planter's bass tones throbbed to them.
"Nothing can keep us out of the war now."
The words came to George as from a great distance, carrying no
tremendous message. In the whole world there existed for him at that
moment nothing half so important as the lively beauty of this woman
whose intolerance he had just vanquished.
"Your youth belongs to youth," he hurried on, knowing she wouldn't
answer his question. "I've told you this before. I won't see you turn
your back on life. Fair warning! I'll fight any way I can to prevent
it."
She straightened, showing him her hands.
"You're very brave. You fight by attacking a woman, by trying behind his
back to injure a very dear man. And you've no excuse whatever for
fighting, as you call it."
"Yes, I have," he said, quickly, "and you know perfectly well that I'm
justified in attacking any man you threaten to marry."
"You're mad, or laughable," she said. "Why have you? Why?"
"Because long ago I told you I loved you. Whether it was really so then,
or whether it is now, makes no difference. You said I shouldn't forget."
He stepped closer to her.
"You said other things that gave me, through pride if nothing else, a
pretty big share in your life. You may as well understand that."
Her anger quite controlled her now. She raised her right hand in the old
impulsive gesture to punish his presumption with the maximum of
humiliation; and this time, also, he caught her wrist, but he didn't
hold it away. He brought it closer, bent his head, and pressed his lips
against her fingers.
He was startled by the retreat of colour from her face. He had never
seen it so white. He let her wrist go. She grasped the table's edge. She
commenced to laugh, but there was no laughter in her blank, colourless
expression. A feminine voice without accent came to them:
"Sylvia! How can you laugh?"
He glanced up. Mrs. Planter stood in the study doorway. Sylvia
straightened; apparently controlled herself. Her colour returned.
"It was Mr. Morton," she explained, unevenly. "He said something so