The Guarded Heights
not because he had been Mr. Alston and Dicky Goodhue's friend, but
simply because he had liked him. He was inclined to believe it. He had
reached the point where he admitted that many people had been friendly
and useful to him because he had what Blodgett lacked, an exceptional
appearance, a rugged power behind acquired graces. Squibs, he realized,
had put his finger on that long ago. He was glad he was going down. The
tutor would give him his usual disciplinary tonic.
But it was a changed Squibs that met George; a nearly silent Squibs, who
spoke only to praise; a slightly apprehensive Squibs. George tried to
reassure Mrs. Bailly.
"Three months at Plattsburgh, then nobody knows how much longer to whip
our division into shape. The war will probably be over before we get
across."
But she didn't believe it, nor did her husband.
"You'll be in it, George, before the war's over. Do you know, you're
nearer paying me back than you've ever been."
George was uncomfortable before such adulation.
"Please don't think," he protested, "that I'm going over for any tricky
ideals or to save a lot of advanced thinkers from their utter folly."
"Then what are you going for?" Bailly asked.
George was surprised that he lacked an answer.
"Oh, because one has to go," he evaded.
Bailly's smile was contented.
"What better reason could any man want?"
They had an air of showing him about Princeton as if he must absorb its
beauties for the last time. Their visit to the Alstons was shrouded with
all the sullen accompaniments of a permanent farewell. George was
inclined to smile. He hadn't got as far as weighing his chances of being
hit; the present was too crowded, stretched too far; included Betty, for
instance, and Lambert whom he was surprised to find in the Tudor house,
prepared to remain evidently until he should leave for Plattsburgh. The
Alstons misgivings centred rather obviously on Lambert. George, when he
took Betty's hand to say good-bye that evening, felt with a desolate
regret that for the first time in all their acquaintance her fingers
failed to reach his mind.
PART IV
THE FOREST
I
"Profession?"
"Member of the firm of Morton, Planter, and Goodhue."
Slightly startled, a fairly youthful product of West Point twisted on
the uncomfortable orderly room chair, and glanced from the name on
George's card to the tall, well-built figure in a private's uniform
facing him. George knew he looked like a soldier, because some confiding
idiot had blankly told him so coming up on the train; but he hadn't the
first knowledge to support appearances, didn't even know how to stand at
attention, was making an effort at it now since it was clearly expected
of him, because he had sense enough to guess that the pompous, slightly
ungrammatical young man would insist during the next three months on
many such tributes.
"I see. You're _the_ Morton."
George was pleased the young man was impressed. He experienced again the
feelings with which he had gone to Princeton. He was being weighed, not
as skilfully as Bailly had done it, but in much the same fashion. He had
a quick thought that it was going to be nice to be at school again.
"Any special qualifications of leadership?"
The question took George by surprise. He hesitated. A reserve officer,
sitting by to help, asked:
"Weren't you captain of the Princeton football team a few years ago?"
"Yes, but we were beaten."
"You must learn to say, 'sir,' Mr. Morton, when you address an officer."
George flushed. That was etching his past rather too sharply. Then he
smiled, and amused at the silly business, mimicked Simpson's servility.
"Very well, sir. I'll remember, sir."
The West Point man was pleased, he was even more impressed, because he
knew football. He made marks on the card. When George essayed a salute
and stepped aside for the next candidate he knew he wasn't submerged in
this mass of splendid individualities which were veiled by the
similarity of their uniforms.
Lambert, Goodhue, and he were scattered among different companies. That
was as well, he reflected, since his partners already wore officers' hat
cords. The spare moments they had, nevertheless, they spent together,
mulling over Blodgett's frequent reports which they never found time
thoroughly to digest. Even George didn't worry about that, for his
confidence in Blodgett was complete at last.
He hadn't time to worry about much, for that matter, beyond the demands
of each day, for Plattsburgh was like Princeton only in that it aroused
all his will power to find the right path and to stick to it. At times
he wished for the nearly smooth brain with which he had entered college.
He had acquired too many wrinkles of logic, of organization, of
efficiency, of common-sense, to survive these months without frequent
mad desires to talk out in meeting, without too much humorous
appreciation of some of the arbiters of his destiny. Regular army
officers gave him the impression of having been forced through a long,
perpetually contracting corridor until they had come out at the end as
narrow as one of the sheets of paper work they loved so well. But he got
along with them. That was his business. He was pointed out enviously as
one of the football captains. It was a football captains' camp. All such
giants were slated for company or battery commander's commissions at
least.
If he got it, George wondered if he would hate a captain's uniform as
much as the private's one he wore.
With the warm weather the week-ends offered sometimes a relief. Men's
wives or mothers had taken little houses in the town or among the hills,
and the big hotel on the bluff opened its doors and welcomed other wives
and mothers, and many, many girls who would become both a little sooner
than they had fancied because of this.
Betty arrived among the first, chaperoned for the time by the Sinclairs.
George dined with them, asked Betty about Sylvia, and received evasive
responses. Sylvia was surely coming up later. Betty was absorbed,
anyway, in her own affairs, he reflected unhappily. He felt lost in this
huge place where nearly everyone seemed to be paired.
After dinner Lambert remained with Betty and Mrs. Sinclair, but George
and Mr. Sinclair wandered, smoking, through the grove above the lake.
George had had no idea that the news, for so long half expected, would
affect him as it did.
"I suppose," Sinclair muttered, "you've heard about poor Blodgett."
"What?" George asked, breathlessly. "We've little time for newspapers
here."
"I'm not sure," Sinclair answered, "that it's in the papers, but in town
everybody's talking about it. Sylvia's thrown him over."
II
George paused and considered the glowing end of his cigar. Instead of
vast relief he first of all experienced a quick sympathy for Blodgett.
He wanted to say something; it was expected of him, but he was occupied
with the effort to get rid of this absurd sympathy, to replace it by a
profound and unqualified satisfaction.
"Why? Do you know why?" was all he managed.
That was what he wanted, her private reason for this step which all at
once left the field quite open, and shifted their struggle back to its
old, honest basis. It was what he had told her would happen, must
happen. Since she had agreed at last why had she involved poor old
Blodgett at all? Had that merely been one of her defences which had
become finally untenable? Had George conceivably influenced her to its
assumption, at last to its abandonment?
He stared at the opaque white light which rose like a mist from the
waters of the lake. He seemed to see, as on a screen, an adolescent
figure with squared shoulders and flushed cheeks tearing recklessly
along on a horse that wasn't sufficiently untamed to please its rider.
He replaced his cigar between his lips. Naturally she would be the most
exigent of enthusiasts. Probably that was why Blodgett had been so
pitifully anxious to crowd his bulk into the army. She had to be
untrammelled to cheer on the younger, stronger bodies. That was why she
had done it, because war had made her see that George was right by
bringing her to a stark realization of the value of the younger,
stronger bodies.
Sinclair had evidently reached much the same conclusion, for he was
saying something about a whim, no lasting reason----
"I've always cared for Sylvia, but it's hard to forgive her this."
"After all," George said, "Blodgett wasn't her kind. She'd have been
unhappy."
In the opaque light Sinclair stared at him.
"Not her kind! No. I suppose he's his own kind."
Temporarily George had driven forth his sympathy. Blodgett, after all,
hadn't been above some sharp tricks to win such liking and admiration.
Sinclair, of all people, suffering for him!
"I mean," George said, "he'd bought his way, hadn't he, after a fashion,
to her side?"
Sinclair continued to stare.
"I don't quite follow. If you mean Josiah's wanted to play with pleasant
people--yes, but the only buying he's ever done is with his amazing
generosity. He's pulled me for one out of a couple of tight holes after
I'd flown straight in the face of his advice. Nothing but a superb good
nature could be so forgiving, don't you think?"
George walked on, keeping step with Sinclair, saying nothing more;
fighting the old instinct to reach forward, to grasp Blodgett's hand, to
beg his pardon; realizing regretfully, in a sense, that the last support
of his jealous contempt had been swept away. He was angry at the blow to
his self-conceit. It frightened him to have that attacked. He couldn't
put up with it. He would rid himself again of this persistent sympathy
for a defeated rival. Just the same, before accepting any more favours
from Blodgett, he desired to clasp the pudgy hand.
Betty didn't know any more than Sinclair, nor did she care to talk about
the break.
"I can't bear to think of all the happiness torn from that cheerful
man."
George studied her face in the light from the windows as they paced up
and down the verandah. There was happiness there in spite of the
perplexing doubt with which she glanced from time to time at him. There
was no question. Betty's kindness had been taken away from him. He tried
to be glad for her, but he was sorry for himself, trying to fancy what
his life would have been if he had permitted his aim to be turned aside,
if he had yielded to the temptation of an unfailing kindness. It had
never been in his nature. Why go back over all that?
"One tie's broken," he said, "and another's made. We're no longer the
good friends we were, because you haven't told me."
Her white cheeks flooded with colour. She half closed her eyes.
"What, George?"
"That the moon is made of honey. I'm really grateful to Lambert for
these few minutes. Don't expect many more. I can't see you go without a
little jealousy, for there have been times when I've wanted you
abominably, Betty."
They had reached the end of the verandah and paused there in a light
that barely disclosed her wondering smile; her wistful, reminiscent
expression.
"It's funny," she said with a little catch in her voice, "to look back
on two children. I suppose I felt about the great George Morton as most
girls did."
"You flatter me," he said. "Just what do you mean?"
"It's rather tearful one can laugh about such things," she answered. "So
long ago! The great athlete's become a soldier!"
"The stable boy's become a slave," he laughed. "Oh, no. Most girls
couldn't feel much sentiment about that kind of greatness."
"Hush!" she whispered. "You know the night you told me all that I
thought it was a preliminary to your confessing how abominably you
wanted me."
"Now, really, Betty----"
"Quite true, George."
"And you ran away."