The Guarded Heights
Possibly George's manner was reassuring to Dalrymple. At any rate, he
yielded. George took off his coat, sat in an easy chair, and pressed the
call button.
"What's that for?" Dalrymple asked, uneasily.
"Sit down," George said. "Stupid and dry, these things! I'm going to try
to raise a servant. I want to gossip over a drink before I go to bed.
You'll join me?"
Dalrymple sat down. He moistened his lips.
"On the wagon," he muttered. "A long time on the wagon. Place to be,
too, and all that."
George didn't believe the other. If Dalrymple cared to prove him right
that was his own business.
"Before prohibition offers the steps?" he laughed.
"Nothing to do with it," Dalrymple muttered. "Got my reasons--good
enough ones, too."
"Right!" George said. "Only don't leave me to myself until I've wet my
whistle."
And when the sleepy servant had come George asked him for some whiskey
and soda water. He talked of the Alstons, of the war, of anything to
tide the wait for the caraffe and the bottles and glasses; and during
that period Dalrymple's restlessness increased. Just what had he been
sneaking downstairs for in the middle of the night? George watched the
other's eyes drawn by the tray when the servant had set it down.
"Why did he bring two glasses?" Dalrymple asked, irritably.
"Oh," George said, carelessly, "I suppose he thought--naturally----Have
a biscuit, anyway."
George poured a drink and supped contentedly.
"Dry rations--biscuits," Dalrymple complained.
He fingered the caraffe.
"I've an idea--wedding--special occasion, and all that. Change my
mind--up here--one friendly drop----"
George watched the friendly drop expand to half a tumbler full, and he
observed that the hand that poured was not quite steady. It wouldn't be
long now before he would know whether or not Dalrymple's reformation was
merely a pose in public, a pose for Sylvia.
Dalrymple sighed, sat down, and talked quite pleasantly about the
horrors of Chaumont. After a time he refilled his glass, and repeated
the performance a number of times with diminishing intervals. George
smiled. A child could tell the other was breaking no extended
abstinence. He drifted from war to New York and his apparent success
with the house of Planter.
"Slavery, this office stuff!" he rattled on, "but good fun to get things
done, to climb up on shoulders of men--oh, no idea how many,
Morton--who're only good to push a pen or pound a typewriter. Of course,
you know, though. Done plenty of climbing yourself."
His enunciation suffered and his assurance strengthened as the caraffe
emptied. No extended abstinence, George reflected, but almost certainly
a very painful one of a few days.
"Am making money, Morton--a little, not much," he said, confidentially,
and with condescension. "Not enough by long shot to pay those beastly
notes I owe you. Know they're over due. Don't think I'd ever forget
that. Want to do right thing, Morton. You used hard words when I
borrowed that money, but forget, and all that. White of you to let me
have it, and I'll do right thing."
A sickly look of content overspread his face. He expanded. His assurance
seemed to crowd the room.
"Wouldn't worry for a minute 'bout those notes if I were you."
He suddenly switched, shaking his finger at the caraffe.
"Very pleasant, little drop like this--night cap on the quiet. But not
often."
His content sought expression in a smile.
"Dolly's off the hootch."
George lighted a cigarette. He noticed that his fingers were quite
steady, yet he was perfectly conscious of each beat of his heart.
"May I ask," he said, "what possible connection there can be between my
not worrying about your notes and your keeping off the hootch, as you
call it?"
Dalrymple arose, finished the caraffe, and tapped George's shoulder.
"Every connection," he answered. "Expect you have a right to know. Don't
you worry, old Shylock Morton. You're goin' to get your pound ah flesh."
"I fancy I am," George laughed. "What's your idea of it?"
Dalrymple waved his glass.
"Lady of my heart--surrender after long siege, but only brave deserve
fair. Good thing college education. Congratulate me, Morton. But secret
for you, 'cause you old Shylock. Wouldn't say anything to Sylvia till
she lets it loose."
As George walked quietly to the door, which the servant a long time ago
had left a trifle open, he heard Dalrymple mouthing disconnected words:
"Model husband." "Can't be too soon for Dolly."
Then, as he closed the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket,
he heard Dalrymple say aloud, sharply:
"What the devil you doing, Morton?"
George turned. Ammunition against Dalrymple! He had been collecting it.
Now, clearly, was the time to use it. In his mind the locked room held
precariously all of Sylvia's happiness and his.
He didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the table. Dalrymple had
slumped down in his chair, the content and triumph of his inflamed eyes
replaced by a sullen fear.
VI
"What's the idea?" Dalrymple asked, uncertainly, watching George,
grasping the arms of his chair preparatory to rising.
"Sit still, and I'll tell you," George answered.
"Why you lock the door?"
From Dalrymple's palpable fear George watched escape a reluctant and
fascinated curiosity.
"No more of that strong-arm stuff with me----"
"I locked the door," George answered, "so that I could point out to you,
quite undisturbed, just why you are going to leave Sylvia Planter
alone."
Dalrymple relaxed. He commenced incredulously and nervously to laugh,
but in his eyes, which followed George, the fear and the curiosity
increased.
"What the devil are you talking about? Have you gone out of your head?"
George smiled confidently.
"It's an invariable rule, unless you have the strength to handle them,
to give insane people their way. So you'll be nice and quiet; and I
might remind you if you started a rumpus, the first questions the
aroused house would ask would be, 'Why did Dolly fall off the wagon, and
where did he get the edge?'"
He drew a chair close to Dalrymple and sat down. The other lay back,
continuing to stare at him, quite unable to project the impression he
undoubtedly sought of contemptuous amusement.
"We've waited a long time for this little chat," George said, quietly.
"Sometimes I've hoped it wouldn't be necessary. Of course, sooner or
later, it had to be."
His manner disclosed little of his anxiety, nothing whatever of his
determination, through Dalrymple's weakness, to save Sylvia and himself,
but his will had never been stronger.
"You may as well understand," he said, "that you shan't leave this room
until you've agreed to give up any idea of this preposterous marriage
you pretend to have arranged. Perhaps you have. That makes no
difference. I'm quite satisfied its disarranging will break no hearts."
Dalrymple had a little controlled himself. George's brusque campaign had
steadied him, had hastened a reaction that gave to his eyes an unhealthy
and furtive look. He tried to grin.
"You must think you're God Almighty----"
"Let's get to business," George interrupted. "I once told you that what
you borrow you have to pay back in one way or another. This is where we
settle, and I've outlined the terms."
Dalrymple whistled.
"You complete rotter! You mean to blackmail--because you know I haven't
got your filthy money, and can't raise it in a minute."
"Never mind that," George snapped. "Your opinion of what I'm doing
doesn't interest me. I've thought it out. I know quite thoroughly what
I'm about."
He did, and he was not without distaste for his methods, nor without
realization that they might hurt him most of all with the very person
they were designed to serve; yet he couldn't hesitate, because no other
way offered.
"You're going to pay my notes, but not with money."
Dalrymple's grin exploded into a harsh sound resembling laughter.
"Are you--jealous? Do you fancy Sylvia would be affected by anything
you'd do or say? See here! Good God! Are you mad enough to look at her?
That's funny! That's a scream!"
There was, however, no conviction behind the pretended amazement and
contempt; and George suspected that Dalrymple had all along sounded his
chief ambition; had, in fact, made his secretive announcement just now,
because, his judgment drugged, he had desired to call a rival's
attention to his triumphant posture on the steps of attainment.
"I've no intention of discussing causes," George answered, evenly, "but
I do imagine the entire family would be noticeably affected by my
story."
"Which you couldn't tell," Dalrymple cried. "Which you couldn't possibly
tell."
"Which I don't think I shall have to tell," George said with a smile.
"Look at your position, Dalrymple. If you borrow money on the strength
of this approaching marriage you announce its chief purpose quite
distinctly. I fancy Old Planter, ill as he is, would want to take a club
to you. You've always wished, haven't you, to keep your borrowings from
Lambert? You can't do it if you persist in involving the Planters in
your extravagances. And remember you gave me a pretty thorough list of
your debtors--not reading for women, but Lambert would understand, and
make its meaning clear. Then let us go back to that afternoon in my
office, when you tried to say unspeakable things----"
Impulsively Dalrymple bared his teeth.
"Got you there, Morton! I told Lambert it was you who had been
impertinent----"
All at once George felt better and cleaner. He whistled.
"When I let you off then I never dreamed you'd try to back that lie up."
"Will they believe me," the other asked, "or you, who come from God
knows what; God knows where?"
"Fortunately," George said, "Lambert and his sister share that supernal
knowledge. They'll believe me."
He stood up.
"That's all. You know what to expect. Just one thing more."
He spoke softly, without any apparent passion, but he displayed before
the man in the chair his two hands.
"If necessary I'd stop you marrying Sylvia Planter with those."
Dalrymple got to his feet, struggled to assume a cloak of bravado.
"Won't put up with such threats. Actionable----"
"Give me your decision," George said, harshly. "Will you keep away from
her? If there is really an understanding, will you so arrange things
that she can destroy it immediately? Come. Yes or no?"
"Give me that key."
George shrugged his shoulders.
"I needn't trouble you."
He walked swiftly to the door, unlocked it, and drew it invitingly wide;
but now that the way was clear Dalrymple hesitated. Again George
shrugged his shoulders and stepped to the hall. Dalrymple, abruptly
active, ran after him, grasping at his arm.
"Where you going?" he whispered.
"To Lambert's room."
"Not to-night," the other begged. "I don't admit you could make any real
trouble, but I want to spare Sylvia any possible unpleasantness. Well!
Don't you, too? You lost your temper. Maybe I did mine. Give us both a
chance to think it over. Now see here, Morton, I won't ask you another
favour, and I'll do nothing in the meantime. I couldn't very well. I
mean, status quo, and all that----"
"Lambert, to-morrow," George said, "is going away for more than a
month."
"But you could always get hold of him, at a pinch," Dalrymple urged.
"Heaven knows I'm not likely to talk to Sylvia about what you've said.
Let us both think it over until Lambert comes back."
George sighed, experiencing a glow of victory. The other's eagerness
confessed at last an accurate measure of the power of his ammunition;
and George didn't want to go to the Planters on such an errand as long
as any other means existed. The more Dalrymple thought, the more