The Guarded Heights
hold George except that unlikely chance of a glimpse of Sylvia. He would
say good-bye here, go up to the offices for his money, and then walk
straight out of Oakmont. He stepped from the house, swinging his
suitcase, his overcoat across his arm.
"I'm off," he said, trying to make his voice cheery.
His father considered his cold pipe. He held out his hand.
"It's a bad start, but maybe you'll turn out all right after all."
George smiled his confidence.
"Well, let us hear from you," his father went on, "although as things
are I don't see how I could help you much."
"Don't worry," George said.
He walked to his mother, who had returned to her work. He kissed her
quickly, saying nothing, for he saw the tears falling from her cheeks to
the dirty water out of which linen emerged soft and immaculate. He
strode toward the main driveway.
"Good-bye," he called quickly.
The renewed racket at the tub pursued him until he had placed a screen
of foliage between himself and the little house. His last recollection
of home, indeed, was of swollen hands and swollen eyes, and of clean,
white tears dropping into offensive water.
He got his money and walked past the great house and down the driveway.
He would not see home again. At a turn near the gate he caught his
breath, his eyes widening. The vague chance had after all materialized.
Sylvia walked briskly along, accompanied by a vicious-looking bulldog on
a leash. Her head was high and her shoulders square, as she always
carried them. Her eyes sparkled. Then she saw George, and she paused,
her expression altering into an active distaste, her cheeks flushing
with tempestuous colour.
"I can't go back now," George thought.
She seemed to visualize all that protected her from him. He put his
cheap suitcase down.
"I'm glad I saw you," he said, deliberately. "I wanted to thank you for
having me fired, for waking me up."
She didn't answer. She stood quite motionless. The dog growled,
straining at his leash toward the man in the road.
"I've been told to get out and stay out," he went on, his temper lashed
by her immobility. "You know I meant what I said yesterday when I
thought you couldn't hear. I did. Every last word. And you might as well
understand now I'll make every word good."
He pointed to the gate.
"I'm going out there just so I can come back and prove to you that I
don't forget."
Her colour fled. She stooped swiftly, gracefully, and unleashed the
anxious bulldog.
"Get him!" she whispered, tensely.
Like a shot the dog sprang for George. He caught the animal in his arms
and submitted to its moist and eager caresses.
"It's a mistake," he pointed out, "to send a dog that loves the stables
after a stable boy."
He dropped the dog, picked up his suitcase, and started down the drive.
The dog followed him. He turned.
"Go back, Roland!"
Sylvia remained crouched. She cried out, her contralto voice crowded
with surprise and repulsion:
"Take him with you. I never want to see him again."
So, followed by the dog, George walked bravely out into the world
through the narrow gateway of her home.
PART II
PRINCETON
I
"Young man, you've two years' work to enter."
"Just when," George asked, "does college open?"
"If the world continues undisturbed, in about two months."
"Very well. Then I'll do two years' work in two months."
"You've only one pair of eyes, my boy; only one brain."
George couldn't afford to surrender. He had arrived in Princeton the
evening before, a few hours after leaving Oakmont. It had been like a
crossing between two planets. Breathlessly he had sought and found a
cheap room in a students' lodging house, and afterward, guided by the
moonlight, he had wandered, spellbound, about the campus.
Certainly this could not be George Morton, yesterday definitely divided
from what Old Planter had described as human beings. His exaltation
grew. For a long time he walked in an amicable companionship of broader
spaces and more arresting architecture than even Oakmont could boast;
and it occurred to him, if he should enter college, he would have as
much share in all this as the richest student; at Princeton he would
live in the Great House.
His mood altered as he returned to his small, scantily furnished room
whose very unloveliness outlined the difficulties that lay ahead.
He unpacked his suitcase and came upon Sylvia's photograph and her
broken riding crop. In the centre of the table, where he would work, he
placed the photograph with a piece of the crop on either side. Whenever
he was alone in the room those objects would be there, perpetual lashes
to ambition; whenever he went out he would lock them away.
How lovely and desirable she was! How hateful! How remote! Had ever a
man such a goal to strain for? He wanted only to start.
Immediately after breakfast the next morning he set forth. He had never
seen a town so curiously empty. There were no students, since it was the
long vacation, except a few backward men and doubtful candidates for
admission. He stared by daylight at the numerous buildings which were
more imposing now, more suggestive of learning, wealth, and breeding.
They seemed to say they had something for him if only he would fight
hard enough to receive it.
First of all, he had to find someone who knew the ropes. There must be
professors here, many men connected with this gigantic plant. On Nassau
Street he encountered a youth, a little younger than himself, who, with
a bored air, carried three books under his arm. George stopped him.
"I beg your pardon. Are you going here?"
The other looked him over as if suspecting a joke.
"Going where?" he asked, faintly.
George appraised the fine quality of the young man's clothing. He was
almost sorry he had spoken. The first thing he had to do was to overcome
a reluctance to speak to people who obviously already had much that he
was after.
"I mean," he explained, "are you going to this college?"
"The Lord," the young man answered, "and Squibs Bailly alone know. I'm
told I'm not very bright in the head."
George smiled.
"Then I guess you can help me out. I'm not either. I want to enter in
the fall, and I need a professor or something like that to teach me.
I'll pay."
The other nodded.
"You need a coach. Bailly's a good one. I'm going there now to be told
for two hours I'm an utter ass. Maybe I am, but what's the use rubbing
it in? I don't know that he's got any open time, but you might come
along and see."
George, his excitement increasing, walked beside his new acquaintance.
"What's your name?" the bored youth asked all at once.
"Morton. George Morton."
"I'm Godfrey Rogers. Lawrenceville. What prep are you?"
"What what?"
"I mean, what school you come from?"
George experienced a sharp discomfort, facing the first of his
unforeseen embarrassments. Evidently his simple will to crush the past
wouldn't be sufficient.
"I went to a public school off and on," he muttered.
Rogers' eyes widened. George had a feeling that the boy had receded. It
wasn't until later, when he had learned the customs of the place, that
he could give that alteration its logical value. It made no difference.
He had a guide. Straightway he would find a man who could help him get
in; but he noticed that Rogers abandoned personalities, chatting only of
the difficulties of entrance papers, and the apparent mad desire of
certain professors to keep good men from matriculating.
They came to a small frame house on Dickinson Street. Rogers left George
in the hall while he entered the study. The door did not quite close,
and phrases slipped out in Rogers' glib voice, and, more frequently, in
a shrill, querulous one.
"Don't know a thing about him. Just met him on the street looking for a
coach. No prep."
"Haven't the time. I've enough blockheads as it is. He'd better go to
Corse's school."
"You won't see him?"
"Oh, send him in," George heard Bailly say irritably. "You, Rogers,
would sacrifice me or the entire universe to spare your brain five
minutes' useful work. I'll find out what he knows, and pack him off to
Corse. Wait in the hall."
Rogers came out, shaking his head.
"Guess there's nothing doing, but he'll pump you."
George entered and closed the door. Behind a table desk lounged a long,
painfully thin figure. The head was nearly bald, but the face carried a
luxuriant, carelessly trimmed Van Dyke beard. Above it cheeks and
forehead were intricately wrinkled, and the tweed suit, apparently,
strove to put itself in harmony. It was difficult to guess how old
Squibs Bailly was; probably very ancient, yet in his eyes George caught
a flashing spirit of youth.
The room was forcefully out of key with its occupant. The desk,
extremely neat with papers, blotters, and pens, was arranged according
to a careful pattern. On books and shelves no speck of dust showed, and
so far the place was scholarly. Then George was a trifle surprised to
notice, next to a sepia print of the Parthenon, a photograph of a
football team. That, moreover, was the arrangement around the four
walls--classic ruins flanked by modern athletes. On a table in the
window, occupying what one might call the position of honour, stood a
large framed likeness of a young man in football togs.
Before George had really closed the door the high voice had opened its
attack.
"I haven't any more time for dunces."
"I'm not a dunce," George said, trying to hold his temper.
Bailly didn't go on right away. The youthful glance absorbed each detail
of George's face and build.
"Anyhow," he said after a moment, less querulously, "let's see what you
lack of the infantile requirements needful for entrance in an American
university."
He probed George's rapid acquaintance with mathematics, history,
English, and the classics. With modern languages there was none. Then
the verdict came. Two years' work.
"I've got to make my eyes and brain do," George said. "I've got to enter
college this fall or never. I tell you, Mr. Bailly, I am going to do it.
I know you can help me, if you will. I'll pay."
Bailly shook his head.
"Even if I had the time my charges are high."
George showed his whole hand.
"I have about five hundred dollars."
"For this condensed acquisition of a kindergarten knowledge,
or--or----"
"For everything. But only let me get in and I'll work my way through."
Again Bailly shook his head.
"You can't get in this fall, and it's not so simple to work your way
through."
"Then," George said, "you refuse to do anything for me?"
The youthful eyes squinted. George had an odd impression that they
sought beyond his body to learn just what manner of man he was. The
querulous voice possessed more life.
"How tall are you?"
"A little over six feet."
"What's your weight?"
George hesitated, unable to see how such questions could affect his
entering college. He decided it was better to answer.
"A hundred and eighty-five."
"Good build!" Bailly mused. "Wish I'd had a build like that. If your
mind is as well proportioned----Take your coat off. Roll up your
sleeves."
"What for?" George asked.
Bailly arose and circled the desk. George saw that the skeleton man
limped.
"Because I'd like to see if the atrophying of your brain has furnished
any compensations."
George grinned. The portrait in the window seemed friendly. He obeyed.
Bailly ran his hand over George's muscles. His young eyes widened.
"Ever play football?"
George shook his head doubtfully.
"Not what you would call really playing. Why? Would football help?"
"Provided one's the right stuff otherwise, would being a god help one
climb Olympus?" Bailly wanted to know.
He indicated the framed likeness in the window.
"That's Bill Gregory."