The Guarded Heights
got it in for you! Don't see why you ever thought----Anyway, she agreed
right enough then, and I didn't need to explain it was wiser, seeing how
Lambert felt about it, and her father, and you, of all people, to get
the thing over without any brass bands. Had a bit of luck ducking the
reporters at the license bureau. Tied the knot half an hour ago. She's
gone home to break the glad news."
He grinned.
"But I thought it only decent to jump the subway and tell you your
filthy money's all right and that you can plant a tombstone on your
pound of flesh."
He laughed again.
In George's brain the echoes of Dalrymple's triumph reverberated more
and more intelligibly. Little by little during the recital his slumped
attitude had altered.
"In a way! In a way! In a way!" had sung through his brain, deriding
him.
Then, as he had listened, had flashed the question: "Is it really too
late?" And he had recalled his old determination that nothing--not even
this--should bar the road to his pursuit. So, at the close of
Dalrymple's explanation, he was straight in his chair, his hands
grasping the arms, every muscle, every nerve, stretched tight, and in
his brain, overcoming the boisterous resonance of Dalrymple's mirth,
rang his old purposeful refrain: "I will! I will! I will!"
Dalrymple had married her, but it wasn't too late yet.
"Jealous old fellow!" Dalrymple chaffed. "No congratulations for Dolly.
Blow up about your notes any time you please. I'll see they're paid."
He took up his hat and stick.
"Want to run along now and break the news to brother-in-law. Sure to
find him. He's a late bird."
George stood up.
"Wait a minute," he said, quietly. "Got to say you've put one over,
Dalrymple. It was crooked, but it's done. You've settled it, haven't
you?"
"Glad you take it reasonably," Dalrymple laughed, turning for the door.
"Wait a minute," George repeated.
Dalrymple paused, apparently surprised at the tone, even and colourless.
"Lambert's somewheres about the place," George explained. "Just stay
here, and I'll find him and send him in."
"Good business!" Dalrymple agreed, sitting down. "Through all the
sooner."
He smiled.
"A little anxious to get home to my wife."
George tried to close his ears. He didn't dare look at the other. He
hurried out, closed the door, and went to Goodhue's office. At sight of
him Lambert sprang from his chair as if startled by an unforeseen record
of catastrophe.
"What's happened?"
"Dalrymple's in my room," George answered without any expression. "He
wants to see you. He'll tell you all about it."
He raised his hands, putting a stop to Lambert's alarmed questions.
"Can't wait. Do just one thing for me. Give me half an hour. Keep
Dalrymple here for half an hour."
Still Lambert cried for reasons.
"Never mind why. You ought to interest each other for that long."
But Lambert tried to detain him.
"Where are you going? Why do you want me to keep him here? You look as
if you'd been struck in the face! George! What goes on?"
George turned impatiently.
"Ask Dalrymple. Then do that one thing for me."
He ran out of the room, picked up his hat and coat, and hastened to the
elevators.
He was caught by the high tide of the homeward rush, but his only
thought was of the quickest way, so he let himself be swept into the
maelstrom of the subway and was pounded aboard a Lexington Avenue
express. All these people struggling frantically to get somewhere! The
pleasures awaiting them at their journey's end should be colourful and
compelling; yet it was clear to him sordid discontent lurked for some,
and for others unavoidable sorrows. It was beyond belief that their
self-centred haste should let creep in no knowledge of the destination
and the purpose of this companion, even more eager than themselves,
intimately crushed among them.
He managed to free his arm so he could glance at his watch, and he
peered between bobbing heads through the windows at the station signs.
At Eighty-sixth Street he escaped and tore, limping, up the stairs while
people stared at him, or, if in his haste he had brushed unthinkingly
against them, called out remarks angry or sarcastic. His leg commenced
to ache, but he ran across to Fifth Avenue and down it to the Planter
house. While he waited before the huge, heavy glass and iron doors he
caught his breath, counting the seconds.
It was Simpson who opened.
"I'm not sure Miss Planter has returned, sir. If so, she would be
upstairs. When she went out she said something about not being disturbed
this evening. Yes, sir. She left with Mr. Dalrymple less than two hours
ago."
George walked into the vast hall.
"I must see her, Simpson, at once."
He started toward hangings, half-drawn, through which he could see only
partially a dimly lighted room.
"I will tell her, sir."
George swung.
"But not my name, Simpson. Tell her it is a message from her brother, of
the greatest importance."
George held his breath.
"What is it, Simpson?"
The clear contralto voice steadied him. If she was alone in there he
would have a better chance than he had hoped for, and he heard no other
voice; but why should she be alone at this exciting hour in a dimly
lighted room? Was it possible that she hadn't told any one yet what she
had done, had returned to the house and chosen solitude, instead, in a
dim light? Then why? Why?
He dismissed Simpson with a nod and entered between the hangings.
She was alone. She stood before a cold fireplace at the end of the room
as if she had just risen from a chair near by. She was straight and
motionless, but she projected an air of fright, as if she had been
caught at an indiscretion; and, as George advanced, he thought her
colour was too deep, and he believed she had been crying alone in the
dusk of the room which was scarcely disturbed by one shaded lamp.
He paused and stared at her--no longer Sylvia Planter--Dalrymple's wife.
All at once the appearance of modelled stone left her. Her entire body
seemed in motion, surrendered to a neurotic and undirected energy. She
started forward, paused, drew away. Her eyes turned from him to the
door, then questioningly back again. She pulled at the gloves which she
had kept in her hand. Her voice, when she spoke, was unsteady:
"What do you mean--coming in here--unannounced?"
His eyes held her.
"I've had enough of that," he said, harshly. "All I can think of is the
vile name your husband would have called you once if I hadn't choked him
half to death."
For a second her eyes blazed, then her shoulders drooped, and she
covered her face with her hands. With a sharp regret it occurred to him
that he could throw the broken crop away, for at last he had struck
her--hard enough to hurt.
Her voice from behind her hands was uncertain and muffled.
"Who told you?"
"He did--naturally, that--that----"
He broke off, choking.
"By God, Sylvia! It isn't too late. You've got to understand that. Now.
This minute. I tell you it isn't too late."
She lowered her hands. Her fear was sufficiently visible. Her attempt at
a laugh was pitiful, resembled an escaping grief.
"Leave me alone. You have to leave me alone now."
Her brutal definition of the great wall suddenly raised between them
swept his mind clean of everything except her lips, her beauty,
cloistered with his interminable desire in this dim room.
He stumbled blindly forward to his final chance. With a great,
unthinking, enveloping gesture he flung his arms about her drew her so
close to his body that she couldn't resist; and, before she had time to
cry out, pressed his mouth at last against her lips.
He saw her eyes close, guessed that she didn't attempt to struggle,
experienced an intoxicating fancy she was content to have him fulfill
his boast. He didn't try to measure the enormity of his action. Once
more he was the George Morton who could plunge ahead, casting aside
acquired judgments. Then he felt her shudder. She got her lips away. She
tried to lift her hands. He heard her whisper:
"Let me go."
He stared, fascinated, at her lips, half parted, that had just now told
him he had never really wanted anybody else, never could have.
"Sylvia! Forgive me. I didn't know. I've loved you--always; I've never
dreamed how much. And I can't let you go."
He tried to find her lips again, but she fought, and he commenced to
remember. From a point behind his back something held her incredulous
attention. He turned quickly. Dalrymple stood between the hangings.
XVII
George experienced no fear, no impulse to release Sylvia. He was
conscious merely of a sharp distaste that it should have turned out so,
and a feeling of anger that Lambert was responsible through his failure
to grant his request; but Lambert might have been shocked to
forgetfulness by Dalrymple's announcement, or he might have had too
sharp a doubt of George's intentions. Sylvia had become motionless, as
if impressed by the futility of effort. In a moment would she cry out to
Dalrymple just what he had done? He waited for her charge, her
justification, while he continued to stare at Dalrymple's angry and
unbelieving face which the gay flower in his button hole had an air of
mocking. Dalrymple started forward.
"You see that, Lambert----"
Lambert, who must have been standing close behind him, walked into the
room, as amazed as Dalrymple, nearly as shocked.
"Sylvia!"
George let Sylvia go. She sat down in the chair by the fireplace and
looked straight ahead, her lips still half parted. Dalrymple hurried the
length of the room and paused in front of her.
"Be careful what you say, Dalrymple," George warned him.
Dalrymple burst out:
"You'll not tell me what to say. What's this mean, Sylvia? Speak up,
or----"
"Easy, Dolly," Lambert advised.
George waited. Sylvia did not cry out. He relaxed, hearing her say
uncertainly:
"I don't know. I'm sorry. I----"
She paused, looked down, commenced pulling at her gloves again with the
self-absorbed gestures of a somnambulist. George's heart leapt. She had
not accused him, had really said nothing, from her attitude wouldn't
just yet. Dalrymple swung furiously on Lambert.
"God! Am I to believe my eyes? Pretends to despise him, and I find her
in his arms!"
Sylvia glanced up once then, her face crimson, her lips trembling, then
she resumed her blank scrutiny of her gloves at which she still pulled.
George stepped swiftly forward, fancying Dalrymple was going to threaten
her with his hands.
"Why don't you talk up?" Dalrymple cried. "What you got to say? Don't
see there's much? Never would have dreamed it of you. What a scandal!"
"Morton," Lambert said with a leashed fury in his quiet voice, "no one
but you could have done this. Leave us alone now to see what we can make
of it."
George laughed shortly.
"All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't budge me just
yet. And I'll tell you what we'll make of it. Just what she wishes."
"Keep your mouth shut," Dalrymple said, shrilly. "You won't go. We'll
go. Sylvia! Come with me. We'll talk it out alone."
She shrank back in her chair, grasped its arms, looked up startled,
shaking her head.
"I can't go anywhere with you, Dolly," she said in a wondering voice.
"What you mean? You came to church right enough with me this afternoon.
Don't you forget that."
She nodded.
"It was wrong of me," she whispered. "I lost my temper. I didn't know at
all----"
"How did you find out?" Dalrymple sneered. "From him? But you're my
wife. Come away with me----"
She stood up swiftly, facing him.
"You shan't say such things to me, and I am not coming with you. I don't
know what's going to happen, but that--I know----"
She turned helplessly to Lambert.
"Make him understand."