The Guarded Heights
have found it out before. Think of that, George, when it seems too hard.
I had to be caught by my own rotten temper before I'd let you wake me
up."
She drew a little away, and when he started forward motioned him back.
Her face flooded with colour, but she met his eyes bravely.
"That was something. I will never forget that, either, but it doesn't
make me feel--unclean, as I did that day at Oakmont and afterward. I
don't want to forget it ever. Now you understand."
She ran swiftly to the door and opened it. He followed her and saw Betty
at the farther end of the room talking to Mr. Planter.
"Why do you do that?" he asked, desperately.
"I want to tell you why I'll never forget," she answered in a half
whisper. "Because I love you. I love you. I want to say it. I think it
every minute, so don't you see you have to help me keep it straight and
beautiful always, George?"
XXII
"Who has made my little girl cry?"
The quavering tones reminded George. He walked from the little room
toward the others, and he saw that Old Planter had caught Sylvia's hand,
had drawn her to him, had felt the tears on her cheeks.
There rushed back to George that ancient interview in the library at
Oakmont, and here he was back at it, even in Old Planter's presence,
making her cry again. He wondered what Old Planter had said when Lambert
had told him who George Morton really was.
"You see, sir," he said, moodily, "I haven't changed so much from the
stable boy, Morton, you once threatened to send to smash if----"
Sylvia broke in sharply.
"He's never been told----"
"What are you talking about?" the old man quavered. "Was there ever a
Morton on my place, Sylvia? An old man, yes. He's dead. A young one----"
Slowly he shook his head from side to side. He peered suspiciously at
George out of his dim eyes.
"I don't remember."
Suddenly he cried out with a flash of the old authority:
"I'm growing sensitive, Morton. No jokes! What's he talking about?"
Sylvia took his hand. Her lips trembled.
"Never mind, Father. Come."
And as he let her guide him he drifted on.
"Sylvia! Have you got everything you want? I'll give you anything you
want if only you won't cry."
Outside rain had commenced to drizzle. From a tree in the little yard
yellow leaves fluttered down. Old Planter hobbled into his study, Sylvia
at his side. Betty followed George to the hall.
"Tell Sylvia I am very happy," he said.
She pressed his hand, whispering:
"The great George Morton!"
XXIII
Again George walked to his apartment and sat brooding over the fire,
trying to find a way; but Sylvia must have searched, too, and failed.
There was no way, or none that she would take. He crushed his heady
revolt at the realization, for he believed she had been right. Without
her great mistake she couldn't have given him that obliterative moment
last evening, or his glimpse this afternoon of happiness through heavy,
transparent glass. So he could smile a little, nearly cheerfully. There
was really a quality of happiness in his knowledge that she had never
forgotten his tight clasping at Oakmont, his blurted love, his threat
that he would teach her not to be afraid of his touch. How she must have
despised herself in the great house, among her own kind, when she found
she couldn't forget Morton, when she tried, perhaps, to escape the shame
of wanting Morton! No wonder she had attempted through Blodgett and
Dalrymple, men for whom she could have had no such urgent feeling, to
divide herself from him, to prevent the fulfilment of his boasts of
which he had perpetually reminded her. She must have looked at him a
good deal more than he had guessed in those far days. And now his touch
had taught her to be more afraid than ever, but not of him. With a
growing wonder he recalled her surrender. Of course, Sylvia, like her
placid mother, like everyone, was, beneath the veneer even of endless
generations, necessarily primitive. For that discovery he could thank
Dalrymple. He continued to dream.
What, indeed, lay ahead for him? In a sense he had already reached the
summit which he had set out to find, and every thrilling mood of hers
that afternoon flamed in his mind. He had a desolate feeling that there
was no longer anything for him down town, or anywhere else beyond a
wait, possibly endless, for Sylvia; and as he brooded there he longed
for a mother to whom he could have gone with his happiness that was more
than half pain. His mother had said that there were lots of girls too
good for him. His father had added, "Sylvia Planter most of all." His
father was dead. His mother might as well have been. All at once her
swollen hands seemed to rest passively between him and the fire.
He was glad when Wandel came in, even though he found him without
lights, for the second time that day in an unaccustomed and reflective
posture.
"Snap the lamps on, will you, Driggs?"
Wandel obeyed, and George blinked, laughing uncomfortably.
"You'll fancy I've caught the poet's mood."
"Not at all, my dear George," Wandel answered. "Why not say, thinking
about the war? Nobody will let you talk about it, and I'm told if you
write stories or books that mention it the editors turn their thumbs
down. So much, says a grateful country, for the poor soldier. What more
natural then than this really pitiful picture of the dejected veteran
recalling his battles in a dusky solitude?"
"Oh, shut up, Driggs. Maybe you'll tell me why they ever called you
'Spike.'"
Wandel yawned.
"Certainly. Because, being small, I got hit on the head a great deal. I
sometimes think it's why I'm too dull to make you understand what I mean
to say."
George looked at him.
"I think I do, Driggs; and thanks."
"Then," Wandel said, brightly, "you'll come and dine with me."
"I will. I will. Where shall we go? Not to the club."
"I fancy one club wouldn't be pleasant for you this evening," Wandel
said, quietly.
George caught his breath.
"Why not?"
But Wandel wouldn't satisfy him until they were in a small restaurant
and seated at a wall table sufficiently far from people to make quiet
tones safe.
"It's too bad," he said then, "that great men won't take warnings."
"I caught your warning," George answered, "and I acted on it as far as I
could. I couldn't dream, knowing her, of a runaway marriage, and I'll
guarantee you didn't, either."
"I once pointed out to you," Wandel objected, "that she was the
impulsive sort who would fly to some man--only I fancied then it would
ultimately be you."
"Why, Driggs?"
Wandel put his hand on George's knee.
"You don't mind my saying this? A long time ago I guessed she loved you.
Even as far back as Betty's debut, when I danced with her right after
you two had had some kind of a rumpus, I saw she was a bundle of emotion
and despised herself for it. Of course I hadn't observed then all that I
have since."
"Why did you never warn me of that?" George asked.
Wandel laughed lightly.
"What absurd questions you ask! Because, being well acquainted with
Sylvia, I couldn't see how she was to be made to realize she cared for
you."
George crumbled a piece of bread.
"I daresay," he muttered, "you know everything that's happened. It's
extraordinary the way you find out things--things you're not supposed to
know at all."
Wandel laughed again, this time on a note of embarrassed disapproval.
"Not extraordinary in this case."
George glanced up.
"You said something about the club not being pleasant for me
to-night----"
"Because," Wandel answered with brutal directness, "Dolly's been there."
George clenched his hands. Wandel looked at them amusedly.
"Very glad you weren't about, Hercules."
"It was that bad?" George asked.
"Why not," Wandel drawled, "say rather worse?"
"Drunk?" George whispered.
"A conservative diagnosis," Wandel answered. "His language sounded quite
foreign, but with effort its sense could be had; and the rooms were
fairly full. You know, just before dinner--the usual crowd."
"Somebody should have shut him up," George cried.
"We did, with difficulty, and not all at once," Wandel protested.
"Dicky's taken him home with the aid of a pair of grinning hyenas. They
did make one think of that."
"It's not to be borne," George muttered. "He ought to be killed."
"By all means, my dear George," Wandel agreed, "but we're back in New
York. I mean, with the armistice murder ceased to be praiseworthy.
They're punishing it in the usual fashion. You quite understand that,
George?"
George tried to laugh.
"Quite. Go ahead."
"He really had some excuse," Wandel went on, "because when he first came
in no one realized how bad he was--and they jumped him with
congratulations and humour, and he went right out of his head--became
stark, raving mad; or drunk, as you choose."
"What did he say?" George asked, softly.
Wandel half closed his eyes.
"Don't expect me to repeat any such crazy, disconnected stuff. It's
enough that he let everybody guess Sylvia had sold him at the very
moment he had fancied he had bought her. I've been thinking it over, and
I'm not sure it isn't just as well he did. Everybody will talk his head
off for a few days and drop it. Otherwise, curious things would have
been noticed and suspected from time to time, and the talk, with fresh
impetus, would have gone on forever. Besides, nobody's looking for much
trouble with the Planters."
George had difficulty with his next question.
"He--he didn't mention me?"
"Why, yes," Wandel answered, gravely, "but rather incoherently."
"Rotten of him!"
"No direct accusations," Wandel hurried on, "just vile temper; and while
it makes it temporarily more unpleasant that's just as well, too. The
fact that people know what to expect kills more talk later. I suppose
she'll manage a fairly quiet divorce."
"Won't listen to it," George snapped.
"How stupid of me!" Wandel drawled. "Of course she wouldn't."
He sighed.
"I mean to sympathize with you, my George, but all the time I envy you,
and have to restrain myself from offering congratulations. Behold the
oysters! They're really very good here."
George tried to smile.
"Then shall we talk about shell fish?"
"Bivalves, George. Or we might discuss the great strike. Which one? Take
your choice. Or, by the way, have you received your shock yet? They're
raising rents in our house more than a hundred per cent."
"The hell after war!" George grinned.
Wandel smiled back.
"Let us hope not a milestone on the road."
XXIV
Through pure will George resumed his routine, but it no longer had the
power to capture him, becoming a drudgery without a clear purpose.
Always he was conscious of the effort to force himself from recollection
and imagination, to drive Sylvia from his mind; and, even so, he never
quite succeeded. Were there then no heights beyond?
Lambert was painstakingly considerate, catching him for luncheon from
time to time, or calling at unexpected moments at his office, and always
he said something about Sylvia. She was well. Naturally she was keeping
to herself. Betty and she were at Princeton, and Sylvia was going to
stay on with the Alstons for a time. Once he let slip a sincere
admiration, a real regret.
"It's extraordinary, George. You've very nearly made every word good."
George took the opening to ask a question that had been in his mind for
many days.
"Where is he? What's he up to? I haven't seen him, but, naturally, I
keep to myself, too, and Dicky, bless him, mentions nothing."
Lambert frowned.
"He hasn't been around the office much since. He's taking his own sweet
will with himself now. He's gone away--to Canada. It's cold there, but
it's also fairly wet."
"If one could only be sure he had the virtue of loving her!" George