The Guarded Heights
side-step, and in which direction; lunged at exactly the right moment;
clipped the runner about the knees; lifted him; brought him crashing to
the ground. The ball rolled to one side. George released his man,
sprawled, and gathered the ball in his arms. A great silence descended
on the field. Out of it, as George got up, slipped the uncertain voice
of his victim.
"Did anything break off, Green? That wasn't a tackle. It was a bad
accident. How could I tell he was a bull when he didn't wear horns?"
George helped the man to his feet.
"Hope I didn't hurt you."
"Oh, no. I'll be all right again in a couple of months."
He limped about his work, muttering:
"Maybe mother was right when she didn't want me to play this game."
The coach wasn't through. He gave the ball to George and signalled one
of the biggest of the varsity men.
"Let me see you get past that fellow, Morton."
George didn't get past, although, with the tackler's vise-like grip
about his legs, he struggled with knees and elbows, and kept his feet
until the coach called to let him go.
"I'm sorry," George began.
"Yes," Green said, severely, "you've got to learn to get past tacklers.
If you learn to do that consistently I'll guarantee you a place on the
team, provided Mr. Stringham's willing."
"I'm willing," the head coach said with apparent reluctance.
Everyone within hearing laughed, but George couldn't laugh, although he
knew it was expected.
"Mr. Stringham," he said, "I will learn to get past them unless they
come too thick."
The coach patted his shoulder. His voice was satisfied.
"Run along to the showers now."
There may have been something in the sequence of these events, for that
very night Squibs Bailly's face twitched with satisfaction.
"You have a share," he said, "in the agency of the laundry most
generally patronized by our young men. It will pay you enough unless you
long for automobiles and gaiety."
"No," George said, "but, Mr. Bailly, I need clothes. I can afford to buy
some now. Where shall I go? What shall I get?"
Bailly limped about thoughtfully. He named a tailor of the town. He
prescribed an outing suit and a dinner suit.
"Because," he said, "if you're asked about, you want to be able to go,
and a dinner suit will pass for a Freshman nearly anywhere."
"If," George asked himself defiantly as he walked home, "Squibs thinks
my ambition unworthy, why does he go out of his way to boost it? Anyway,
I'm going to do my best to make touchdowns for him and Mrs. Squibs. Is
that Princeton spirit, or Bailly spirit, or am I fooling myself, and am
I going to make touchdowns just for myself and Sylvia Planter?"
VII
The meeting he had desired above all things to avoid took place when he
was, for a moment, off his guard. He was on his way to Dickinson Hall
for his first examination. Perhaps that was why he was too absorbed to
notice the automobile drawn up at the curb just ahead, and facing him.
He had no warning. He nearly collided with Lambert Planter, who walked
out of a shop. George stopped, drew back, and thought of dodging behind
the procession of worried, sombrely clothed Freshmen; but there wasn't
time. Lambert's face showed bewilderment and recognition.
"Certainly it is Mr. Morton," he said in his old mocking fashion.
George glanced at the surprised features which, in a masculine fashion,
were reminiscent of Sylvia; and beyond he saw, in the rear seat of the
automobile, Sylvia herself, lovelier, more removed than ever. Betty
Alston sat at her side. Evidently neither had observed the encounter,
for they laughed and chatted, probably about the terror-stricken
Freshmen.
George swallowed hard.
"I heard you were going to be here. I wanted to keep out of your way."
"But why?" Lambert laughed. "You have a scholastic appearance. You never
mean----"
"I am taking my entrance examinations," George said. "I want to make
good here."
He looked straight into Lambert's eyes. His voice became incisive,
threatening.
"I will make good. Don't try giving me away. Don't you tell Miss Alston
where I came from----"
"Yeh. The big fellow! Morton! Stringham and Green say he's going to be a
wonder."
It drifted to them from the passing youths.
Lambert whistled. The mockery left his voice.
"Go as far as you can," he said.
And followed it with:
"Don't be a self-conscious ass."
He smiled whimsically.
"Glad to have run into you--George."
The driver had noticed Lambert. The automobile glided nearer.
"I--I've got to get away," George said, hastily. "I don't want your
sister to see me."
Lambert turned. His voice, in turn, was a trifle threatening.
"That's all nonsense. She's forgotten all about you; she wouldn't know
you from Adam."
George couldn't help staring. What a contrast the two young women
offered! He wanted to realize that he actually looked at Sylvia Planter,
Sylvia of the flesh, Sylvia who had expressed for him an endless
contempt. But he couldn't help seeing also the golden hair and the soft
colouring of Betty Alston.
Lambert sprang into the car. Sylvia and Betty both glanced at the man
he had left. George waited. What would happen now? Sylvia's colour did
not heighten. Her eyes did not falter. Betty smiled and waved her hand.
George took off his cap, still expectant. Sylvia's lifeless stare
continued until the car had rolled away. George sighed, relaxed, and
went on.
Had Lambert been right? He didn't want to believe that. It hurt too
much.
"She saw me," he muttered. "She stared, not as if she saw an unknown
man, but as if she wanted to make me think she saw nothing. She saw me."
But he couldn't be sure. It seemed to him then that he wanted more than
anything in the world to be sure.
And he had not taken advantage of his chance. Instead of looking at her
and fixing the stark fact of hatred in his mind, he had only thought
with an angry, craving desire:
"You are the loveliest thing in the world. The next time you'll know me.
By God, the next time I'll _make_ you know me."
VIII
In the examination hall George called upon his will to drive from his
mind the details of that encounter. Lambert might be dependable, but if
Sylvia had actually recognized him what might she not say to Betty
Alston? He didn't want to see the kindness vanish from Betty's eyes, nor
the friendliness from her manner. Lambert's assurance, moreover, that
Sylvia had forgotten him lingered irritatingly.
"I will not think of it," George told himself. "I will think of nothing
but this paper. I will pass it."
This ability to discipline his mind had increased steadily during his
hours before Sylvia's portrait. The simple command "I will," was a
necessity his brain met with a decreasing reluctance. For two hours now
it excluded everything except his work. At the end of that time he
signed his paper, sat back, and examined the anxious young men crowded
about him in the long room. From these he must sooner or later detach
the ones of value to himself. That first quick appraisal disclosed
little; they were clothed too much to a pattern, wearing black jerseys,
more often than not, black clothes, with black caps hanging from the
supports of their chairs. In their faces, however, were visible
differences that made him uneasy. Even from a uniform, then, men, to an
extent, projected discrepancies of birth, or training, or habit. He
sighed and turned in his paper.
At the foot of the stairs groups collected, discussing the ordeal
pessimistically. As he started to walk through, several spoke to George.
"How did _you_ hit it, Morton?"
Already he was well spotted. He paused and joined the apprehensive
chatter.
"It's a toss-up with me," Rogers admitted. "Don't tell me any answers.
If ignorance is bliss, I want to stay dumb."
He caught George's arm.
"Have you met Dicky Goodhue? Hello, Goodhue!"
Goodhue gave the impression of not having met Rogers to any extent. He
was a sturdy young man with handsome, finely formed features. George
looked at him closely, because this young man alone of the Freshmen he
had met remained unmoved by his fame.
"Would like you to meet Morton, Goodhue."
Goodhue glanced at George inquiringly, almost resentfully.
"George Morton," Rogers stumbled on, as if an apology were necessary.
"Stringham, you know, and Green----"
"Glad to meet you," Goodhue said, indifferently.
"Thanks," George acknowledged as indifferently, and turned away.
Goodhue, it came upon him with a new appreciation of difficulties, was
the proper sort. He watched him walk off with a well-dressed,
weak-looking youth, threading a careless course among his classmates.
"How long have you known this fellow Goodhue?" George asked as he
crossed the campus with Rogers.
"Oh, Goodhue?" Rogers said, uncomfortably. "I've seen him any number of
times. Ran into him last night."
"Good-looking man," George commented. "Where's he come from?"
"You don't know who Dicky Goodhue is!" Rogers cried. "I mean, you must
have heard of his father anyway, the old Richard. Real Estate for
generations. Money grows for them without their turning a hand. Dicky's
up at the best clubs in New York. Plays junior polo on Long Island."
George had heard enough.
"If I do as well with the other exams," he said, "I'm going to get in."
With Freshmen customs what they were, he was thinking, he could appear
as well dressed as the Goodhue crowd. He would take pains with that.
He passed Goodhue on his way to the examination hall that afternoon, and
Goodhue didn't remember him. The incident made George thoughtful. Was
football going to prove the all-powerful lever he had fancied? At any
rate, Rogers' value was at last established.
He reported that evening to Bailly:
"I think it's all right so far."
The tutor grinned.
"To-day's beyond recall, but to-morrow's the future, and it cradles,
among other dragons, French."
He pointed out passages in a number of books.
"Wrestle with those until midnight," he counselled, "and then go to
sleep. Day after to-morrow we'll hope you can apply your boot to a
football again."
Mrs. Bailly stopped him in the hall.
"How did it go?" she asked, eagerly.
Her anxiety had about it something maternal. It gave him for the first
time a feeling of being at home in Princeton.
"I got through to-day," he said.
"Good! Good!"
She nodded toward the study.
"Then you have made him very happy."
"I always want to," George said. "That's a worthy ambition, isn't it?"
She looked at him gropingly, as if she almost caught his allusion.
IX
As George let himself out of the gate a closed automobile turned the
corner and drew up at the curb. The driver sprang down and opened the
door. Betty Alston's white-clad figure emerged and crossed the sidewalk
while George pulled off his cap and held the gate open for her. He
suffered an ugly suspense. What would she say? Would she speak to him at
all? Phrases that Sylvia might have used to her flashed through his
mind; then he saw her smile as usual. She held out her hand. The warmth
of her fingers seemed to reach his mind, making it less unyielding. The
fancy put him on his guard.
"I know you passed," she said.
He walked with her across the narrow yard to the porch.
"I think so, to-day."
She paused with her foot on the lower step. The light from the corner
disclosed her face, puzzled and undecided; and his uneasiness returned.
"I am just returning this," she said, holding up a book. "I'd be glad to
drop you at your lodging----"
"I'll wait."
While she was inside he paced the sidewalk. There had been a question in
her face, but not the vital one, which, indeed, she wouldn't have
troubled to ask. Sylvia had not recognized him, or, recognizing him, had
failed to give him away.