The Guarded Heights

VIII

George stared at Sylvia as if she had been a child expressing some unreasonable and incredible intention. "What are you talking about? How can I let you go?"

Even in that light he became aware of the distortion of her face, of an unexpected moisture in her eyes; and he realized quite distinctly where he was, what had been said, just how completely her announcement for the moment had swept his mind clean of the restraints with which he had so painstakingly crowded it. Now he appreciated the power of his grasp, but he watched a little longer the struggles of her graceful body; for, after all, he had been right. How could he let her go to some man whose arms would furnish an inviolable sanctuary? He shook his head. No such thing existed. Hadn't he, indeed, foreseen exactly this situation, and hadn't he told himself it couldn't close the approach to his pursuit? But he had never reconnoitred that road. Now he must find it no matter how forbidding the places it might thread. So he released her. She raised her hands to her face.

"You hurt!" she whispered. "Oh, how you hurt!"

"Please tell me who it is."

She turned, and, her hands still raised, started across the terrace. He followed.

"Tell me!"

She went on without answering. He watched her go, suppressing his angry instinct to grasp her again that he might force the name from her. He shrugged his shoulders. Since she had probably timed her attack on him with a general announcement, he would know soon enough. He could fancy those in the house already buzzing excitedly.

"I always said she'd marry so and so;" or, "She might have done better – or worse;" perhaps an acrid, "It's high time, I should think" – all the banal remarks people make at such crises. But what lingered in George's brain was his own determination.

"She shan't do it. Somehow I'll stop her."

He glanced over the garden, dully surprised that it should retain its former aspect while his own outlook had altered as chaotically as it had done that day long ago when he had blundered into telling her he loved her.

He turned and approached the house to seek this knowledge absolutely vital to him but from which, nevertheless, he shrank. Two names slipped into his mind, two disagreeable figures of men she had recently chosen to be a good deal with.

George acknowledged freely enough now that he had taken his later view of his employer from an altitude of jealousy. Blodgett offered a possibility in some ways quite logical. With war finance he worked closer and closer to Old Planter. He had become a familiar figure at Oakmont. George had seen Sylvia choose his companionship that afternoon, had watched her a little while ago make him happy with her smiles; yet if she could tolerate Blodgett why had she never forgiven George his beginnings?

Dalrymple was a more likely and infinitely less palatable choice. He was good-looking, entirely of her kind, had been, after a fashion, raised at her side; and Sylvia's wealth would be agreeable to the Dalrymple bank account. George had had sufficient evidence that he wanted her – and her money. A large portion of the enmity between them, in fact, could be traced to the day he had found her portrait displayed on Dalrymple's desk. The only argument against Dalrymple was his weakness, and people smiled at that indulgently, ascribing it to youth – even Sylvia who couldn't possibly know how far it went.

Suspense was intolerable. He walked into the house and replaced the coat and cap in the closet. He commenced to look for Sylvia. No matter whose toes it affected he was going to have another talk with her if either of his hazards touched fact.

IX

He caught the rising and falling of a perpetual mixed conversation only partially smothered by a reckless assault on a piano. He traced the racket to the large drawing-room where groups had gathered in the corners as if in a hopeless attempt to escape the concert. Sylvia sat with none. One of the fluffy young ladies was proving the strength of the piano. Rogers was amorously attentive to her music. Lambert and Betty sat as far as possible from everyone else, heads rather close. Blodgett hopped heavily from group to group.

Over the frantic attempts of the young performer the human voice triumphed, but the impulse to this conversation was multiple. From no group did Sylvia's name slip, and George experienced a sharp wonder; so far, evidently, she had chosen to tell only him.

The young lady at the piano crashed to a brief vacation. The chatter, following a perfunctory applause, rose gratefully.

"Fine! Fine!" Blodgett roared. "Your next stop ought to be Carnegie Hall."

"She ought to play in a hall," someone murmured unkindly.

George retreated, relieved that Blodgett wasn't with Sylvia; and a little later he found Dalrymple in the smoking-room sipping whiskey-and-soda between erratic shots at billiards. Wandel was at the table most of the time, counting long strings with easy precision.

"What's up, great man?" he wanted to know.

Dalrymple, too, glanced curiously at George over his glass. "Nothing exceptional that I know of," George snapped and left the room.

It added to his anger that his mind should let through its discontent. At least Sylvia wasn't with Blodgett or Dalrymple, and he tried to tell himself his jealousy was too hasty. All the eligible men weren't gathered in this house. He wandered from room to room, always seeking Sylvia. Where could she have gone?

He met guests fleeing from drawing-room to library, as if driven by the tangled furies of a Hungarian dance.

"Will that girl never stop playing?" he thought.

Betty came up to him.

"Talk to me, George."

He found himself reluctant, but two tables of bridge were forming, and Betty didn't care to play. Lambert did, and sat down. George followed Betty to a window seat, telling himself she wanted him only because Lambert was for the time, lost to her.

"Now," she said, directly, "what is it, George?"

"What's what?" he asked with an attempt at good-humour.

Her question had made him uneasy, since it suggested that she had observed the trouble he was endeavouring to bury. Would he never learn to repress as Goodhue did? But even Goodhue, he recalled, had failed to hide an acute suffering at a football game; and this game was infinitely bigger, and the point he had just lost vastly more important than a fumbled ball.

"You've changed," Betty was saying. "I'm a good judge, because I haven't really seen you for nearly a year. You've seemed – I scarcely know how to say it – unhappy?"

"Why not tired?" he suggested, listlessly. "You may not know it, but I've been pretty hard at work."

She nodded quickly.

"I've heard a good deal from Lambert what you are doing, and something from Squibs and Mrs. Squibs. You haven't seen much of them, either. Do you mind if I say I think it makes them uneasy?"

"Scold. I deserve it," he said. "But I've written."

"I don't mean to scold," she smiled. "I only want to find out what makes you discontented, maybe ask if it's worth while wearing yourself out to get rich."

"I don't know," he answered. "I think so."

It was his first doubt. He looked at her moodily.

"You're not one to draw the long bow, Betty. Honestly, aren't you a little cross with me on account of the Baillys?"

"Not even on my own account."

Her allusion was clear enough. George was glad Blodgett created a diversion just then, lumbering in and bellowing to Lambert for news of his sister. George listened breathlessly.

"Haven't seen her," Lambert said, and doubled a bid.

"Miss Alston?" Blodgett applied to Betty.

"Where should she be?" Betty answered.

"Got me puzzled," Blodgett muttered. "Responsibility. If anything happened!"

Betty laughed.

"What could happen to her here?"

George guessed then where Sylvia had gone, and he experienced a strong but temporal exaltation. Only a mental or a bodily hurt could have driven Sylvia to her room. He didn't believe in the first, but he could still feel the shape of her slender fingers crushed against his. The greater her pain, the greater her knowledge of his determination and desire.

"Guess I'll send Mrs. Sinclair upstairs," Blodgett said, gropingly.

He hurried out of the room. Betty rose.

"I suppose I ought to go."

"Nonsense," George objected. "She isn't the sort to come down ill all at once."

He followed Betty to the hall, however. Mrs. Sinclair was halfway up the stairs. Blodgett had gone on, always pandering, George reflected, to his guests.

"I'll wait here," Betty said to Mrs. Sinclair. "I mean, if anything should be wrong, if Sylvia should want me."

Mrs. Sinclair nodded, disappearing in the upper hall.

Finally George faced the moment he had avoided with a persistent longing. For the first time since the night of his confession he was quite alone with Betty. He tried not to picture her swaying away from him in a moonlight scented with flowers; but he couldn't help hearing her frightened voice: "Don't say anything more now," and he experienced again her hand's delightful and bewitching fragility. Why had his confession startled? What had it portended for her?

He sighed. There was no point asking such questions, no reason for avoiding such dangerous moments now; too many factors had assumed new shapes. The long separation had certainly not been without its effect on Betty, and hadn't he recently seen her absorbed by Lambert? Hadn't she just now scolded him with a clear appreciation of his shortcomings? In the old days she had unconsciously offered him a pleasurable temptation, and he had been afraid of yielding to it because of its effect on his aim. Sylvia just now had tried to convince him that his aim was permanently turned aside. He knew with a hard strength of will that it wasn't. Nothing could tempt him from his path now – even Betty's kindness.

"Betty – have you heard anything of her getting married?"

She glanced at him, surprised.

"Who? Sylvia?"

He nodded.

"Only," she answered, "the rumours one always hears about a very popular girl. Why, George?"

"The rumours make one wonder. Nothing comes of them," he said, sorry he had spoken, seeking a safe withdrawal. "You know there's principally one about you. It persists."

There was a curious light in her eyes, reminiscent of something he had seen there the night of his confession.

"You've just remarked," she laughed, softly, "that rumours seldom materialize."

What did she mean by that? Before he could go after an answer Mrs. Sinclair came down, joined them, and explained that Sylvia was tired and didn't want any one bothered. George's exaltation increased. He hoped he had hurt her, as he had always wanted to. Blodgett, accompanied by Wandel and Dalrymple, wandered from the smoking-room, seeking news. George felt every muscle tighten, for Blodgett, at sight of Mrs. Sinclair, roared:

"Where is Sylvia?"

The gross familiarity held him momentarily convinced, then he remembered that Blodgett was eager to make progress with such people, quick to snatch at every advantage. Sylvia wasn't here to rebuke him. Under the circumstances, the others couldn't very well. As a matter of fact, they appeared to notice nothing. Of course it wasn't Blodgett.

"In her room with a headache," Mrs. Sinclair answered. "She may come down later."

"Headaches," Wandel said, "cover a multitude of whims."

George didn't like his tone. Wandel always gave you the impression of a vision subtle and disconcerting.

Dalrymple, in spite of his confused state, was caught rattling off questions at Mrs. Sinclair, too full of concern, while George watched him, wondering – wondering.

"Must have her own way," Blodgett interrupted. "Bridge! Let's cut in or make another table. George?"

George and Betty shook their heads, so Blodgett, with that air of a showman leading his spectators to some fresh surprise, hurried the others away. George didn't attempt to hide his distaste. He stared at the fire. Hang Blodgett and his familiarities!

"What are you thinking about, George?"

"Would you have come here, Betty, of your own wish?"

"Why not?"

"Blodgett."

"What about the old dear?"

George started, turned, and looked full at her. There was no question. She meant it, and earlier in the evening Lambert had said nearly any girl would marry Blodgett. What had become of his own judgment? He felt the necessity of defending it.

"He's too precious happy to have people like you in his house. You know perfectly well he hasn't always been able to do it."

"Isn't that why everyone likes him," she asked, "because he's so completely unaffected?"

George understood he was on thin ice. He didn't deviate.

"You mean he's all the more admirable because he hasn't plastered himself with veneer?"

Her white cheeks flushed. She was as nearly angry as he had ever seen her.

"I thought you'd never go back to that," she said. "Didn't I make it clear any mention of it in the first place was quite unnecessary?"

"I thought you had a reproof for me, Betty. You don't suppose I ever forget what I've had to do, what I still have to accomplish."

She half stretched out her hand.

"Why do you try to quarrel with me, George?"

"I wouldn't for the world," he denied, warmly.

"But you do. I told you once you were different. You shouldn't compare yourself with Mr. Blodgett or any one. What you set out for you always get."

He smiled a little. She was right, and he must never lose his sense of will, his confidence of success.

She started to speak, then hesitated. She wouldn't meet his glance.

"Why," she asked, "did you tell me that night?"

"Because," he answered, uncomfortably, "you were too good a friend to impose upon. I had to give you an opportunity to drive me away."

"I didn't take it," she said, quickly, "yet you went as thoroughly as if I had."

She spread her hands.

"You make me feel as if I'd done something awkward to you. It isn't fair."

Smiling wistfully, he touched her hand.

"Don't talk that way. Don't let us ever quarrel, Betty. You've never meant anything but kindness to me. I'd like to feel there's always a little kindness for me in your heart."

Her long lashes lowered slowly over her eyes.

"There is. There always will be, George."

X

For some time after Betty had left him George remained staring at the fire. The chatter and the intermittent banging of the piano made him long for quiet; but it was good discipline to stay downstairs, and Mrs. Sinclair had said Sylvia might show herself later. So he waited, struggling with his old doubt, asking himself if he had actually acquired anything genuine except his money.

Later he wandered again from room to room, seeking Sylvia, but she didn't appear, and he couldn't understand her failure. Had it any meaning for him? Why, for that matter, should she strike him before any other knew of the weapon in her hand? From time to time Dalrymple expressed a maudlin concern for her, and George's uncertainty increased. If it should turn out to be Dalrymple, he told himself hotly, he would be capable of killing.

The young man quite fulfilled his promise of the early evening. Long after the last of the women had retired he remained in the smoking-room. Rogers abetted him, glad, doubtless, to be sportive in such distinguished company. Wandel loitered, too, and was unusually flushed, refilling his glass rather often. Lambert, Blodgett, and he were at a final game of billiards.

"You've been with Dalrymple all evening," George said, significantly, to Wandel.

"My dear George," Wandel answered, easily, "I observe the habits of my fellow creatures. Be they good or bad I venture not to interfere."

"An easy creed," George said. "You're not your brother's keeper."

"Rather not. The man that keeps himself makes the world better."

George had a disturbing fancy that Wandel accused him.

"You don't mean that at all," he said. "When will you learn to say what you mean?"

"Perhaps," Wandel replied, sipping, "when I decide not to enter politics."

"Your shot," Blodgett called, and Wandel strolled to the table.

Dalrymple didn't play, his accuracy having diminished to the point of laughter. He edged across to George.

"Old George Morton!" he drawled. "Young George Croesus! And all that."

The slurred last phrase was as abhorrent as "why don't you stick to your laundry?" It carried much the same implication. But Dalrymple was up to something, wanted something. He came to it after a time with the air of one conferring a regal favour.

"Haven't got a hundred in your pocket, Croesus? Driggs and bridge have squeezed me dry. Blodgett's got bones. Never saw such a man. Has everything. Driggs is running out. Recoup at bones. Everybody shoot. Got the change, save me running upstairs? Bad for my heart, and all that."

He grinned. George grinned back. It was a small favour, but it was a start, for the other acquired bad habits readily. Ammunition against Dalrymple! He had always needed it, might want it more than ever now. At last Dalrymple himself put it in his hand.

He passed over the money, observing that the other moved so as to screen the transaction from those about the table.

"Little night-cap with me?" Dalrymple suggested as if by way of payment.

George laughed.

"Haven't you already protected the heads of the party?"

Dalrymple made a wry face.

"Do their heads a lot more good than mine."

The game ended.

Dalrymple turned away shouting.

"Bones! Bones!"

Blodgett produced a pair of dice with his air of giving each of his patrons his heart's desire. Wandel yawned. Dalrymple rattled the dice and slithered them across the billiard table.

"Coming in, George?" Blodgett roared.

"Thanks. I'm off to bed."

But he waited, curious as to the destination of the small loan he had just made.

Blodgett with tact threw for reasonable stakes. Roger's play was necessarily small, and he seemed ashamed of the fact. Lambert put plenty on the table, but urged no takers. Wandel varied his wagers. Dalrymple covered everything he could, and had luck.

George studied the intent figures, the eager eyes, as the dice flopped across the table; listened to the polished voices raised to these toys in childish supplications that sang with the petulant accents of negroes. Simultaneously he was irritated and entertained, experiencing a vague, uneasy fear that a requisite side of life, of which this folly might be taken as a symbol, had altogether escaped him. He laughed aloud when Wandel sang something about seven and eleven. His voice resembled a negro's as the peep of a sparrow approaches an eagle's scream.

"What you laughing at, great man? One must talk to them. Otherwise they don't behave, and you see I rolled an eleven. Positive proof."

He gathered in the money he had won.

"Shooting fifty this time."

"Why not shoot?" Dalrymple asked George. "'Fraid you couldn't talk to 'em?"

"Thing doesn't interest me."

"No sport, George Morton."

It was the way it was said that arrested George. Trust Dalrymple when he had had enough to drink to air his dislikes. The others glanced up.

"How much have you got there?" George asked quietly.

With a slightly startled air Dalrymple ran over his money.

"Pretty nearly three. Why?"

"Call it three," George said.

He gathered the dice from the table. The others drew back, leaving, as it were, the ring clear.

"I'll throw you just once," George said, "for three hundred. High man to throw. On?"

"Sure," Dalrymple said, thickly.

George counted out his money and placed it on the table. He threw a five. Dalrymple couldn't do better than a four. George rattled the dice, and, rather craving some of the other's Senegambian chatter, rolled them. They rested six and four. Dalrymple didn't try to hide his delight.

"Stung, old George Morton! Never come a ten again."

"There'll come another ten," George promised.

He continued to roll, a trifle self-conscious in his silence, while Dalrymple bent over the table, desirous of a seven, while the others watched, absorbed.

Sixes and eights fell, and other numbers, but for half-a-dozen throws no seven or ten.

"Come you seven!" Dalrymple sang.

"You've luck, George," Lambert commented. "I wouldn't lay against you now. I'll go you fifty, Driggs, on his ten."

"Done!"

The next throw the dice turned up six and four.

"The very greatest of men," Wandel said, ruefully.

While George put the money in his pocket Dalrymple straightened, frowning.

"Double or quits! Revenge!"

"I said once," George reminded him. "I'm off to bed."

The others resumed their play. Dalrymple stared at George, an ugly light in his eyes. George nodded, and the other followed him to the door. George handed him a hundred dollars.

"Save you running upstairs. How much do you owe me now?"

"Couple hundred."

"I shouldn't worry about that," George laughed. "When you want a good deal more and it's inconvenient to run upstairs I might save you some trouble."

"Now that's white of you," Dalrymple condescended, and went, a trifle unsteadily, back to the table.

George carried to his room an impression that he had thoroughly soiled his hands at last, but unavoidably. Of course he had scorned Blodgett for involving Sinclair. His own case was very different. Besides, he hadn't actually involved Dalrymple yet, but he had made a start. Dalrymple had always gunned for him. More than ever since Sylvia's announcement, George felt the necessity of getting Dalrymple where he could handle him. If she had chosen Dalrymple, of course, money would serve only until the greedy youth could get his fingers in the Planter bags. He shook with a quick repugnance. No matter who won her it mustn't be Dalrymple. He would stop that at any cost.

He sat for some time on the edge of the bed, studying the pattern of the rug. Was Dalrymple the man to arouse a grand passion in her? She had said:

"I can't always be running away from you."

She had told him and no one else. Was the thing calculation, quite bereft of love? Oh, no. George couldn't imagine he was of such importance she would flee that far to be rid of him; but he went to bed at last, confessing the situation had elements he couldn't grasp. Perhaps, when he knew surely who the man was, they would become sufficiently ponderable.

XI

He was up early after a miserable night, and failed to rout his depression with a long ride over country roads. When he got back in search of breakfast he found the others straggling down. First of all he saw Dalrymple, white and unsteady; heard him asking for Sylvia. Sylvia hadn't appeared.

"Who's for church?" Blodgett roared.

Mrs. Sinclair offered to shepherd the devout. They weren't many. Men even called Blodgett names for this newest recreation he had appeared to offer.

"How late did you play?" George asked Blodgett.

"Until, when I looked at my watch, I thought it must be last evening. These young bloods are too keen for Papa Blodgett."

"Get into you?" George laughed.

"I usually manage to hang on to my money," Blodgett bragged, "but the stakes ran bigger and bigger. I'll say one thing for young Dalrymple. He's no piker. Wrote I. O. U's until he wore out his fountain pen. I could paper a room with what I got. I'd be ashamed to collect them."

"Why?" George asked, shortly. "When he wrote them he knew they had to be redeemed."

Blodgett grinned.

"I expect he was a little pickled. Probably's forgot he signed them. I won't make him unhappy with his little pieces of paper."

"Daresay he'll be grateful," George said, dryly.

His ride had brought no appetite. After breakfast he avoided people with a conviction that his only business here was to see Sylvia again, then to escape. It was noon before she appeared with Betty. He caught them walking from the hall to the library, and he studied Sylvia's face with anxious curiosity. It disappointed, repelled him. It was quite unchanged, as full of colour as usual, as full of unfriendliness. She nodded carelessly, quite as if nothing had happened – gave him the identical, remote greeting to which he had become too accustomed. And last evening he had fancied her nearer! He noticed, however, that she had put her hands behind her back.