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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/33733-8.txt b/33733-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..11ebef9 --- /dev/null +++ b/33733-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16753 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Guarded Heights, by Wadsworth Camp + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Guarded Heights + +Author: Wadsworth Camp + +Release Date: September 15, 2010 [EBook #33733] +[Last updated: July 22, 2011] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GUARDED HEIGHTS *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + THE GUARDED HEIGHTS + + BY WADSWORTH CAMP + + +FRONTISPIECE +BY C. D. MITCHELL + +GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO +DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY +1921 + +COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY +DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. + +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION +INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN + +COPYRIGHT 1920, BY P. F. COLLIER & SON COMPANY + + +[Illustration: "GEORGE WATCHED SYLVIA LIFT HER RIDING CROP, HER FACE +DISCLOSING A TEMPER TO MATCH HIS OWN"] + + + + +CONTENTS + + +PART I OAKMONT + +PART II PRINCETON + +PART III THE MARKET-PLACE + +PART IV THE FOREST + +PART V THE NEW WORLD + + + + +THE GUARDED HEIGHTS + + + + +PART I + +OAKMONT + + +I + +George Morton never could be certain when he first conceived the +preposterous idea that Sylvia Planter ought to belong to him. The full +realization, at any rate, came all at once, unexpectedly, destroying his +dreary outlook, urging him to fantastic heights, and, for that matter, +to rather curious depths. + +It was, altogether, a year of violent change. After a precarious +survival of a rural education he had done his best to save his father's +livery business which cheap automobiles had persistently undermined. He +liked that, for he had spent his vacations, all his spare hours, indeed, +at the stable or on the road, so that by the time the crash came he knew +more of horses and rode better than any hunting, polo-playing gentleman +he had ever seen about that rich countryside. Nor was there any one near +his own age who could stand up to him in a rough-and-tumble argument. +Yet he wondered why he was restless, not appreciating that he craved +broader worlds to conquer. Then the failure came, and his close relation +with the vast Planter estate of Oakmont, and the arrival of Sylvia, who +disclosed such worlds and heralded the revolution. + +That spring of his twentieth year the stable and all its stock went to +the creditors, and old Planter bought the small frame house just outside +the village, on the edge of his estate, and drew his boundary around it. +He was willing that the Mortons should remain for the present in their +old home at a nominal rent, and after a fashion they might struggle +along, for George's mother was exceptionally clever at cleansing fine +laces and linens; the estate would have work for his father from time to +time; as for himself, Planter's superintendent suggested, there were new +and difficult horses at Oakmont and a scarcity of trustworthy grooms. +George shook his head. + +"Sure, I want a job," he admitted, "but not as old Planter's servant, or +anybody else's. I want to be my own boss." + +George hadn't guessed that his reputation as a horseman had travelled as +far as the big house. The superintendent explained that it had, and +that, living at home, merely helping out for the summer, he would be +quite apart from the ordinary men around the stables. His parents sensed +a threat. They begged him to accept. + +"We've got to do as Old Planter wants at the start or he'll put us out, +and we're too old to make another home." + +So George went with his head up, telling himself he was doing Planter a +favour; but he didn't like it, and almost at once commenced to plan to +get away, if he could, without hurting his parents. Then Sylvia, just +home from her last year at school, came into the stable toward the end +of his day's work. Her overpowering father was with her, and her +brother, Lambert, who was about George's age. She examined interestedly +the horse reserved for her, and one or two others of which she was +envious. + +George wanted to stare at her. He had only glimpsed her casually and at +a distance in summers gone by. Now she was close, and he knew he had +never seen anything to match her slender, adolescent figure, or her +finely balanced face with its intolerant eyes and its frame of black +hair. + +"But," he heard her say to her father in a flexible contralto voice, "I +don't care to bother you or Lambert every time I want to ride." + +An argument, unintelligible to George, flowed for a moment. Then Old +Planter's tones, bass and authoritative, filled the stable. + +"Come here, young Morton!" + +George advanced, not touching his cap, to remind the big man that there +was a difference between him and the other stable men, and that he +didn't like that tone. + +"You are a very dependable horseman," the great millionaire said. "I can +trust you. When Miss Sylvia wants to ride alone you will go with her and +see that she has no accidents. During your hours here you will be +entirely at her disposal." + +Instead of arousing George's anger that command slightly thrilled him. + +"So you're Morton," Sylvia said, indifferently. "I shall expect you +always to be convenient." + +He ventured to look at last, pulling off his cap. + +"You can depend on it," he said, a trifle dazed by her beauty. + +She went out. Her father and her brother followed, like servitors of a +sort themselves. George had no sense of having allowed his position +there to be compromised. He only realized that he was going to see that +lovely creature every day, would be responsible for her safety, would +have a chance to know her. + +"A peach!" a groom whispered. "You're lucky, Georgie boy." + +George shrugged his shoulders. + +"Maybe so." + +Yet he agreed. She was a peach, and he took no pains to conceal his +appraisal from his parents that evening. + +"Seen Old Planter's daughter yet?" + +His father, a drooping, tired figure in the dusk of the little porch, +nodded. + +"I haven't," his mother called from the kitchen. "Is she as pretty as +she was last summer?" + +"Pretty!" he scoffed. "Who was the prettiest woman in the world?" + +"I don't know," came the interested voice from the house. "Maybe the +Queen of Sheba." + +"Then," George said, "she'd have cried her eyes out if she had seen Old +Planter's girl." + +The elder Morton took his pipe from his mouth. + +"Young men like you," he said, slowly, "haven't any business looking at +girls like Old Planter's daughter." + +George laughed carelessly. + +"Even a cat can look at a queen." + +And during the weeks that followed he did look, too persistently, never +dreaming where his enthusiasm was leading him. Occasionally he would +bring her brother's horse around with hers or her father's. At such +times he would watch them ride away with a keen disappointment, as if he +had been excluded from a pleasure that had become his right. Lambert, +however, was away a good deal, and Old Planter that summer fought +rheumatic attacks, which he called gout, so that Sylvia, for the most +part, rode alone through remote bridle-paths with George at her heels +like a well-trained animal. + +He knew he could not alter that all at once; she would have it no other +way. She only spoke to him, really, about the condition of the horses, +or the weather--never a word conceivably personal; and every day he +looked at her more personally, let his imagination, without knowing it, +stray too far. At first he merely enjoyed being with her; then he +appreciated that a sense of intimacy had grown upon him, and he was +troubled that she did not reciprocate, that their extended companionship +had not diminished at all the appalling distance dividing them. There +was something, moreover, beyond her beauty to stimulate his interest. +She appeared not to know fear, and once or twice he ventured to reprove +her, enjoying her angry reactions. She even came to the stables, urging +him to let her ride horses that he knew were not safe. + +"But you ride them," she would persist. + +"When I find a horse I can't ride, Miss Sylvia, I guess I'll have to +take up a new line. If your father would come and say it's all +right----" + +Even then he failed to grasp the fact that he guarded her for his own +sake rather more than for her father's. + +He nearly interfered when he heard her cry to her brother as they +started off one morning: + +"I'm going to ride harder from now on, Lambert. I've got to get fit for +next winter. Coming out will take a lot of doing." + +"If she rides any harder," he muttered, "she'll break her silly neck." + +It angered him that she never spoke to him in that voice, with that easy +manner. Perhaps his eagerness to be near her had led her to undervalue +him. Somehow he would change all that, and he wanted her to stop calling +him "Morton," as if he had been an ordinary groom, or an animal, but he +would have to go slowly. Although he didn't realize the great fact then, +he did know that he shrank from attempting anything that would take her +away from him. + +It was her harder riding, indeed, that opened his eyes, that ushered in +the revolution. + +It happened toward the close of a mid-July afternoon. Mud whirled from +her horse's hoofs, plentifully sprinkling her humble guardian. + +"Now what the devil's she up to?" he thought with a sharp fear. + +She turned and rode at a gallop for a hedge, an uneven, thorny barrier +that separated two low meadows. He put spurs to his horse, shouting: + +"Hold up, Miss Sylvia! That's a rotten take-off." + +Flushed and laughing, she glanced over her shoulder. + +"Got to try it to prove it, Morton." + +He realized afterward that it was as near intimacy as she had ever come. + +He saw her horse refuse, straightening his knees and sliding in the +marshy ground. He watched Sylvia, with an ease and grace nearly +unbelievable, somersault across the hedge and out of sight in the meadow +beyond. + +"Miss Sylvia! Are you hurt?" + +No answer. He sprang from his horse, leaving it free to graze with hers. +He stormed through the hedge, his heart choking him. She lay on her +side, quite motionless, the high colour fled from her cheeks, her hair +half down. Although the soft ground should have reassured him he was +obsessed by the thought that she might never get up again. + +In the warmth of his fear barriers were consumed. Within his horizon +survived just two people, himself and this silent object of an extended, +if unconscious, adoration. + +He shrank from learning the truth, yet it was impossible to hesitate. He +had to do what he could. + +He approached on tip-toe, knelt, and lifted her until she rested against +him. The contact was galvanic. He became aware of his trembling hands. +Some man, it occurred to him, would touch those curved, slightly parted +lips. Not if he knew it, unless it were himself! He wanted to hear those +lips speak to him as if he were a human being, and not just--Morton. How +could he dream of such things now? He fumbled for her pulse, failed at +first to find it, and became panic-stricken. He shook her, more than +ever alone, facing an irretrievable loss. + +"Open your eyes," he begged wildly. "What's the matter with you? Oh, my +God, Miss Sylvia, I can't ever get along without you now." + +He glanced haggardly around for water, any means to snatch her back; +then she stirred in his arms, and with his relief came a sickening +return to a peopled and ordered world. He understood he had sprung +headlong with his eyes shut; that his anxiety had dictated phrases he +had had no business to form, that he would not have uttered if she had +been able to hear. Or, good Lord! Had she heard? For she drew herself +convulsively away, the colour rushing back, her eyes opening, and they +held a sort of horror. + +"Are you hurt?" he said, trying to read her eyes. + +She got to her knees, swaying a trifle. + +"I remember. A bit of a fall. Stunned me. That's all. But you said +something, Morton! Will you please repeat that?" + +Her eyes, and her voice, which had a new, frightening quality, stung his +quick temper. What he had suffered a moment ago was a little sacred. He +couldn't afford to let her cheapen it one cent's worth. + +"I guess I don't need to repeat it," he said. "It was scared out of me, +Miss Sylvia, because I thought--I know it was silly--but I thought you +were dead. I never dreamed you could hear. I'll try to forget it." + +He saw her grope in the wet grass at her knees. Scarcely understanding, +he watched her rise, lifting her riding crop, her face disclosing a +temper to match his own. + +"You're an impertinent servant," she said. "Well, you'll not forget." + +She struck at his face with the crop. He got his hand up just in time, +and caught her wrist. + +"Don't you touch me," she whispered. + +His jaw went out. + +"You'll learn not to be afraid of my touch, and I'm not a servant. You +get that straight." + +She struggled, but he held her wrist firmly. The sight of the crop, the +memory of her epithet, thickened his voice, lashed his anger. + +"Have it your own way. You say I shan't forget, and I won't. I'm going +after you, and I usually get what I go after. You'll find I'm a human +being, and I'd like to see anybody hit me in the face and get away with +it." + +"Let me go! Let me go!" + +He released her wrist, dragging the crop from her grasp. He snapped it +in two and flung the pieces aside. The slight noise steadied him. It +seemed symbolic of the snapping of his intended fate. She drew slowly +back, chafing the wrist he had held. Her face let escape the desire to +hurt, to hurt hard. + +"Someone else will have the strength," she whispered. "You'll be +punished, you--you--stable boy." + +She forced her way blindly through the hedge. Responding to his custom +he started automatically after her to hold her stirrup. She faced him, +raising her hands. + +"Keep away from me, you beast!" + +Unaided, she sprang into her saddle and started home at a hard gallop. + +George glanced around thoughtfully. He was quite calm now. The familiar +landscape appeared strangely distorted. Was that his temper, or a +reflection from his altered destiny? He didn't know how the deuce he +could do it, but he was going to justify himself. Maybe the real +situation had never been explained to her, and, as the price of her +companionship, he had, perhaps, let her hold him too cheaply; but now he +was going to show her that he was, indeed, instead of a servant, a human +being, capable of making his boasts good. + +He picked up the two pieces of her riding crop and thrust them into his +pocket. They impressed him as a necessary souvenir of his humiliation, a +reminder of what he had to do. She had hurt. Oh, Lord! How she had hurt! +He experienced a hot desire to hurt back. The scar could only be healed, +he told himself, if some day he could strike at her beautiful, +contemptuous body as hard as she had just now struck at him. + + +II + +He mounted and pressed his horse, but he had only one or two glimpses of +Sylvia, far ahead, using her spurs, from time to time raising her hand +as if she had forgotten that her crop had been torn from her, broken, +and thrown aside. + +Such frantic haste was urged by more than the necessity of escape. What +then, if not to hasten his punishment, to tell her father, her mother, +and Lambert? She had threatened that someone else would have the +strength to give him a thrashing. Probably Lambert. Aside from that how +could they punish a man who had only committed the crime of letting a +girl know that he loved her? All at once he guessed, and he laughed +aloud. They could kick him out. He wanted, above everything else, to be +kicked out of a job where he was treated like a lackey, although he was +told he was nothing of the kind. Expert with horses, doing Old Planter a +favour for the summer! Hadn't she just called him a servant, a stable +boy? He wanted to put himself forever beyond the possibility of being +humiliated in just that way again. + +In the stable he found a groom leading Sylvia's horse to a stall. + +"Take mine, too, and rub him down, will you?" + +The groom turned, staring. + +"The nerve! What's up, George?" + +"Only," George said, deliberately, "that I've touched my last horse for +money." + +"Say! What goes on here? The young missus rides in like a cyclone, and +looking as if she'd been crying. I always said you'd get in trouble with +the boss's daughter. You're too good looking for the ladies, +Georgie----" + +"That's enough of that," George snapped. "Scrape him down, and I'll be +much obliged." + +He went out, knowing that the other would obey, for as a rule people did +what George wanted. He took a path through the park toward home, walking +slowly, commencing to appreciate the difficulties he had brought upon +himself. His predicament might easily involve his parents. The afternoon +was about done, they would both be there, unsuspecting. It was his duty +to prepare them. He experienced a bitter regret as he crossed the line +that a few months ago had divided their property, their castle, from +Oakmont. Now Old Planter could cross that line and drive them out. + +Before George came in sight of the house he heard a rubbing, slapping +noise, and with a new distaste pictured his mother bending over a +washtub, suggesting a different barrier to be leaped. As he entered the +open space back of the house he wanted to kick the tub over, wanted to +see sprawling in the dirt the delicate, intimate linen sent down weekly +from the great house because his mother was exceptionally clever with +such things. To the uncouth music of her labour her broad back rose and +bent rhythmically. His father, wearing soiled clothing, sat on the porch +steps, an old briar pipe in his mouth. + +Abruptly his mother's drudgery ceased. She stared. His father rose +stiffly. + +"You've got yourself in trouble," he said. + +George had not fancied the revolution had unfurled banners so easily +discernible. He became self-conscious. His parents' apprehension made +matters more difficult for him. They, at least, were too old to revolt. + +"I suppose I have," he acknowledged shortly. + +His father used the tone of one announcing an unspeakable catastrophe. + +"You mean you've had trouble with Miss Sylvia." + +"George!" his mother cried, aghast. "You've never been impertinent with +Miss Sylvia!" + +"She thinks I have," George said, "so it amounts to the same thing." + +His father's face twitched. + +"And you know Old Planter can put us out of here without a minute's +notice, and where do you think we'd go? How do you think we'd get bread +and butter? You talk up, young man. You tell us what happened." + +"I can't," George said, sullenly. "I can't talk about it. You'll hear +soon enough." + +"I always said," his mother lamented, "that Georgie wasn't one to know +his place up there." + +"Depends," George muttered, "on what my place is. I've got to find that +out. Look! You'll hear now." + +A bald-headed figure in livery, one of the house servants, glided toward +them through the shrubbery, over that vanished boundary line, with +nervous haste. George squared his shoulders. The messenger, however, +went straight to the older man. + +"Mr. Planter's on his ear, and wants to see you right off in the +library. What you been up to, young Morton?" + +George resented the curiosity in the pallid, unintelligent eyes, the +fellow's obvious pleasure in the presence of disaster. It would have +appeased him to grasp those sloping shoulders, to force the grinning +face from his sight. A queer question disturbed him. Had Sylvia felt +something of the sort about him? + +"Come on," the elder Morton said. "It's pretty hard at my age. You'll +pay for this, George." + +"Old Planter would never be that unfair," George encouraged him. + +"Georgie! Georgie!" his mother said when the others were out of sight, +"what have you been up to?" + +He walked closer and placed his arm around her shoulders. + +"I've been getting my eyes opened," he answered. "I never ought to have +listened to them. I never ought to have gone up there. I did say +something to Miss Sylvia I had no business to. If I'd been one of her +own kind, instead of the son of a livery stable keeper, I'd have got +polite regrets or something. It's made me realize how low I am." + +"No," she said with quick maternal passion. "You're not low. Maybe some +day those people'll be no better than we are." + +He shook his head. + +"I'd rather I was no worse than they are. And I will be. I won't put up +with it. If some people have to be treated like dirt, I'm going to help +do the treating." + +"That's no right way of thinking," she warned. "It's money makes the +mare go." + +But in Sylvia's case, George admitted, there was other propulsion than +that; something more fragile, and harder to understand or capture for +one's self. + +"Don't you worry, I'll make money," he said. + +She glanced up quickly. + +"Who's that?" + +A brisk masculine voice volleyed through the shrubbery: + +"Young Morton! I say, young Morton!" + +"It's Mr. Lambert," she breathed. "Go quick." + +George remembered what Sylvia had said about someone else having the +strength. + +"Can't you guess, Ma, what the young lady's brother wants of me?" + +The bitterness left his face. His smile was engaging. + +"To give me the devil." + +"Young Morton! Young Morton!" + +"Coming!" he called. + +"George," she begged, "don't have any trouble with Mr. Lambert." + + +III + +She watched him with anxious eyes, failing to observe, because she was +his mother, details that informed his boasts with power. His ancestry +of labour had given him, at least, his straight, slender, and unusually +muscular body, and from somewhere had crept in the pride, just now +stimulated, with which he carried it. His wilful, regular features, +moreover, guarded by youth, were still uncoarsened. + +He found Lambert Planter waiting beyond the old boundary behind a screen +of bushes, his hands held behind his back. In his face, which had some +of Sylvia's beauty, hardened and enlarged, dwelt the devil George had +foreseen. + +George nodded, feeling all at once at ease. He could take care of +himself in an argument with Lambert Planter. No such distances separated +them as had widened beyond measure a little while back between him and +Sylvia. He wondered if that conception sprang from Lambert, or if it +came simply from the fact that they were two men, facing each other +alone; for it was from the first patent that Sylvia had asked her +brother to complete a punishment she had devised as fitting, but which +she had been incapable of carrying out herself. Lambert, indeed, brought +his hands forward, disclosing a whip. It was a trifle in his way as he +took off his coat. + +"That's right," George said. "Make yourself comfortable." + +"You won't help matters by being impertinent, Morton." + +Lambert's voice contrasted broadly with George's round, loud tones. +While, perhaps, not consciously affected, its accents fell according to +the custom of the head master of a small and particular preparatory +school. George crushed his instinct to mock. What the deuce had he +craved ever since his encounter with Sylvia unless it was to be one with +men like Lambert Planter? So all he said was: + +"What's the whip for?" + +"You know perfectly well," Lambert answered. "There's no possible excuse +for what you said and did this afternoon. I am going to impress that on +you." + +"You mean you want a fight?" + +"By no means. I wouldn't feel comfortable fighting a man like you. I'd +never dreamed we had such a rotten person on the place. Oh, no, Morton. +I'm going to give you a good horse-whipping." + +George's chin went out. His momentary good-humour fled. + +"If you touch me with that whip I'm likely to kill you." + +Without hesitating Lambert raised the whip. George sprang and got his +hands on it, intent only on avoiding a blow that would have carried the +same unbearable sting as Sylvia's riding crop. Such tactics took Lambert +by surprise. George's two hands against his one on the stock were +victorious. The whip flew to one side. Lambert, flushing angrily, +started after it. George barred his path, raising his fists. + +"You don't touch that thing again." + +Lambert's indecision, his hands hanging at his sides, hurt George nearly +as much as the lashing would have done. He had to destroy that attitude +of sheer superiority. + +"I'm not sure you're a man," he said, thickly, "but you tried to hit me, +so you can put your pretty hands up or take it in the face." + +He aimed a vicious blow. Lambert side-stepped and countered. George's +ear rang. He laughed, his self-respect rushing back with the keen joy of +battle. In Lambert's face, stripped of its habitual repression, he +recognized an equal excitement. It was a man's fight, with blood drawn +at the first moment, staining both of them. Lambert boxed skillfully, +and his muscles were hard, but after the first moment George saw +victory, and set out to force it. He looked for fear in the other's eyes +then, and longed to see it, but those eyes remained as unafraid as +Sylvia's until there wasn't left in them much of anything conscious. As +a last chance Lambert clinched, and they went down, fighting like a pair +of furious terriers. George grinned as he felt those eclectic hands +endeavouring in the most brotherly fashion to torture him. He managed to +pin them to the ground. He laughed happily. + +"Thought you hated to touch me." + +"You fight like a tiger, anyway," Lambert gasped. + +"Had enough?" + +Lambert nodded. + +"I know when I'm through." + +George didn't release him at once. His soul expanded with a sense of +power and authority earned by his own effort. It seemed an omen. It +urged him too far. + +"Then," he mused, "I guess I'd better let you run home and tell your +father what I've done to you." + +"That," Lambert said, "proves I was right, and I'm sorry I fought you." + +George tried to think. He felt hot and angry. Was the other, after all, +the better man? + +"I take it back," he muttered. "Ought to have had enough sense to know +that a fellow that fights like you's no tattle-tale." + +"Thanks, Morton." + +George's sense of power grew. He couldn't commence too soon to use it. + +"See here, Mr. Planter, I came up here to help with some horses your +people didn't know how to handle, and let myself get shifted to this +other job; but I'm not your father's slave, and anyway I'm getting out." + +He increased the pressure on Lambert's arms. + +"Just to remind you what we've been fighting about, and that I'm not +your slave, you call me Mr. Morton, or George, just as if I was about as +good as you." + +Lambert smiled broadly. + +"Will you kindly let me go--George?" + +George sprang up, grinning. + +"How you feel, Mr. Lam----" He caught himself--"Mr. Planter?" + +Lambert struggled to his feet. + +"Quite unwell, thanks. I'm sorry you made such a damned fool of yourself +this afternoon. We might have had some pretty useful times boxing +together." + +"I'd just as leave tell you," George said, glancing away, "that I never +intended to say it. I didn't realize it myself until it was scared out +of me." + +Lambert put on his coat. + +"It won't bear talking about." + +"It never hit me," George said, huskily, "that even a cat couldn't look +at a queen." + +"Perfectly possible," Lambert said as he walked off, feeling his +bruises, "only the queen mustn't see the cat." + + +IV + +George went, obliterating as best he could the souvenirs of battle. +Water, unfortunately, was a requisite, and the nearest was to be found +at his own home. His mother gasped. + +"You did! After what I said!" + +At the pump he splashed cold water over his face and arms. + +"I thrashed him," he spluttered. + +"I guess that settles it for your father and me." + +"Young Planter won't tell anybody," George assured her. "Although I +don't see how he's going to get away with it unless he says he was run +over by an automobile and kicked by a mule." + +"What's come over you?" she demanded. "You've gone out of your head." + +He dodged her desire for details. As Lambert had said, the thing +wouldn't bear talking about. For the first time in his life he stood +alone, and whatever he accomplished from now on would have to be done +alone. + +He saw his father striding toward them, the anxious light gone from his +eyes. George experienced a vast relief. + +"Father looks a little more cheerful," he commented, drying his face. + +"Get supper, Ma," the man said as he came up. + +She hesitated, held by her curiosity, while he turned on George. + +"I don't wonder you couldn't open your mouth to me. You're to be out of +here to-morrow." + +"I'd made up my mind to that." + +"And Old Planter wants to see you at nine o'clock to-night." + +"Since you and Ma," George said, "seem on such good terms with him I +suppose I'll have to go." + +"Thank the Lord we are," his father grumbled. "I wouldn't have blamed +him if he had packed us all off. He was more than fair. I've looked +after you so far, but you'll have to shift for yourself now." + +"And the only thing I didn't like about it," George mused, "was leaving +you and Ma." + +"What did he say to Miss Sylvia?" his mother whispered. + +"Said he couldn't get along without her, and was going to have her." + +He might have been speaking of one who had ventured to impersonate the +deity. + +"And he touched her! Put his arms around her!" + +The horror in his mother's face grew. + +"Georgie! Georgie! What could you have been thinking of?" + +He leaned against the pump. + +"I'm thinking now," he said, softly, "it's sort of queer a man's father +and mother believe there's any girl in the world too good for their +son." + +"Lots of them," his father snapped. "Sylvia Planter most of all." + +"Oh, yes," his mother agreed. + +He straightened. + +"Then listen," he said, peremptorily. "I don't think so. I told her I +was going to have her, and I will. Just put that down in your books. +I'll show the lot of you that I'm as good as she is, as good as +anybody." + +The late sun illuminated the purpose in his striking face. + +"Impertinent servant!" he cried. "Stable boy! Beast! It's pretty rough +to make her marry all that. It's my only business from now on." + + +V + +He went to his room, leaving his parents aghast. With a nervous hurry he +rid himself of his riding breeches, his puttees, his stock. + +"That," he told himself, "is the last time I shall ever wear anything +like livery." + +When he had dressed in one of his two suits of ordinary clothing he took +the broken riding crop and for a long time stared at it as though the +venomous souvenir could fix his resolution more firmly. Once his hand +slipped to the stock where Sylvia's fingers had so frequently tightened. +He snatched his hand away. It was too much like an unfair advantage, a +stolen caress. + +"Georgie! Georgie!" + +His mother's voice drifted to him tentatively. + +"Come and get your supper." + +He hid the broken crop and went out. His father glanced disapproval. + +"You'd do better to wear Old Planter's clothes while you can. It's +doubtful when you'll buy any more of your own." + +George sat down without answering. Since his return from the ride that +afternoon his parents and he had scarcely spoken the same language, and +by this time he understood there was no possible interpreter. It made +him choke a little over his food. + +The others were content to share his silence. His father seemed only +anxious to have him away; but his mother, he fancied, looked at him with +something like sorrow. + +Afterward he fled from that nearly voiceless scrutiny and paced one of +the park paths, counting the minutes until he could answer Old Planter's +summons. He desired to have the interview over so that he could snap +every chain binding him to Oakmont, every chain save the single one +Sylvia's contempt had unwittingly forged. He could not, moreover, plan +his immediate future with any assurance until he knew what the great man +wanted. + +"Only to make me feel a little worse," he decided. "What else could he +do?" + +What, indeed, could a man of Planter's wealth and authority not do? It +was a disturbing question. + +Through the shrubbery the lights of the house gleamed. The moonlight +outlined the immense, luxurious mass. Never once had he entered the +great house. He was eager to study the surrounding in which women like +Sylvia lived, which she, to an extent, must reflect. + +In that serene moonlight he realized that his departure, agreeable and +essential as it was, would make it impossible for him during an +indefinite period to see that slender, adolescent figure, or the +features, lovely and intolerant, that had brought about this revolution +in his life. He acknowledged now that he had looked forward each day to +those hours of proximity and contemplation; and there had been from the +first, he guessed, adoration in his regard. + +It was no time to dwell on the sentimental phase of his situation. He +despised himself for still loving her. His approaching departure he must +accept gladly, since he designed it as a means of coming closer--close +enough to hurt. + +He wondered if he would have one more glimpse of her, perhaps in the +house. He glanced at his watch. He could go at last. He started for the +lights. Would he see her? + +At the corner of the building he hesitated before a fresh dilemma. His +logical entrance lay through the servants' quarters, but he squared his +shoulders and crossed the terrace. It was impossible now that he should +ever enter the house in which she lived by the back door. + +It was a warm night, so the door stood open. The broad spaces of the +hall, the rugs, the hangings, the huge chairs, the portraits in gilt +frames against polished walls, the soft, rosy light whose source he +failed to explore, seemed mutely to reprove his presumption. + +He rang. He did not hear the feet of the servant who answered. The vapid +man that had trotted for his father that afternoon suddenly shut off his +view. + +"You must wear rubbers," George said. + +"What you doing here? Go 'round to the back." + +"Mr. Planter," George explained, patiently, "sent for me." + +"All right. All right. Then go 'round to the back where you belong." + +George reached out, caught the other's shoulder, and shoved him to one +side. While the servant gave a little cry and struggled to regain his +balance, George walked in. A figure emerged painfully from an easy chair +in the shadows by the fireplace. + +"What's all this, Simpson?" + +The polished voice gave the impression of overcoming an impediment, +probably a swollen lip. + +"It's young Morton, Mr. Lambert," Simpson whined. "I told him to go to +the back door where he belongs." + +"What an idea!" Lambert drawled. "Enter, Mr. Morton. My dear Mr. Morton, +what is the occasion? What can we do for you? I must beg you to excuse +my appearance. I had a trifling argument with my new hunter this +afternoon." + +George grinned. + +"Must be some horse." + +None the less, he felt a bruise. It would have been balm to destroy +Lambert's mocking manner by a brusque attack even in this impressive +hall. + +"Your father sent for me." + +"Shall I put him out, sir?" Simpson quavered. + +Lambert burst into a laugh. + +"I shouldn't try it. We can't afford too many losses in one day. Go +away, Simpson, and don't argue with your betters. You might not be as +clever as I at explaining the visible results. I'll take care of Mr. +Morton." + +Simpson was bewildered. + +"Quite so, sir," he said, and vanished. + +"My father," Lambert said, "is in the library--that first door. Wait. +I'll see if he's alone." + +Painfully he limped to the door and opened it, while George waited, +endeavouring not to pull at his cap. + +"Father," Lambert said, smoothly, "Mr. Morton is calling." + +A deep voice, muffled by distance, vibrated in the hall. + +"What are you talking about?" + +Lambert bowed profoundly. + +"Mr. Morton from the lodge." + +George stepped close to him. + +"Want me to thrash you again?" + +Lambert faced him without panic. + +"I don't admit that you could, but, my dear--George, I'm too fatigued +to-night to find out. Some day, if the occasion should arise, I hope I +may. I do sincerely." + +He drew the door wide open, and stepped aside with a bow that held no +mockery. A white-haired, stately woman entered the hall, and, as she +passed, cast at George a glance curiously lacking in vitality. In her +George saw the spring of Sylvia's delicacy and beauty. Whatever Old +Planter might be this woman had something from the past, not to be +acquired, with which to endow her children. George resented it. It made +the future for him appear more difficult. Her voice was in keeping, +cultured and unaffected. + +"Mr. Planter is alone, Morton. He would like to see you." + +She disappeared in a room opposite. George took a deep breath. + +"On that threshold," Lambert said, kindly, "I've often felt the same +way, though I've never deserved it as you do." + +George plunged through and closed the door. + +The room was vaster than the hall, and darker, impressing him confusedly +with endless, filled book-shelves; with sculpture; with a difficult maze +of furniture. The only light issued from a lamp on a huge and littered +table at the opposite end. + +At first George glanced vainly about, seeking the famous man. + +"Step over here, Morton." + +There was no denying that voice. It came from a deep chair whose back +was turned to the light. It sent to George's heart his first touch of +fear. He walked carefully across the rugs and around the table until he +faced the figure in the chair. He wanted to get rid of his cap. He +couldn't resist the temptation to pull at it; and only grooms and stable +boys tortured caps. + +The portly figure in evening clothes was not calculated to put a culprit +at ease. Old Planter sat very straight. The carefully trimmed white side +whiskers, the white hair, the bushy brows above inflamed eyes, composed +a portrait suggestive of a power relentless and not to be trifled with. +George had boasted he was as good as any one. He knew he wasn't as good +as Old Planter; their disparity of attainment was too easily palpable. +No matter whether Old Planter's success was worthy, he had gone out +into the world and done things. He had manipulated railroads. He had +piled up millions whose number he couldn't be sure of himself. He had +built this house and all it stood for. What one man had done another +could. George stopped pulling at his cap. He threw it on the table as +into a ring. His momentary fear died. + +"You sent for me, sir." + +The mark of respect flowed naturally. This old fellow was entitled to +it, from him or any one else. + +The bass voice had a dynamic quality. + +"I did. This afternoon you grossly and inexcusably insulted my daughter. +It will be necessary to speak of her to you just once more. That's why I +told your father to send you. If I were younger it would give me +pleasure to break every bone in your body." + +The red lips opened and shut with the precision of a steel trap. They +softened now in a species of smile. + +"I see, Morton, you had a little argument with a horse this afternoon." + +George managed to smile back. + +"Nothing to speak of, sir." + +"I wish it had been. I take a pleasure in punishing you. It isn't +biblical, but it's human. I'm only sorry I can't devise a punishment to +fit the crime." + +"It was no crime," George said bravely, "no insult." + +"Keep your mouth shut. Unfortunately I can't do much more than run you +away from here, for I don't care to evict your parents from their home +for your folly; and they do not support you. Mr. Evans will pay you off +in the morning with a month's extra wages." + +"I won't take a cent I haven't earned," George said. + +Old Planter studied him with more curiosity. + +"You're a queer livery stable boy." + +"I'm banking on that," George said, willing the other should make what +he would of it. + +"It's there if you wish it," Old Planter went on. "I sent for you so +that I could tell you myself that you will be away from Oakmont and +from the neighbourhood by noon to-morrow. And remember your home is now +a portion of Oakmont. You will never come near us again. You will forget +what happened this afternoon." + +He stood up, his face reddening. George wanted to tell him that Sylvia +herself had said he shouldn't forget. + +"If, Morton," the old man went on with a biting earnestness, "once +you're away from Oakmont, you ever bother Miss Sylvia again, or make any +attempt to see her, I'll dispossess your parents, and I'll drive you out +of any job you get. I'll keep after you until you'll understand what +you're defying. This isn't an idle threat. I have the power." + +The father completely conquered him. He clenched his knotted fists. + +"I'd destroy a regiment of creatures like you to spare my little girl +one of the tears you caused her this afternoon." + +"After all," George said, defensively, "I'm a human being." + +Old Planter shook his head. + +"If your father hadn't failed you'd have spent your life in a livery +stable. It takes education, money, breeding to make a human being." + +George nodded. He wouldn't need to plan much for himself, after all. +Sylvia's father was doing it for him. + +"I've heard some pretty hard words to-day, sir," he said. "It's waked me +up. Can't a man get those things for himself?" + +He fancied reminiscence in Old Planter's eyes. + +"The right kind can. Get out of here now, Morton, and don't let me see +you or hear of you again." + +George stepped between him and the table to pick up his cap. His nerves +tightened. Close to his cap lay an unmounted photograph, not very large, +of Sylvia. What a companion piece for the broken crop! What an ornament +for an altar dedicated to ambition, to anger, and to love! He would take +it under her father's nose, following her father's threats. + +He slipped his cap over the photograph, and picked up both, the precious +likeness hidden by the cheap cloth. + +"Good-night, sir." + +He thought Old Planter started at the ring in his voice. He walked +swiftly from the room. Let Old Planter look out for himself. What did +all those threats amount to? Perhaps he could steal Sylvia as easily +from under her terrible parent's nose. + + +VI + +Lambert, hands in pockets, stopped him in the hall. + +"Packed off, as you deserve, but you'll need money." + +"Thanks," George said. "I don't want any I don't earn." + +"If father should kick me out," Lambert drawled, "I'd be inclined to +take what I could get." + +"I'd rather steal," George said. + +Lambert smiled whimsically. + +"A word of advice. Stealing's dangerous unless you take enough." + +George indicated the library door. He tried to imitate Lambert's manner. + +"Then I suppose it's genius." + +"What are you getting at?" + +"I mean," George said, "you people may drive me to stealing, but it'll +be the kind you get patted on the back for." + +"Sounds like Wall Street," Lambert smiled. + +George wanted to put himself on record in this house. + +"I'm going to make money, and don't you forget it." + +Lambert's smile widened. + +"Then good luck, and a good job--George." + +George crushed his helpless irritation, turned, and walked out the front +door; more disappointed than he would have thought possible, because he +had failed to see Sylvia. + +Reluctantly he returned to the nearly silent discomfort of his parents. +He tried to satisfy their curiosity. + +"Nothing but threats. I'm to be driven to crime if I'm ever heard of +after I leave Oakmont in the morning." + +"He might have made it worse," his father grunted. + +The conversation died for lack of an interpreter. + +His father made a pretence of reading a newspaper. His mother examined +her swollen hands. Her eyes suggested the nearness of tears. George got +up. + +"I suppose I'd better be getting ready." + +As he stooped to kiss her his mother slipped an arm around his neck. + +"Mother's little boy." + +George steadied his voice. + +"Good-night, Dad." + +His father filled his pipe reflectively. + +"Good-night, George." + +No word of sympathy; no sympathy at all, beyond a fugitive, +half-frightened hint from his mother, because he had run boldly against +a fashion of thinking; little more, really. + +He softly closed the door of his room, the last time he would ever do +that! He sat on the edge of the bed. He took Sylvia's photograph from +his pocket and studied it with a deliberate lack of sentiment. He +fancied her desirable lips framing epithets of angry contempt and those +other words to which he had given his own significance. + +"You'll not forget." + +He looked so long, repeating it in his mind so often, that at last his +eyes blurred, and the pictured lips seemed, indeed, to curve and +straighten. + +"You'll not forget." + +He tapped the photograph with his forefinger. + +"You're going to help me remember," he muttered. "I'll not forget." + + +VII + +He placed the photograph and the broken crop at the bottom of his +oilcloth suitcase. The rest of his packing was simple; he had so little +that was actually his own. There were a few books on a shelf, relics of +his erratic attendance at the neighbouring high school--he regretted now +that his ambition there had been physical rather that mental. Even in +the development of his muscles, however, his brain had grown a good +deal, for he was bright enough. If he made himself work, drawing on +what money he had, he might get ready for college by fall. He had +always envied the boys, who had drifted annually from the high school to +the remote and exhilarating grandeur of a university. + +What had Old Planter's sequence been? Education, money, breeding. Of +course. And he guessed that the three necessities might, to an extent, +walk hand in hand. The acquisition of an education would mean personal +contacts, helpful financially, projecting, perhaps, that culture that he +felt was as essential as the rest. Certainly the starting place for him +was a big university where a man, once in, could work his way through. +Lambert went to Yale. Harvard sprang into his mind, but there was the +question of railroad fare and lost time. He'd better try his luck at +Princeton which wasn't far and which had, he'd heard, a welcome for boys +working their way through college. + +He examined his bank book. Fortunately, since he had lived with his +parents, he had had little opportunity or need for spending. The balance +showed nearly five hundred dollars, and he would receive fifty more in +the morning. If he could find someone to bolster up his insufficient +schooling for a part of that amount he'd make a go of it; he'd be fairly +on his course. + +He went to bed, but he slept restlessly. He wanted to be away from +Oakmont and at work. Through his clouded mind persisted his desire for a +parting glimpse of Sylvia. If he slept at all it was to the discordant +memory of her anger. + +The sun smiled into his room, summoning him to get up and go forth. + +His father was not there. As if to emphasize the occasion, his mother +deserted her washtub, served his breakfast herself, stood about in +helpless attitudes. + +"George," she whispered, toward the close of the desolate meal, "try to +get a job near here. Of course you could never come home, but we could +go to see you." + +"Father," he said, "is kicking me out as much as Old Planter is, and you +back him up." + +She clasped her hands. + +"I've got to. And you can't blame your father. He has to look after +himself and me." + +"It makes no difference. I'm not going to take a job near by," he said. + +"Where are you going?" she asked, sharply. + +He stared at her for a moment, profoundly sorry for her and for himself. + +"I'm going to get away from everything that would remind me I've ever +been treated like something less than human." + +She gave a little cry. + +"Then say good-bye, my son, before your father comes back." + + +VIII + +His father returned and stood impatiently waiting. There was nothing to +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." + +"Seems to me I've seen his name in the papers," George said. + +Bailly stared. + +"Without doubt, if you read the public prints at all. He exerted much +useful cunning and strength in the Harvard and Yale games last fall. He +was on everybody's All-American eleven. I got him into college and +man-handled him through. Hence this scanty hair, these premature +furrows; for although he had plenty of good common-sense, and was one of +the finest boys I've ever known, he didn't possess, speaking relatively, +when it came to iron-bound text-books, the brains of a dinosaur; but he +had the brute force of one." + +"Why did you do it?" George asked. "Because he was rich?" + +"Young man," Bailly answered, "I am a product of this seat of learning. +With all its faults--and you may learn their number for yourself some +day--its success is pleasing to me, particularly at football. I am very +fond of football, perhaps because it approximates in our puling, modern +fashion, the classic public games of ruddier days. In other words, I was +actuated by a formless emotion called Princeton spirit. Don't ask me +what that is. I don't know. One receives it according to one's concept. +But when I saw in Bill something finer and more determined than most men +possess, I made up my mind Princeton was going to be proud of him, on +the campus, on the football field, and afterward out in the world." + +The hollow, wrinkled face flushed. + +"When Bill made a run I could think of it as my run. When he made a +touchdown I could say, 'there's one score that wouldn't have been made +if I hadn't booted Bill into college, and kept him from flunking out by +sheer brute mentality!' Pardon me, Mr. Morton. I love the silly game." + +George smiled, sensing his way, if only he could make this fellow feel +he would be the right kind of Princeton man! + +"I was going to say," he offered, "that while I had never had a chance +to play on a regular team I used to mix it up at school, but I was +stronger than most of the boys. There were one or two accidents. They +thought I'd better quit." + +Bailly laughed. + +"That's the kind of material we want. You do look as if you could bruise +a blue or a crimson jersey. Know where the field house is? Ask anybody. +Do no harm for the trainer to look you over. Be there at three o'clock." + +"But my work? Will you help me?" + +"Give me," Bailly pled, "until afternoon to decide if I'll take another +ten years from my life. That's all. Send that fellow Rogers in. Be at +the field house at three o'clock." + +And as George passed out he heard him reviling the candidate. + +"Don't see why you come to college. No chance to make the team or a Phi +Beta Kappa. One ought to be a requisite." + +The shrill voice went lower. George barely caught the words certainly +not intended for him. + +"You know I wouldn't be a bit surprised if that fellow you brought me, +if he had a chance, might do both." + + +II + + +George, since he had nothing else to do, walked home. Bailly could get +him in if he would. Did it really depend in part on the inspection he +would have to undergo that afternoon? It was hard there was nothing he +could do to prepare himself. He went to the yard, to which the landlady +had condemned Sylvia's bulldog, and, to kill time, played with the +friendly animal until luncheon. Afterward he sat in his room before +Sylvia's portrait impressing on himself the necessity of strength for +the coming ordeal. + +His landlady directed him glibly enough to the field house. As he +crossed the practice gridiron, not yet chalked out, he saw Bailly on the +verandah; and, appearing very small and sturdy beside him, a +gray-haired, pleasant-faced man whose small eyes were relentless. + +"This is the prospect, Green," George heard Bailly say. + +The trainer studied George for some time before he nodded his head. + +"A build to hurt and not get hurt," he said at last; "but, Mr. Bailly, +it's hard to supply experience. Boys come here who have played all their +lives, and they know less than nothing. Bone seems to grow naturally in +the football cranium." + +He shifted back to George. + +"How fast are you?" + +"I've never timed myself, but I'm hard to catch." + +"Get out there," the trainer directed. + +"In those clothes?" Bailly asked. + +"Why not? The ground's dry. A man wouldn't run any faster with moleskins +and cleats. Now you run as far as the end of that stand. Halt there for +a minute, then turn and come back." + +He drew out a stop watch. + +"All set? Then--git!" + +George streaked down the field. + +"It's an even hundred yards," the trainer explained to Bailly. + +As George paused at the end of the stand the trainer snapped his watch, +whistling. + +"There are lots with running shoes and drawers wouldn't do any better. +Let's have him back." + +He waved his arm. George tore up and leant against the railing, +breathing hard, but not uncomfortably. + +"You were a full second slower coming back," the trainer said with a +twinkle. + +"I'm sorry," George cried. "Let me try it again." + +Green shook his head. + +"I'd rather see you make a tackle, but I've no one to spare." + +He grinned invitation at Bailly. + +"My spirit, Green," the tutor said, "is less fragile than my corpus, but +it has some common-sense. I prefer others should perish at the hands of +my discoveries." + +"You've scrubbed around," the trainer said, appraising George's long, +muscular legs. "Ever kick a football?" + +"A little." + +Green entered the field house, reappearing after a moment with a +football tucked under his arm. + +"Do you mind stepping down the field, Mr. Bailly, to catch what he +punts? I wouldn't go too far." + +Bailly nodded and walked a short distance away. The trainer gave George +the football and told him to kick it to Bailly. George stepped on the +grass and swung his leg. If the ball had travelled horizontally as far +as it did toward heaven it would have been a good kick. For half an hour +the trainer coached interestedly, teaching George the fundamentals of +kicking form. Some of the later punts, indeed, boomed down the field for +considerable distances, but in George's mind the high light of that +unexpected experience remained the lanky, awkward figure in wrinkled +tweeds, limping about the field, sometimes catching the ball, sometimes +looking hurt when it bounded from his grasp, sometimes missing it +altogether, and never once losing the flashing pleasure from his eyes or +the excitement out of his furrowed face. + +"Enough," the trainer said at last. + +George heard him confide to the puffing tutor: + +"Possibilities. Heaven knows we'll need them a year from this fall, +especially in the kicking line. I believe this fellow can be taught." + +Bailly, his hands shaking from his recent exercise, lighted a pipe. He +assumed a martyr's air. His voice sounded as though someone had done him +an irreparable wrong. + +"Then I'll have to try, but it's hard on me, Green, you'll admit." + +George hid his excitement. He knew he had passed his first examination. +He was sure he would enter college. Already he felt the confidence most +men placed in Squibs Bailly. + +"Wouldn't you have taken him on anyway, Mr. Bailly?" the trainer +laughed. "Anyway, a lot of my players are first-group men. I depend on +you to turn him over in the fall for the Freshman eleven. Going to +town?" + +"Come on, Morton," Bailly said, remorsefully. + +Side by side the three walked through to Nassau Street and past the +campus. George said nothing, drinking in the scarcely comprehensible +talk of the others about team prospects and the appalling number of +powerful and nimble young men who would graduate the following June. + +Near University Place he noticed Rogers loafing in front of a restaurant +with several other youths who wore black caps. He wondered why Rogers +started and stared at him, then turned, speaking quickly to the others. + +Green went down University Place. George paced on with Bailly. In front +of the Nassau Club the tutor paused. + +"I'm going in here," he said, "but you can come to my house at +eight-thirty. We'll work until ten-thirty. We'll do that every night +until your brain wrinkles a trifle. You may not have been taught that +twenty-four hours are allotted to each day. Eight for sleep. Two with +me. Two for meals. Two at the field. Two for a run in the country. That +leaves eight for study, and you'll need every minute of them. I'll give +you your schedule to-night. If you break it once I'll drop you, for +you've got to have a brain beyond the ordinary to make it wrinkle +enough." + +"Thanks, Mr. Bailly. If you don't mind, what will it cost?" + +Bailly considered. + +"I'll have to charge you," he said at last, "twenty-five dollars, but I +can lend you most of the books." + +George understood, but his pride was not hurt. + +"I'll pay you in other ways." + +Bailly looked at him, his emaciated face smiling all over. + +"I think you will," he said with a little nod. "All right. At +eight-thirty." + +He limped along the narrow cement walk and entered the club. George +started back. The group, he noticed, still loitered in front of the +restaurant. Rogers detached himself and strolled across. He was no +longer suspicious. + +"You been down at the field with Mr. Green?" + +"Yes." + +"What for?" + +"Running a little, kicking a football around." + +"Trust Bailly to guess you played. What did Green say?" + +"If I get in," George, answered simply, "I think he'll give me a show." + +"I guess so," Rogers said, thoughtfully, "or he wouldn't be wasting his +time on you now. Come on over and meet these would-be Freshmen. We'll +all be in the same class unless we get brain-fever. Mostly +Lawrenceville." + +George crossed and submitted to elaborate introductions and warm +greetings. + +"Green's grooming him already for the Freshman eleven," Rogers +explained. + +George accepted the open admiration cautiously, not forgetting what he +had been yesterday, what Sylvia had said. Why was Rogers so friendly all +at once? + +"What prep?" "Where'd you play?" "Line or backfield?" + +The rapidity of the questions lessened his discomfort. How was he to +avoid such moments? He must make his future exceptionally full so that +it might submerge the past of which he couldn't speak without +embarrassment. In this instance Rogers helped him out. + +"Morton's bummed around. Never went to any school for long." + +George pondered this kind act and its fashion as he excused himself and +walked on to his lodging. There was actually something to hide, and +Rogers admitted it, and was willing to lend a cloak. He could guess why. +Because Green was bothering with him, had condescended to be seen on the +street with him. George's vision broadened. + +He locked himself in his room and sat before his souvenirs. Sylvia's +provocative features seemed clearer. For a long time he stared hungrily. +He had an absurd impression that he had already advanced toward her. +Perhaps he had in view of what had happened that afternoon. + +His determination as well as his strength had clearly attracted Bailly; +yet that strength, its possible application to football, had practically +assured him he would enter college, had made an ally of the careful +Rogers, had aroused the admiration of such sub-Freshmen as were in town. +It became clear that if he should be successful at football he would +achieve a position of prominence from which he could choose friends +useful here and even in the vital future after college. + +His planning grew more practical. If football, a game of which he knew +almost nothing, could do that, what might he not draw from one he +thoroughly knew--anything concerning horses, for instance, hunting, +polo? The men interested in horses would be the rich, the best--he +choked a trifle over the qualification--the financial and social leaders +of the class. He would have that card up his sleeve. He would play it +when it would impress most. Skill at games, he hazarded, would make it +easier than he had thought to work his way through. + +Whatever distaste such cold calculation brought he destroyed by staring +at Sylvia's remote beauty. If he was to reach such a goal he would have +to use every possible short cut, no matter how unlovely. + +He found that evening a radical alteration in Squibs Bailly's study. The +blotter was spattered with ink. Papers littered the desk and drifted +about the floor. Everything within reach of the tutor's hands was +disarranged and disreputably untidy. Bailly appeared incomparably more +comfortable. + +The course opened with a small lecture, delivered while the attenuated +man limped up and down the cluttered room. + +"Don't fancy," he began, "that you have found in football a key to the +scholastic labyrinth." + +His wrinkled face assumed a violent disapproval. His youthful eyes +flashed resentfully. + +"Mr. Morton, if I suffered the divine Delphic frenzy and went to the +Dean and assured him you were destined to be one of our very best +undergraduates and at the same time would make fifteen touchdowns +against Yale, and roughly an equal number against Harvard, do you know +what he would reply?" + +George gathered that an answer wasn't necessary. + +"You might think," the tutor resumed, limping faster than ever, "that he +would run his fingers through his hair, if he had sufficient; would +figuratively flame with pleasure; would say: 'Miraculous, Mr. Bailly. +You are a great benefactor. We must get this extraordinary youth in the +university even if he can't parse "the cat caught the rat."'" + +Bailly paused. He clashed his hands together. + +"Now I'll tell you what he'd actually reply. 'Interesting if true, Mr. +Bailly. But what are his scholastic attainments? Can he solve a +quadratic equation in his head? Has he committed to memory my favourite +passages of the "Iliad" of Homer and the "Aeneid" of Virgil? Can he name +the architect of the Parthenon or the sculptor of the Aegean pediments? +No? Horrible! Then off with his head!'" + +Bailly draped himself across his chair. + +"Therefore it behooves us to get to work." + + +III + +That was the first of sixty-odd toilsome, torturing evenings, for Bailly +failed to honour the Sabbath; and, after that first lecture, drab +business alone coloured those hours. The multiplicity of subjects was +confusing; but, although Bailly seldom told him so, George progressed +rapidly, and Bailly knew just where to stress for the examinations. + +If it had ended there it would have been bad enough. When he studied the +schedule Bailly gave him that first night he had a despairing feeling +that either he or it must break down. Everything was accounted for even +to the food he was to eat. That last, in fact, created a little +difficulty with the landlady, who seemed to have no manner of +appreciation of the world-moving importance of football. Rogers wanted +to help out there, too. He had found George's lodging. It was when +Green's interest was popular knowledge, when from the Nassau Club had +slipped the belief that Squibs Bailly had turned his eyes on another +star. George made it dispassionately clear to Rogers that Bailly had not +allowed in his schedule for calls. Rogers was visibly disappointed. + +"Where do you eat, then?" + +"Here--with Mrs. Michin." + +"Now look, Morton. That's no way. Half a dozen of us are eating at Joe's +restaurant. They're the best of the sub-Freshmen that are here. Come +along with us." + +The manner of the invitation didn't make George at all reluctant to tell +the truth. + +"I can't afford to be eating around in restaurants." + +"That needn't figure," Rogers said, quickly. "Green's probably only +letting you eat certain things. I'll guarantee Joe'll take you on for +just what you're paying Mrs. Michin." + +George thought rapidly. He could see through Rogers now. The boy wanted, +even as he did, to run with the best, but for a vastly different cause. +That was why his manner had altered that first morning when he had sized +George up as the unfinished product of a public school, why it had +altered again when he had sensed in him a football star. George's heart +warmed, but not to Rogers. Because he rioted around for a period each +afternoon in an odorous football suit he was already, in the careful +Rogers' eyes, one of the most prominent of the students in town. For the +same reason he was in a position to wait and make sure that Rogers +himself was the useful sort. George possessed no standard by which to +judge, and it would be a mistake to knot ropes that he might want to +break later; nor did he care for that sort of charity, no matter how +well disguised, so he shook his head. + +"Green and Squibs wouldn't put up with it." + +He wheedled his landlady, instead, into a better humour, paying her +reluctantly a little more. + +The problem of expenses was still troublesome, but it became evident +that there, too, Bailly would be a useful guide. + +"I have actually bearded the dean about you," he said one evening. +"There are a few scholarships not yet disposed of. If I can prove to him +that you live by syntax alone you may get one. As for the rest, there's +the commons. Impecunious students profitably wait on table there." + +George's flush was not pretty. + +"I'll not be a servant," he snapped. + +"It's no disgrace," Bailly said, mildly. + +"It is--for me." + +He didn't like Bailly's long, slightly pained scrutiny. There was no use +keeping things from him anyway. + +"I can trust you, Mr. Bailly," he said, quickly, and in a very low +voice, as if the walls might hear: "I know you won't give me away. I--I +was too much like a servant until the day I came to Princeton. I've +sworn I'd never be again. I can't touch that job. I tell you I'd rather +starve." + +"To do so," Bailly remarked, drily, "would be a senseless suicide. +You'll appreciate some day, young man, that the world lives by service." + +George wondered why he glanced at the untidy table with a smile +twitching at the corners of his mouth. + +"I'm also sorry to learn your ambition is not altogether unselfish, or +altogether worthy." + +George longed to make Bailly understand. + +"It was forced on me," he said. "I worked in my father's livery business +until he failed. Then I had to go to a rich man's stable. I was treated +like dirt. Nobody would have anything to do with me. They won't here, +probably, if they find out." + +"Never mind," Bailly sighed. "We will seek other means. Let us get on +with our primers." + +Once or twice, when some knotty problem took George to the house during +the early morning, he found the spic-and-span neatness he had observed +at his first visit. In Bailly's service clearly someone laboured with a +love of labour, without shame or discouragement. + +One evening in August the maid who customarily opened the door was +replaced by a short, plump-looking woman well over thirty. She greeted +George with kindly eyes. + +"I daresay you're Mr. Morton. I've heard a great deal about you." + +George had never seen a face more unaffected, more friendly, more +competent. His voice was respectful. + +"Yes, ma'am." + +"And I am Mrs. Bailly. We expect much of you." + +There rushed over George a feeling that, his own ambition aside, he had +to give them a great deal. No wonder Squibs felt as he did if his ideas +of service had emerged from such a source. + +That portion of his crowded schedule George grew eventually to like. It +brought him either unrestrained scolding or else a tempered praise; and +he enjoyed his cross-country runs. Sylvia's bulldog usually accompanied +him, unleashed, for he could control the animal. With surprised eyes he +saw estates as extravagant as Oakmont, and frequently in better taste. +Little by little he picked up the names of the families that owned them. +He told himself that some day he would enter those places as a guest, +bowed to by such servants as he had been. It was possible, he promised +himself bravely, if only he could win a Yale or a Harvard game. + +He enjoyed, too, the hours he spent at the field. He could measure his +progress there as well as in Bailly's study. Green was slow with either +praise or blame, but sometimes Rogers and his clan would come down, and, +sitting in the otherwise empty stands, would audibly marvel at the +graceful trajectory of his punts. He soiled himself daily at the +tackling dummy. He sprawled after an elusive ball, falling on it or +picking it up on the run. Meantime, he had absorbed the elements of the +rules. He found them rather more complicated than the classics. + +The head coach came from the city one day. Like Green, he said nothing +in praise or blame, merely criticising pleasantly; but George felt that +he was impressed. The great man even tossed the ball about with him for +a while, teaching him to throw at a definite mark. After that Rogers and +his cronies wanted to be more in evidence than ever, but George had no +time for them, or for anything outside his work. + +His will to survive the crushing grind never really faltered, but he +resented its necessity, sometimes wistfully, sometimes with turbulence. +He despised himself for regretting certain pleasanter phases of his +serfdom at Oakmont. The hot, stuffy room on the top floor of the frame +house; the difficult books; the papers streaked with intricate and +reluctant figures, contrived frequently to swing his mind to pastoral +corners of the Planter estate. He might have held title to them, they +had been so much his own. He had used them during his free time for the +reading of novels, and latterly, he remembered, for formless dreams of +Sylvia's beauty. At least his mind had not been put to the torture +there. He had had time to listen to a bird's song, to ingratiate himself +with a venturesome squirrel, to run his hands through the long grass, to +lie half asleep, brain quite empty save for a temporal content. + +Now, running or walking in the country, he found no time for the happier +aspects of woods or fields. He had to drive himself physically in order +that his mind could respond to Bailly's urgencies. And sometimes, as has +been suggested, his revolt was more violent. He paced his room angrily. +Why did he do it? Why did he submit? Eventually his eyes would turn to +her photograph, and he would go back to his table. + +He was grateful for the chance that had let him pick up that picture. +Without its constant supervision he might not have been able to keep up +the struggle. During the worst moments, when some solution mocked him, +he would stare at the likeness while his brain fought, while, with a +sort of self-hypnosis induced by that pictured face, he willed himself +to keep on. + +One night, when he had suffered over an elusive equation beyond his +scheduled bedtime, he found his eyes, as he stared at the picture, +blurring strangely; then the thing was done, the answer proved; but +after what an effort! Why did his eyes blur? Because of the intensity of +some emotion whose significance he failed all at once to grasp. He +continued to stare at Sylvia's beauty, informed even here with a sincere +intolerance; at those lips which had released the contempt that had +delivered him to this other slavery. Abruptly the emotion, that had +seemed to leap upon him from the books and the complicated figures, +defined itself with stark, unavoidable brutality. He reached out and +with both hands grasped the photograph. He wanted to snatch his hands +apart, ripping the paper, destroying the tranquil, arrogant features. He +replaced the picture, leant back, and continued hypnotically to study +it. His hands grasped the table's edge while the blurring of his eyes +increased. He spoke aloud in a clear and sullen voice: + +"I hate you," he said. "With all my heart and soul and body I hate you." + + +IV + +About this time one partial break in the schedule came like a strong +tonic. Bailly at the close of an evening's session spoke, George +fancied, with a little embarrassment. + +"My wife wants to speak to you before you go." + +He raised his voice. + +"Martha! The battle's over for to-night." + +She came quietly in and perched herself on the arm of a chair. + +"I'm having a few people for dinner to-morrow," she explained. "There's +one young girl, so I want a young man. Won't you help me out?" + +George's elation was shot with doubt of an unexplored territory. This +promised an advance if he could find the way. He glanced inquiringly at +Bailly. + +"Women," the tutor said, "lack a sense of values. I shall be chained +anyway to my wife's ill-conceived hospitality, so you might as well +come. But we'll dine early so we won't destroy an entire evening." + +"Then at seven-thirty, Mr. Morton," Mrs. Bailly said. + +"Thank you," George answered. "I shall be very happy to come." + +As a matter of fact, he was there before seven-thirty, over-anxious to +be socially adequate. He had worried a good deal about the invitation. +Could it be traced to his confession to Bailly? Was it, in any sense, a +test? At least it bristled with perplexities. His ordinary suit of +clothing, even after an extended pressing and brushing, was, he felt, +out of place. It warned him that of the ritual of a mixed dinner he was +blankly ignorant. He established two cardinal principles. He would watch +and imitate the others. He wouldn't open his mouth unless he had to. + +Bailly, with tact, wore the disgraceful tweeds, but there were two other +men, a professor and a resident, George gathered in the rapidity of the +introduction which slurred names. These wore evening clothes. Of the two +elderly women who accompanied them one was quite dazzling, displaying +much jewellery, and projecting an air truly imperial. Side by side with +her Mrs. Bailly appeared more than ever a priestess of service; yet to +George her serene self-satisfaction seemed ornament enough. + +Where, George wondered, was the girl for whom he had been asked? + +Mrs. Bailly drew him from these multiple introductions. He turned and +saw the girl standing in the doorway, a dazzling portrait in a dingy +frame. As he faced her George was aware of a tightening of all his +defences. Her clothing, her attitude, proclaimed her as of Sylvia's +sort. He ventured to raise his eyes to her face. It was there, too, the +habit of the beautiful, the obvious unfamiliarity with life's grayer +tones. Yet she did not resemble Sylvia. Her skin was nearly white. Her +hair glinted with gold; but she, too, was lovely. George asked himself +if she would have lifted the crop, if all these fortunates reacted to a +precise and depressing formula. Somehow he couldn't imagine this girl +striking to hurt. + +Mrs. Bailly presented him. Her name was Alston, Betty + +Alston, it developed during the succeeding general conversation. He +fixed the stouter of the men in evening clothes as her father and the +imperial woman as her mother. He understood then that they were, indeed, +of Sylvia's sort, for during his cross-country work he had frequently +passed their home, an immense Tudor house in the midst of pleasant +acres. + +It was because of the girl that the pitfalls of dinner were bridged. In +the technique of accepting Mrs. Bailly's excellent courses he was always +a trifle behind her. She made conversation, moreover, surprisingly easy. +After the first few moments, during which no one troubled to probe his +past, the older people left them to themselves. She didn't ask what his +prep was, or where he lived, or any other thing to make him stammer. + +"You look like a football player," she said, frankly. + +They talked of his work. He said he had admired her home during his +runs. She responded naturally: + +"When we are really back you must come and see it more intimately." + +The invitation to enter the gates! + +He fell silent. Would it be fair to go without giving her an opportunity +to treat him as Sylvia had done? Why should she inspire such a question? +Hadn't he willed his past to oblivion? Hadn't he determined to take +every short cut? Of course he would go, as George Morton, undergraduate, +football player, magician with horses. The rest was none of her +business. + +They were in Princeton, she explained, only for a few days from time to +time, but would be definitely back when college opened. She, too, was +going to be introduced to society that winter. He wanted to ask her how +it was done. He pictured a vast apartment, dense with unpleasant people, +and a man who cried out with a brazen voice: "Ladies and gentlemen! This +is Miss Sylvia Planter. This is Miss Betty Alston." Quite like an +auction. + +"It must be wonderful to play football," she was saying. "I should have +preferred to be a man. What can a girl do? Bad tennis, rotten golf, +something with horses." + +He smiled. He could impress Betty Alston, but there was no point in +that, because she was a girl, and he could think of only one girl. + +Yet he carried home an impression of unexpected interest and kindness. +Her proximity, the rustling of her gown, the barely detectable perfume +from her tawny hair, furnished souvenirs intangible but very warm in his +memory. They made the portrait and the broken crop seem lifeless and +unimpressive. + +He forced himself to stare at Sylvia's likeness until the old hypnotic +sense returned. + + +V + +He saw Betty Alston once more before college opened, unexpectedly, +briefly, and disturbingly; but with all that he carried again to his +lodging an impression of a distracting contact. + +He was out for a morning run, wearing some ancient flannels Bailly had +loaned him, and a sweater, for autumn's first exhilaration sharpened the +air. Sylvia's bulldog barked joyously about him as he trotted through a +lane not far from the Alston place. He often went that way, perhaps +because its gates were already half open. As he turned the corner of a +hedge he came face to face with Betty. In a short skirt and knitted +jacket she was even more striking than she had been at the Bailly's. The +unexpected encounter had brought colour to her rather pale face. The +bulldog sprang for her. George halted him with a sharp command. + +"I am not afraid of him," she laughed. "Come here, savage beast." + +The dog crawled to her and licked her fingers. George saw her examining +the animal curiously. + +"I hope he didn't frighten you," he said, his cap in his hand. + +She glanced up, and at her voice George straightened, and turned quickly +away so that she couldn't see the response to her amazing question. Was +it, he asked himself, traceable to Old Planter's threats. Were they +going to try to smash him at the start and keep him out of Princeton? + +"Do you happen," Betty had said, frowning, "to know Sylvia Planter, or, +perhaps, her brother, Lambert?" + +George didn't care to lie; nor was it, his instinct told him, safe to +lie to Betty. She knew the Planters, then. But how could Old Planter +drive him out except through his parents? He wasn't going to be driven +out. He turned back slowly. In Betty's face he read only a slight +bewilderment. + +"That's a queer thing to ask," he managed. + +"The dog," she said, caressing the ugly snout, "is the image of one +Sylvia Planter was very fond of. Sylvia and I were at school together +last year. I've just been visiting her the last few days. She said she +had given her dog away." + +She drew the dog closer and read the name on the collar. + +"Roland! What was the name of her dog?" + +George relaxed. + +"That dog," he said, harshly, "belongs to me." + +She glanced at him, surprised, releasing the dog and standing up. It +wasn't Old Planter then, and his parents were probably safe enough; but +had Sylvia, he asked himself angrily, made a story for her guest out of +his unwary declaration and his abrupt vanishing from Oakmont? Did this +friendly creature know anything? If she did she would cease to be +amiable. His anger diminished as he saw the curiosity leave her face. + +"An odd resemblance! Do you know, Mr. Morton, I rather think you're +bound to meet Lambert Planter anyway. I believe he's a very important +young man at Yale. You'll have to play football a little better than he +does. His sister and he are going to visit me for a few days before he +goes back to New Haven. Perhaps you'll see him then." + +George resented the prospect. He got himself away. + +"Squibs," he told her, "sees everything. If I loiter he finds out and +scolds." + +He had an impression that she looked after him until he was out of +sight. Or was it the dog that still puzzled her? Something of her, at +least, accompanied him longer than that--her kindness, her tact in the +matter of the Planters. He would take very good care that he didn't meet +Lambert; the prospect of Sylvia's adjacence, however, filled him with a +disturbing excitement. He wanted to see her, but he felt it wouldn't be +safe to have her see him yet. + +Her picture increased his excitement, filled him with a craving for her +physical presence. He desired to look at her, as he had looked at the +photograph, to see if he could tell himself under those conditions that +he hated her. Whether that was true or not, he was more determined than +ever to make his boasts good. + + +VI + +The day of the immediate test approached and he found himself no longer +afraid of it. Even Bailly one early September evening abandoned +cynicism. + +"You've every chance, Morton," he said, puffing at his pipe, "to enter +creditably. You may have a condition in French, but what of that? We'll +have it off by the divisionals. I'll admit you're far from a dunce. +During the next ten days we'll concentrate on the examination +idiosyncrasies of my revered colleagues." + +The scholarship had, in fact, been won for George, but the necessary +work, removed from any suspicion of the servatorial, had not yet been +found. Bailly, although he plainly worried himself, told George not to +be impatient; then, just before the entrance examinations, the head +coach arrived and settled himself in Princeton. Self-assured young men +drifted to the field now every afternoon--"varsity men," the Rogers clan +whispered with awe. And there were last year's substitutes, and faithful +slaves of the scrub, over-anxious, pouring out to early practice, +grasping at one more chance. So far no Freshmen candidates had been +called, but the head coach was heard to whisper to Green: + +"We'd better work this fellow Morton with the squad until the cubs +start. He'll stand a lot of practice. Give him all the football he'll +hold. He's outkicking his ends now. Jack him up without cutting down his +distance. I'd like to see him make a tackle. He looks good at the dummy, +but you never can tell. He may be an ear-puller." + +The magic words slipped through the town. George caught arriving +Freshmen pointing him out. He overheard glowing prophecies. + +"Green says he'll outkick Dewitt." + +It didn't turn his head. To be the greatest player the game had ever +known wouldn't have turned his head, for that would have been only one +small step toward the summit from which Sylvia looked down on him with +contemptuous, inimical eyes. + +The head coach one afternoon gave the ball to a young man of no +pronounced value, and instructed him to elude George if he could. + +"You, Morton," the head coach instructed, "see that he doesn't get past +you. Remember what you've done to the dummy." + +George nodded, realizing that this was a real test to be passed with a +hundred per cent. That man with the ball had the power and the desire +to make a miserable failure of him. For the moment he seemed more than a +man, deadly, to be conquered at any cost. Schooled by his +rough-and-tumble combats at school and in the stables, George kept his +glance on the other's eyes; knew, therefore, when he was going to +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. + +Betty came gracefully down the steps, and George followed her into the +pleasant obscurity of the automobile. He could scarcely see her white +figure, but he became aware again of the delightful and singular perfume +of her tawny hair. If Sylvia had spoken he never could have sat so close +to her. He had no business, anyway---- + +She snapped on the light. She laughed. + +"I said you were bound to meet Lambert Planter." + +He had started on false ground. At any moment the ground might give +way. + +"If I wasn't quite honest about that the other morning," he said, "it +was because I had met Lambert Planter, but under circumstances I wanted +to forget." + +"I'm sorry," she said, softly, "that I reminded you; but he seemed glad +to see you this morning. It is all right now, isn't it?" + +"Yes," he answered, doubtfully. + +That thrilling quality of her voice became more pronounced. + +"I'm glad. For he's a good friend to have. He's a very real person; I +mean, a man who's likely to do big things, don't you think?" + +"Yes," he said again. + +Why was he conscious of resentment? Why did he ask himself quickly if +Lambert thought of her with equal benevolence? He pulled himself up +short. What earthly business was it of his what Betty Alston and Lambert +Planter thought of each other? But he regretted the briefness of his +companionship with Betty in the unaccustomed luxury of the car. It +surrounded him with a settled and congenial atmosphere; it lessened, +after the first moments, the sharp taste of the ambition to which he had +condemned himself. + +"Don't worry," she said, as he descended at his lodging, "you'll get in. +Dear old Squibs told me so." + +He experienced a strong impulse to touch her hand again. He thanked her, +said good-night, and turned resolutely away. + +It was only after long scrutiny of Sylvia's photograph that he attacked +Bailly's marked passages. Again and again he reminded himself that he +had actually seen her that day, and that she had either not remembered +him, or had, with a deliberate cruelty, sought to impress him with his +ugly insignificance in a crowded and pleasurable landscape. + +Then why should this other girl of the same class treat him so +differently? + +The answer came glibly. For that instant he was wholly distasteful to +himself. + +"Because she doesn't know." + +He picked up a piece of the broken riding crop, flushing hotly. He +would detach himself from the landscape for Sylvia. He would use that +crop yet. + + +X + +He worked all the next day in the examination hall. He purposely chose a +seat in the row behind Goodhue. Five or six men, clearly all friends of +Goodhue's, sat near him, each modelled more or less as he was. George +noticed one exception, a short fellow who stood out from the entire +room. At first George thought it was because he was older, then he +decided it was the light moustache, the thick hair, the eyes that lacked +lustre, the long, white fingers. The man barely lifted his examination +sheets. He glanced at them once, then set to work. He was the first to +rise and hand his papers in. The rest paused, stared enviously, and +sighed. George heard Goodhue say to the man next him: + +"How do you suppose Spike does it?" + +George wondered why they called the dainty little man Spike. + +He was slow and painstaking himself, and the room was fairly well +emptied before he finished. Except for the French, he was satisfied. He +took a deep breath. The ordeal was over. For the first time in more than +two months he was his own master. He could do anything he pleased. + +First of all, he hurried to Squibs Bailly. + +"Lend me a novel--something exciting," he began. "No, I wouldn't open a +text-book even for you to-night. The schedule's dead and buried, sir, +and you haven't given me another." + +Bailly's wrinkled face approved. + +"You wouldn't be coming at me this way if there was any doubt. You shall +have your novel. I'm afraid----" + +He paused, laughing. + +"I mean, my task with you is about done. You've more brain than a +dinosaur. It is variously wrinkled where once it was like a babe's. +Except for the French, you should handle your courses without superhuman +effort. Don't ever let me hear of your getting a condition. Your next +schedule will come from Stringham and Green." + +He limped to a bookcase and drew out a volume bound in red. + +"Without entirely wasting your time, you may amuse yourself with that." + +"'Treasure Island.'" + +George frowned doubtfully. + +"We studied something about this man. If he's good enough to get in the +school books maybe he isn't just what I'm looking for to-night." + +"Have you ever perused Nick Carter, or, perhaps Old Sleuth?" Bailly +asked. + +George smiled. + +"I know I have to forget all that." + +"In intellectual circles," Bailly agreed. + +He glanced slyly around. + +"I've scanned such matter," he whispered, "with a modicum of enjoyment, +so I can assure you the book you have in your hand possesses nearly +equal merit, yet you may discuss it without losing caste in the most +exalted places; which would seem to indicate that human judgment is +based on manner rather than matter." + +"You mean," George said, frowning, "that if a man does a rotten thing it +is the way he does it rather than the thing itself that is judged?" + +Bailly limped up and down, his hands behind his back. He faced George +with a little show of bewildered temper. + +"See here, Freshman Morton, I've taught you to think too fast. You can't +fasten a scheme of ethics on any silly aphorism of mine. Go home and +read your book. Dwell with picturesque pirates, and walk with flawless +and touching virtue. Delve for buried treasure. That, at least, is +always worth while." + +George's attitude was a challenge. + +"Remembering," he said, softly, "to dig in a nice manner even if your +hands do get dirty." + +Bailly sprawled in his chair and waved George away. "You need a +preacher," he said, "not a tutor." + + +XI + +In his room George opened his book and read happily. Never in his life +had he been so relaxed and content. Entangled in the adventures of +colourful characters he didn't hear at first the sliding of stealthy +feet in the hall, whispered consultations, sly knockings at various +doors. Then there came a rap at his own door, and he glanced up, +surprised, sweeping the photograph and the broken crop into the table +drawer. + +"Come in," he called, not heartily. + +A dozen young men crowded slowly into the room. They wore orange and +black jerseys and caps brilliant with absurd devices. They had the +appearance of judges of some particularly atrocious criminal. George had +no doubt that he was the man, for those were the days just before hazing +was frowned out of existence by an effete conservatism. + +"Get up, you Freshman," one hissed. "Put on your hat and coat, and +follow us." + +George was on the point of refusing, had his hands half up in fact, to +give them a fight; but a thrill entered his soul that he should be +qualified as a victim of such high-handed nonsense which acknowledged +him as an entity in the undergraduate world. He arose gladly, ready to +obey. Then someone grunted with disgust. + +"Come on. Duck out of here." + +"What for? This guy looks fresh as salt mackerel." + +"It's Morton. We can't monkey with him." + +The others expressed disappointment and thronged through the door in +search of victims more available. George became belligerent for an +opposite reason. + +"Why not?" he demanded. + +The leader smiled in friendly fashion. + +"You'll get all the hazing you need down at the field." + +As the last filed out and closed the door George smiled appreciation. +Even among the Sophomores he was spotted, a privileged and an important +character. + +The next morning, packed with the nervous Freshmen in a lecture room, he +heard his name read out with the sections. He fought his way into the +university offices to scan the list of conditioned men. He didn't appear +on a single slip. He had even managed the easy French paper. He attended +to the formalities of matriculating. He was free to play football, to +take up the by-no-means considerable duties of the laundry agency, to +make friends. He had completed the first lap. + +When he reported at the field that afternoon he found that the Freshmen +had a coach of their own, a young man who possessed the unreal violence +of a Sophomore, but he knew the game, and the extra invective with which +he drove George indicated that Stringham and Green had confided to him +their hopes. + +The squad was large. Later it would dwindle and its members be thrown +into a more intimate contact. Goodhue was there, a promising +quarterback. Rogers toiled with a hopeless enthusiasm. George smiled, +appreciating the other's logic. It was a good thing to try for the team, +even though one had no chance of making it. As a matter of fact, Rogers +disappeared at the first weeding-out. + +The opening fortnight was wholly pleasant--a stressing of fundamentals +that demanded little severe physical effort. Nor did the curriculum +place any grave demands on George. During the evenings he frequently +supplemented his work at the field with a brisk cross-country run, more +often than not in the vicinity of the Alston place. He could see the +lights in the huge house, and he tried to visualize that interior where, +perhaps, men of the Goodhue stamp sat with Betty. He studied those +fortunates, meantime, and the other types that surrounded him. There +were many men of a sort, of the Rogers sort particularly, who +continually suggested their receptivity; and he was invariably +courteous--from a distance, as he had seen Goodhue respond to Rogers. +For George had his eyes focused now. He had seen the best. + +The election of Freshmen class officers outlined several facts. The +various men put up for office were unknown to the class in general, were +backed by little crowds from their own schools. Men from less important +schools, and men, like George, with no preparatory past, voted wild. +These school groups, he saw, clung together; would determine, it was +clear, the social progress through college of their members. That +inevitably pointed to the upper-class club houses on Prospect Street. +George had seen them from his first days at University Field, but until +now they had, naturally enough, failed to impress him with any immediate +interest. He desired the proper contacts for the molding of his own +deportment and, to an extent even greater, for the bearing they would +have on his battle for money and position after he should leave college. +But it became clear to him now that the contest for Prospect Street had +begun on the first day, even earlier, back in the preparatory schools. + +Were such contacts possible in a serviceable measure without success in +that selfish, headlong race? Was it practicable to draw the attention of +the eager, half-blind runners to one outside the sacred little groups? +Football would open certain doors, but if there was one best club he +would have that or nothing. It might be wiser to stand brazenly aloof, +posing as above such infantile jealousies. The future would decide, but +as he left the place of the elections he had an empty feeling, a +sharpened appreciation of the hazards that lay ahead. + +Goodhue would be pointed for the highest. Goodhue would lead in many +ways. He was elected the first president of the class. + +The poor or earnest men, ignorant of everything outside their books, +come from scattered homes, quite friendless, gravitated together in what +men like Rogers considered a social quarantine. Rogers, indeed, ventured +to warn George of the risk of contagion. As chance dictated George +chatted with such creatures; once or twice even walked across the campus +with them. + +"You're making a mistake," Rogers advised, "being seen with polers like +Allen." + +"I've been seen with him twice that I can think of," George answered. +"Why?" + +"That lot'll queer you." + +George put his hand on Rogers' shoulder. + +"See here. If I'm so small that that will queer me, you can put me down +as damned." + +He walked on with that infrequently experienced sensation of having made +an advance. Yet he couldn't quite see why. He had responded to an +instinct that must have been his even in the days at Oakmont, when he +had been less than human. If he didn't see more of men like Allen it was +because they had nothing to offer him; nothing whatever. Goodhue had---- + +When their paths crossed on the campus now Goodhue nodded, for each day +they met at the field, both certainties, if they escaped injury, for the +Freshmen eleven. + +Football had ceased to be unalloyed pleasure. Stringham that fall used +the Freshmen rather more than the scrub as a punching bag for the +varsity. The devoted youngsters would take punishment from three or four +successive teams from the big squad. They became, consequently, as hard +as iron. Frequently they played a team of varsity substitutes off its +feet. George had settled into the backfield. He was fast with the ball, +but he found it difficult to follow his interference, losing patience +sometimes, and desiring to cut off by himself. Even so he made +consistent gains through the opposing line. On secondary defence he was +rather too efficient. Stringham was continually cautioning him not to +tackle the varsity pets too viciously. After one such rebuke Goodhue +unbent to sympathy. + +"If they worked the varsity as hard as they do us Stringham wouldn't +have to be so precious careful of his brittle backs. Just the same, +Morton, I would rather play with you than against you." + +George smiled, but he didn't bother to answer. Let Goodhue come around +again. + +George's kicking from the start outdistanced the best varsity punts. The +stands, sprinkled with undergraduates and people from the town, would +become noisy with handclapping as his spirals arched down the field. + +Squibs Bailly, George knew, was always there, probably saying, "I kicked +that ball. I made that run," and he had. The more you thought of it, the +more it became comprehensible that he had. + +The afternoon George slipped outside a first varsity tackle, and dodged +two varsity backs, running forty yards for a touchdown, Squibs limped on +the field, followed by Betty Alston. The scrimmaging was over. The +Freshmen, triumphant because of George's feat, streaked toward the field +house. Goodhue ran close to George. Bailly caught George's arm. Goodhue +paused, calling out: + +"Hello, Betty!" + +At first Betty seemed scarcely to see Goodhue. She held out her hand to +George. + +"That was splendid. Don't forget that you're going to make me +congratulate you this way next fall after the big games." + +"I'll do my best. I want you to," George said. + +Again he responded to the frank warmth of her fingers that seemed +unconsciously endeavouring to make more pliable the hard surface of his +mind. + +"The strength of a lion," Bailly was saying, "united to the cruel +cunning of the serpent. Heaven be praised you didn't seek the higher +education at Yale or Harvard." + +Betty called a belated greeting to Goodhue. + +"Hello, Dicky! Wasn't it a real run? I feel something of a sponsor. I +told him before college opened he would be a great player." + +Goodhue's surprise was momentarily apparent. + +"It was rather nice to see those big fellows dumped," he said. + +Betty went closer to him. + +"Aren't you coming out to dinner soon? I'll promise Green you won't +break training." + +The warm, slender fingers were no longer at George's mind. He felt +abruptly repulsed. He wanted only to get away. Her eyes caught his, and +she smiled. + +"And bring Mr. Morton. I'm convinced he'll never come unless somebody +takes him by the hand." + +George glanced at her hand. He had a whimsical impulse to reach out for +it, to close his eyes, to be led. + +Heavy feet hurried behind the little group. A voice filled with rancour +and disgust cried out: + +"You standing here without blankets just to enjoy the autumn breezes? +You ought to have better sense, Mr. Bailly." + +"It's my fault, Green," Betty laughed. + +"That's different," the trainer admitted, gallantly. "You can't expect a +woman to have much sense. Get to the showers now, and on the run." + +Goodhue and George trotted off. + +"I didn't know you were a friend of Betty Alston's," Goodhue said. + +George didn't answer. Goodhue didn't say anything else. + + +XII + +Often after those long, pounding afternoons George returned to his room, +wondering dully, as he had done last summer, why the deuce he did it. +Sylvia's picture stared the same answer, and he would turn with a sigh +to one of the novels Bailly loaned him regularly. Bailly was of great +value there, too, for he chose the books carefully, and George was +commencing to learn that as a man reads so is he very likely to think. +Whenever he spoke now he was careful to modulate his voice, to choose +his words, never to be heard without a reason. + +The little fellow with the moustache whom the Goodhue crowd called Spike +met him on the campus one day after practice. + +"My name," he announced in a high-pitched, slurred voice, "is Wandel. +You may not realize it, but you are a very great man, Morton." + +George looked him over, astonished. He had difficulty not to mock the +other's manner, nearly effeminate. + +"Why am I great, Mr. Wandel?" + +"Anybody," Wandel answered in his singing voice, "who does one thing +better than others is inevitably great." + +George smiled vindictively. + +"I suppose I ought to return the compliment. What do you do?" + +Wandel wasn't ruffled. + +"Very many things. I brew good tea for one. What about a cup now? Come +to my rooms. They're just here, in Blair tower." + +George weighed the invitation. Wandel was beyond doubt of the +fortunates, yet curiously apart from them. George's diplomacy required a +forcing of the fortunates to seek him. Wandel, for that matter, had +sought. Where George might have refused a first invitation from Goodhue +he accepted Wandel's, because he was anxious to know the man's real +purpose in asking him. + +"All right. Thanks. But I haven't much time. I want to do some reading +before dinner." + +He hadn't imagined anything like Wandel's room existed in college, or +could be conceived or executed by one of college age. The study was +large and high with a broad casement window. The waning light increased +the values Wandel had evidently sought. The wall covering and the +draperies at the three doors and the window were a dead shade of green +that, in fact, suggested a withdrawal from life nearly supernatural, at +least medieval. The half-dozen pictures were designed to complete this +impression. They were primitives--an awkward but lovely Madonna, a +procession of saints who seemed deformed by their experiences, grotesque +conceptions of biblical encounters. There were heavy rugs, also green in +foundation; and, with wide, effective spaces between, stood +uncomfortable Gothic chairs, benches, and tables. + +Two months ago George would have expressed amazement, perhaps +admiration. Now he said nothing, but he longed for Squibs' opinion of +the room. He questioned what it reflected of the pompous little man who +had brought him. + +Wandel stooped and lighted the fire. He switched the heavy green +curtains over the window. In a corner a youth stirred and yawned. + +"Hello, Dalrymple," Wandel said. "Waited long? You know that very great +man, Morton?" + +The increasing firelight played on Dalrymple's face, a countenance +without much expression, intolerant, if anything, but in a far weaker +sense than Sylvia's assurance. George recognized him. He had seen him +accompany Goodhue through the crowd the day of the first examination. +Dalrymple didn't disturb himself. + +"The football player? How do. Damn tea, Spike. You've got whiskey and a +siphon." + +George's hand had been ready. He was thankful he hadn't offered it. In +that moment a dislike was born, not very positive; the emotion one has +for an unwholesome animal. + +Wandel disappeared. After a moment he came in, wearing a fantastic +embroidered dressing gown of the pervading dead green tone. He lighted a +spirit lamp, and, while the water heated, got out a tea canister, cups, +boxes of biscuits, cigarettes, bottles, and glasses. Dalrymple poured a +generous drink. Wandel took a smaller one. + +"You," he said to George, "being a very great man, will have some tea." + +"I'll have some tea, anyway," George answered. + +The door opened. Goodhue strolled in. His eyebrows lifted when he saw +George. + +"Do you know you're in bad company, Morton?" + +"I believe so," George answered. + +Wandel was pleased. George saw Goodhue glance a question at Dalrymple. +Dalrymple merely stared. + +They sat about, sipping, talking of nothing in particular, and the +curious room was full of an interrogation. George lost his earlier fancy +of being under Wandel's inspection. It was evident to him now that +Wandel was the man to do his inspecting first. Why the deuce had he +asked him here? Dalrymple and Goodhue were clearly puzzled by the same +question. + +When he had emptied his cup George rose and put on his cap. + +"Thanks for the cup of tea, Wandel." + +"Don't go," Wandel urged. + +He waved his hands helplessly. + +"But, since you're a very distinguished person, I suppose I can't keep +you. Come again, any day this time. Every day." + +The question in Goodhue's eyes increased. Dalrymple altered his position +irritably, and refilled his glass. George didn't say good-bye, waiting +for the first move from him. Dalrymple, however, continued to sip, +unaffected by this departure. + +Goodhue, on the other hand, after a moment's hesitation, followed George +out. When they had reached the tower archway Goodhue paused. The broken +light from an iron-framed lamp exposed the curiosity and indecision in +his eyes. + +"Have you any idea, Morton," he asked, "what Spike's up to with you; I +mean, why he's so darned hospitable all of a sudden?" + +George shook his head. He was quite frank. + +"I'm not so dull," he said, "that I haven't been wondering about that +myself." + +Goodhue smiled, and unexpectedly held out his hand. + +"Good-night, see you at the field to-morrow." + +"Why," George asked as he released that coveted grasp, "do you call +Wandel 'Spike'?" + +Goodhue's voice was uneasy in spite of the laugh with which he coloured +it. + +"Maybe it's because he's so sharp." + + +XIII + +George saw a day or two later a professor's criticism in the _Daily +Princetonian_ of the current number of the _Nassau Literary Magazine_. +Driggs Wandel, because of a poem, was excitedly greeted as a man with a +touch of genius. George borrowed a copy of the _Lit_ from a neighbour, +and read a haunting, unreal bit of verse that seemed a part of the room +in which it had probably been written. Obsessed by the practicality of +the little man, George asked himself just what Wandel had to gain by +this performance. He carried the whole puzzle to Bailly that night, and +was surprised to learn that Wandel had impressed himself already on the +faculty. + +"This verse isn't genius," Bailly said, "but it proves that the man has +an abnormal control of effect, and he does what he does with no apparent +effort. He'll probably be managing editor of the _Lit_ and the +_Princetonian_, for I understand he's out for that, too. He's going to +make himself felt in his class and in the entire undergraduate body. +Don't undervalue him. Have you stopped to think, Morton, that he still +wears a moustache? Revolutionary! Has he overawed the Sophomores, or has +he too many friends in the upper classes?" + +Bailly limped up and down, ill at ease, seeking words. + +"I don't know how to advise you. I believe he'll help you delve after +some treasure, though the stains on his own hands won't be visible. +Whether it's just the treasure you want is another matter. Be +inscrutable yourself. Accept his invitations. If you can, find out what +he's up to without committing yourself. You can put it down that he +isn't after you for nothing." + +"But why?" George demanded. + +Bailly shrugged his narrow shoulders. + +"Anyway, I've told you what I could, and you'll go your own way whether +you agree or not." + +George did, as a matter of fact. His curiosity carried him a number of +times to Wandel's rooms. Practically always Dalrymple sat aloof, +sullenly sipping whiskey which had no business there. He met a number of +other men of the same crowd who talked football in friendly enough +fashion; and once or twice the suave little fellow made a point of +asking him for a particular day or hour. Always Wandel would introduce +him to some new man, offering him, George felt, as a specimen to be +accepted as a triumph of the Wandel judgment. And in every fresh face +George saw the question he continually asked himself. + +Wandel's campaign accomplished one result: Men like Rogers became more +obsequious, considering George already a unit of that hallowed circle. +But George wasn't fooled. He knew very well that he wasn't. + +Goodhue, however, was more friendly. Football, after all, George felt, +was quite as responsible for that as Betty Alston or Wandel; for it was +the combination of Goodhue at quarter and George at half that accounted +for the team's work against the varsity, and that beat the Yale and the +Harvard Freshmen. Such a consistent and effectual partnership couldn't +help drawing its members closer out of admiration, out of joy in +success, out of a ponderable dependence that each learned to place upon +the other. That conception survived the Freshman season. George no +longer felt he had to be careful with Goodhue. Goodhue had even found +his lodgings. + +"Not palatial," George explained, "because--you may not know it--I am +working my way through college." + +Goodhue's voice was a trifle envious. + +"I know. It must give you a fine feeling to do that." + +Then Betty's vague invitation materialized in a note which mentioned a +date and the fact that Goodhue would be there. Goodhue himself suggested +that George should call at his rooms that evening so they could drive +out together. George had never been before, had not suspected that +Dalrymple lived with Goodhue. The fact, learned at the door, which bore +the two cards, disquieted him, filled him with a sense nearly +premonitory. + +When he had entered in response to Goodhue's call his doubt increased. +The room seemed inimical to him, yet it was a normal enough place. What +did it harbour that he was afraid of, that he was reluctant even to look +for? + +Goodhue was nearly ready. Dalrymple lounged on a window seat. He glanced +at George languidly. + +"Will say, Morton, you did more than your share against those Crimson +Freshmen Saturday." + +George nodded without answering. He had found the object the room +contained for which he had experienced a premonitory fear. On one of the +two desks stood an elaborately framed replica of the portrait he himself +possessed of Sylvia Planter. Its presence there impressed him as a +wrong, for to study and commune with that pictured face he had fancied +his unique privilege. Nor did its presence in this room seem quite +honest, for Sylvia, he was willing to swear, wasn't the type to scatter +her likenesses among young men. George had an instinct to turn on +Dalrymple and demand a history of the print, since Goodhue, he was +certain, wouldn't have placed it there without authority. After all, +such authority might exist. What did he know of Sylvia aside from her +beauty, her arrogance, and her breeding? That was it. Her breeding made +the exposure of her portrait here questionable. + +"What you staring at?" Dalrymple asked, sullenly. + +"Is this your desk?" George demanded. + +"Yes. Why?" + +George faced him abruptly. + +"I was looking at that photograph." + +"What for?" Dalrymple demanded, sitting up. + +"Because," George answered, evenly, "it happens to be where one sees +it." + +Dalrymple flushed. + +"Deuced pretty girl," he said with an affectation of indifference. "Of +course you don't know her." + +"I have seen her," George said, shortly. + +He felt that a challenge had been passed and accepted. He raised his +voice. + +"How about it, Goodhue?" + +"Coming." + +Dalrymple opened his mouth as if to speak, but Goodhue slipped into the +room, and George and he went down the stairs and climbed into Goodhue's +runabout. + +"I didn't know," George said when they had started, "that you lived with +Dalrymple." + +"We were put together at school, so it seemed simple to start out here." + +George was glad to fancy a slight colour of apology, as if such a +companionship needed a reason. + +It was a pleasant and intimate little dinner to which they drove. Mr. +and Mrs. Alston recollected meeting George at the Baillys', and they +were kind about his football. A friend of Betty's from a neighbouring +house made the sixth. George was not uncomfortable. His glass had shown +him that in a dinner suit he was rather better looking than he had +thought. Observation had diminished his dread of social lapses. There +flowed, however, rather too much talk of strange worlds, which included +some approaching gaieties in New York. + +"You," Betty said casually to him, "must run up to my great affair." + +Her aunt, it appeared, would engineer that a short time before the +holidays. George was vague. The prospect of a ballroom was terrifying. +He had danced very little, and never with the type of women who would +throng Betty Alston's début. Yet he wanted to go. + +"Betty," her mother said, dryly, "will have all the lions she can trap." + +George received an unpleasant impression of having been warned. It +didn't affect him strongly, because warnings were wasted there; he was +too much the slave of a photograph and a few intolerable memories. +Sylvia would almost certainly be at that dance. + +Wandel appeared after dinner. + +"I tried to get Dolly to come," he said, "but he was in a most +villainous temper about something, and couldn't be budged. Don't mind +saying he missed a treat. I hired a pert little mare at Marlin's. If I +can find anything in town nearly as good I'll break the two to tandem +this winter." + +George's suppressed enthusiasm blazed. + +"I'd like to help you. I'd give a good deal for a real fight with a +horse." + +He was afraid he had plunged in too fast. He met the surprise of the +others by saying he had played here and there with other people's +horses; but the conversation had drifted to a congenial topic, and it +got to polo. + +"Because a man was killed here once," Wandel said, "is no reason why the +game should be damned forever." + +"If you young men," Mr. Alston offered, "want to get some ponies down in +the spring, or experiment with what I've got, you're welcome to play +here all you please, and it might be possible to arrange games with +scrub teams from Philadelphia and New York." + +"Do you play, Mr. Morton?" Betty asked, interestedly. + +"I've scrubbed around," he said, uncertainly. + +She laughed. + +"Then he's a master. That's what he told dear old Squibs about his +football." + +George wanted to get away from horses. He could score only through +action. Talking was dangerous. He was relieved when he could leave with +Goodhue and Wandel. + +The runabout scurried out of Wandel's way. The pert little mare sensed a +rival in the automobile, and gave Wandel all the practice he wanted. +George smiled at the busy little man as his cart slithered from side to +side of the driveway. + +"That's Spike's one weakness," Goodhue laughed as they hurried off. +"He's not a natural horseman, but he loves the beasts, so he takes his +falls. By the way, I rather think I can guess what he's up to with you." + +"What?" George asked. + +Goodhue shook his head. + +"Learn from Spike. Anyway, I may be wrong." + +Then why had Goodhue spoken at all? To put him on his guard? + +"Wandel," George promised himself, "will get away with nothing as far as +I am concerned." + +Yet all that night the thought of the little man made him uncomfortable. + + +XIV + +George watched his first big varsity game the following Saturday. It was +the last of the season, against Yale. He sat with Goodhue and other +members of the Freshman eleven in an advantageous part of the stands. +The moment the blue squad, greeted by a roar, trotted on the field, he +recognized Lambert Planter's rangy figure. Lambert's reputation as a +fullback had come to Princeton ahead of him, and it had scarcely been +exaggerated. Once he had torn through the line he gave the Princeton +backs all they wanted to do. He kicked for Yale. Defensively he was the +deadliest man on the field. He, George and Goodhue agreed, would +determine the outcome. As, through him, the balance of the contest +commenced to tip, George experienced a biting restlessness. It wasn't +the prospect of the defeat of Princeton by Yale that angered him so much +as the fact that Lambert Planter would unquestionably be the cause. +George felt it unjust that rules should exist excluding him from that +bruising and muddy contest. More than anything else just then he wanted +to be on the field, stopping Planter, avoiding the reluctance of such an +issue. + +"We ought to be out there, Morton," Goodhue muttered. "If nothing +happens, we will be next year." + +"It's that fellow Planter," George answered. "He could be stopped." + +"You could stop him," Goodhue said. "You could outkick him." + +George's face was grim. + +"I'm stronger than Planter," he said, simply. "I could beat him." + +The varsity, however, couldn't. Lambert, during the last quarter, +slipped over the line for the deciding touchdown. The game ended in a +dusky and depressing autumn haze. George and Goodhue watched sullenly +the enemy hosts carry Planter and the other blue players about the +field. Appearing as if they had survived a disaster, they joined the +crowd of men and women, relatives and friends of the players, near the +field house. The vanquished and the substitutes had already slipped +through and out of sight. The first of the steaming Yale men appeared +and threaded a path toward the steps. Lambert, because he had been +honoured most, was the last to arrive, and at that moment out of the +multitude there came into George's vision faces that he knew, as if they +had waited to detach themselves for this spectacular advent. + +He saw the most impressive one first of all, and he stood, as he had +frequently stood before her portrait, staring in a mood of wilful +obstinacy. It was only for a few moments, and she was quite some +distance away. Before he could appreciate the chance, she had withdrawn +herself, after a quick, approving tap of her brother's shoulder, among +the curious, crowding people. George had seen her face glow with a happy +pride in spite of her effort at repression; but in the second face which +he noticed there was no emotion visible at all. The hero's mother simply +nodded. Dalrymple stood between mother and daughter, smiling inanely. + +Lambert forged ahead, filthy and wet. The steam, like vapour from an +overworked animal, wavered about him. The Baillys and the Alstons pushed +close to George and Goodhue, who were in Lambert's path, pressed there +and held by the anxious people. + +At sight of Betty, Lambert paused and stretched out his hand. She was, +George thought, whiter than ever. + +"You'll say hello even to an Eli?" + +She gave her hand quickly, the colour invading her pallor. For an +instant George thought Lambert was going to draw her closer, saw his +lips twitch, heard him say: + +"Don't hold it against me, Betty." + +Certainly something was understood between these two, or Lambert, at +least, believed so. + +Betty freed her hand and caught at George's arm. + +"Look at him," she said clearly, indicating Planter. "You're going to +take care of him next fall. You're not going to let him laugh at us +again." + +George managed a smile. + +"I'll take care of him, Miss Alston." + +Lambert's dirty face expanded. + +"These are threats! And it's--George. Then we're to have a return bout +next fall. I'll look forward to it. Hello, Dick. Good-bye, Betty. Till +next fall--George." + +He passed on, leaving an impression of confidence and conquest. + +"Why," Betty said, impulsively, in George's ear, "does he speak to you +that way? Why does he call you George like that?" + +For a moment he looked at her steadily, appealingly. + +"It's partly my own fault," he said at last, "but it hurts." + +Her voice was softer than before. + +"That's wrong. You mustn't let little things hurt, George." + +For the first time in his memory he felt a stinging at his eyes, the +desire for tears. He didn't misunderstand. Her use of his first name was +not a precedent. It had been balm applied to a wound that she had only +been able to see was painful. Yet, as he walked away with Goodhue, he +felt as if he had been baptized again. + + +XV + +Wandel, quite undisturbed, joined them. + +"You and Dicky," the little man said, "look as if you had come out of a +bad wreck. What's up? It's only a game." + +"Of course you're right," George answered, "but you have to play some +games desperately hard if you want to win." + +"Now what are you driving at, great man?" Wandel wanted to know. + +"Come on, Spike," Goodhue said, irritably. "You're always looking for +double meanings." + +George walked on with them, desolately aware of many factors of his life +gone awry. The game; Lambert's noticeable mockery, all the more +unbearable because of its unaffectedness; Dalrymple's adjacence to +Sylvia--these remembrances stung, the last most of all. + +"Come on up, you two," Goodhue suggested as they approached the building +in which he lived, "I believe Dolly's giving tea to Sylvia Planter and +her mother." + +George wanted to see if the photograph was still there, but he couldn't +risk it. He shook his head. + +"Not into the camp of the enemy?" Wandel laughed. + +Of course, George told himself as he walked off, Wandel's words couldn't +possibly have held any double meaning. + +He fought it out that night, sleeping scarcely at all. In the rush of +his progress here he had failed to realize how little he had really +advanced toward his ultimate goal. Lambert had offhand, perhaps +unintentionally, shown him that afternoon how wide the intervening space +still stretched. Was it because of moral cowardice that he shrank from +challenging a crossing? The answer to such a challenge might easily mean +the destruction of all he had built up, the heavy conditioning of his +future which now promised so abundantly. + +He faced her picture with his eyes resolute, his jaw thrust out. + +"I'll do it," he told the lifeless print. "I'll make you know me. I'll +teach your brother not to treat me as a servant who has forgotten his +place." + +The last, in any case, couldn't be safely put off. Lambert's manner had +already aroused Betty's interest. Had she known its cause she might not +have resented it so sweetly for George. There was no point in fretting +any more. His mind was made up to challenge at the earliest possible +moment. + +In furtherance of his resolution he visited his tailor the next day, and +during the evening called at the Baillys'. He came straight to the +point. + +"I want some dancing lessons," he said. "Do you know anybody?" + +Bailly limped up, put his hands on George's shoulder, and studied him. + +"Is this traceable to Wandel?" + +"No. To what I told you last summer." + +"He's going to Betty Alston's dance," Mrs. Bailly cried. + +"If I'm asked," George admitted, "but as a general principle----" + +Mrs. Bailly interrupted, assuming control. + +"Move that table and the chairs," she directed the two men. "You'll keep +my husband's secret--tinkling music hidden away between grand opera +records. It will come in handy now." + +George protested, but she had her own way. Bailly sat by, puffing at his +pipe, at first scornful. + +"I hate to see a football player pirouetting like a clown." + +But in a little while he was up, awkwardly illustrating steps, his +cheeks flushed, his cold pipe dangling from his lips. + +"You dance very well as it is," Mrs. Bailly told George. "You do need a +little quieting. You must learn to remember that the ballroom isn't a +gridiron and your partner the ball." + +And at the end of a fortnight she told him he was tamed and ready for +the soft and perfumed exercise of the dance floor. + +He was afraid Betty wouldn't remember. Her invitation had been informal, +his response almost a refusal. + +On free afternoons Goodhue and he often ran together, trying to keep in +condition, already feeling that the outcome of next year's big games +would depend on them. They trotted openly through the Alston place, +hoping for a glimpse of Betty as a break in their grind. When she saw +them from the house she would come out and chat for a time, her yellow +hair straying in the wind, her cheeks flushed from the cold. During +these brief conferences it was made clear that she had not forgotten, +and that George would go up with Goodhue and be a guest at his home the +night of the dance. + +George was grateful for that quality of remoteness in Goodhue which at +first had irritated him. Now he was well within Goodhue's vision, and +acceptably so; but the young man had not shown the slightest interest in +his past or his lack of the right friends before coming to Princeton. At +any moment he might. + +The Goodhue house was uptown between Fifth and Madison avenues. It was +as unexpected to George as Wandel's green study had been. The size of +its halls and rooms, the tasteful extravagance of its decorations, the +quiet, liveried servants took his breath. It was difficult not to say +something, to withhold from his glance his admiration and his lack of +habit. + +There he was at last, handing his hat and coat to one who bent +obsequiously. He felt a great contempt. He told himself he was unjust, +as unjust as Sylvia, but the contempt persisted. + +There were details here more compelling than anything he had seen or +fancied at Oakmont. The entire household seemed to move according to a +feudal pattern. Goodhue's father and mother welcomed George, because +their son had brought him, with a quiet assurance. Mrs. Goodhue, George +felt, might even appreciate what he was doing. That was the outstanding, +the feudal, quality of both. They had an air of unprejudiced judgment, +of removal from any selfish struggle, of being placed beyond question. + +Goodhue and George dined at a club that night. They saw Wandel and +Dalrymple, the latter flushed and talking louder than he should have +done in an affected voice. They went to the theatre, and afterward drove +up Fifth Avenue to Betty's party. George was dazzled, and every moment +conscious of the effort to prevent Goodhue's noticing it. His excitement +increased as he came to the famous establishment in the large ballroom +of which Betty was waiting, and, perhaps, already, Sylvia. To an extent +the approaching culmination of his own campaign put him at ease; lifted +him, as it were, above details; left him free to face the moment of his +challenge. + +The lower halls were brilliant with pretty, eager faces, noisy with +chatter and laughter, a trifle heady from an infiltration of perfumes. + +Wandel joined them upstairs and took George's card, returning it after a +time nearly filled. + +"When you see anybody you particularly want to dance with," he advised +secretly, "just cut in without formality. The mere fact of your presence +ought to be introduction enough. You see everybody here knows, or thinks +he knows, everybody else." + +George wondered why Wandel went out of his way, and in that particular +direction. Did the little man suspect? The succeeding moments brushed +the question aside. + +Betty was radiant, lovelier in her white-and-yellow fashion than George +had ever seen her. He shrank a little from their first contact, all the +more startling to him because he was so little accustomed to the ritual +familiarity of dancing. With his arm around her, with her hand in his, +with her golden hair brushing his cheek, with her lips and eyes smiling +up at him, he felt like one who steals. Why not? Didn't people win their +most prized possessions through theft of one kind or another? It was +because those pliant fingers were always at his mind that he wanted to +release them, wanted to run away from Betty since she always made him +desire to tell her the truth. + +"I'm glad you could come. It isn't as bad as football, is it? Have we +any more? If I show signs of distress do cut in if you're not too busy." + +He overcame his fear of collisions, avoiding other couples smoothly and +rhythmically. Dalrymple, he observed, was less successful, apologizing +in a high, excited voice. As in a haze George watched a procession of +elderly women, young girls, and men of every age, with his own tall +figure and slightly anxious face greeting him now and then from a +mirror. This repeated and often-unexpected recognition encouraged him. +He was bigger and better looking than most; in the glasses, at least, he +appeared as well-dressed. More than once he heard girls say: + +"Who is that big chap with Betty Alston?" + +With all his heart he wanted to ask Betty why she had been so kind to +him from the beginning, why she was so kind now. He longed to tell her +how it had affected him. She glanced up curiously. Without realizing it +his grasp had tightened. He relaxed it, wondering what had been in his +mind. It was this odd proximity to a beautiful girl who had been kind to +him that had for a moment swung him from his real purpose in coming +here, the only purpose he had. He resumed his inspection of the crowding +faces. He didn't see Lambert or Sylvia. Had he been wrong? It was +incredible they shouldn't appear. + +The music stopped. + +"Thanks," he said. "Three after this." + +His voice was wistful. + +"I did like that." + +He desired to tell her that he didn't care to dance with any one else, +except Sylvia, of course. + +"I enjoyed it, too. Will you take me back?" + +But her partner met them on the way, and he commenced to trail his. + +It was halfway through the next number that he knew he had not planned +futilely. It was like Sylvia to arrive in that fashion--a distracting +element in a settled picture, or as one beyond the general run for whom +a special welcome was a matter of course. To George's ears the orchestra +played louder, as if to call attention to her. To his eyes the dancers +slackened their pace. The chatter certainly diminished, and nearly +everyone glanced toward the door where she stood a little in advance of +her mother and two men. + +George was able to judge reasonably. In dress and appearance she was the +most striking woman in the room. Her dark colouring sprang at one, +demanding attention. George saw Dalrymple unevenly force a path in her +direction. He caught his breath. The dance resumed its former rhythm. In +its intricacies Sylvia was for a time lost. + +Sometime later Lambert drifted in. George saw him dancing with Betty. He +also found Sylvia. He managed to direct his partner close to her a +number of times. She must have seen him, but her eyes did not waver or +her colour heighten. He wouldn't ask for an introduction. There was no +point. His imagination pictured a number of probable disasters. If he +should ask her to dance would she recognize him, and laugh, and demand, +so that people could hear, how he had forced a way into this place? + +George relinquished his partner to a man who cut in. From a harbour +close to the wall he watched Sylvia, willing himself to the point of +action. + +"I will make her know me before I leave this dance," he said to himself. + +Dalrymple had her now. His weak face was too flushed. He was more than +ever in people's way. George caught the distress in Sylvia's manner. He +remembered Wandel's advice, what Betty had asked him to do for her. He +dodged, without further reflection, across the floor, and held out his +hand. + +"If I may----" + +Without looking at him she accepted his hand, and they glided off, while +Dalrymple stared angrily. George scarcely noticed. There was room in his +mind for no more than this amazing and intoxicating experience. She was +so close that he could have bent his head and placed his lips on her +dark hair--closer than she had been that unforgettable day. The +experience was worthless unless she knew who he was. + +"She must know," he thought. + +If she did, why did she hide her knowledge behind an unfathomable +masquerade? + +"That was kind of you," he heard her say. "Poor Dolly!" + +She glanced up. Interrogation entered her eyes. + +"I can't seem to remember----" + +"I came from Princeton with Dick Goodhue," he explained. "It seemed such +a simple thing. Shouldn't I have cut in?" + +He looked straight at her now. His heart seemed to stop. She had to be +made to remember. + +"My name is George Morton." + +She smiled. + +"I've heard Betty talk of you. You're a great football player. It was +very kind. Of course it's all right." + +But it wasn't. The touch of her hand became unbearable to George because +she didn't remember. He had to make her remember. + +They were near the entrance. He paused and drew her apart from the +circling dancers. + +"Would you mind losing a little of this?" he asked, trying to keep his +voice steady. "It may seem queer, but I have something to tell you that +you ought to know." + +She studied him, surprised and curious. + +"I can't imagine----" she began. "What is it?" + +It was only a step through the door and to an alcove with a red plush +bench. The light was soft there. No one was close enough to hear. She +sat down, laughing. + +"Don't keep me in suspense." + +He, too, sat down. He spoke deliberately. + +"The last two times I've seen you you wouldn't remember me. Even now, +when I've told you my name, you won't." + +Her surprise increased. + +"It's about you! But I said Betty had----Who are you?" + +He bent closer. + +"If I didn't tell you you might remember later. Anyway, I wouldn't want +to fight a person whose eyes were closed." + +Her lips half parted. She appeared a trifle frightened. She made a +movement as if to rise. + +"Just a minute," he said, harshly. + +He called on the hatred that had increased during the hours of his +mental and physical slavery, a hatred to be appeased only through his +complete mastery of her. + +"It won't take much to remind you," he hurried on. "Although you talk to +me as if I were a man now, last summer I was a beast because I had the +nerve to touch you when you were thrown from your horse." + +She stood up quickly, reaching out for the alcove curtain. Her contralto +voice was uneven. + +"Stop! You shouldn't have said that. You shouldn't have told me." + +All at once she straightened, her cheeks flaming. She started for the +ballroom. He sprang after her, whispering over her shoulder: + +"Now we can start fair." + +She turned and faced him. + +"I don't know how you got here, but you ask for a fight, Mr. Morton----" + +He smiled. + +"I am Mr. Morton now. I'm getting on." + +Then he knew again that sickening sensation of treacherous ground eager +to swallow him. + +"Are you going to run and tell them," he asked, softly, "as you did your +father last summer?" + +She crossed the threshold of the ballroom. He watched her while she +hesitated for a moment, seeking feverishly someone in the brilliant, +complacent crowd. + + +XVI + +George watched Sylvia, fighting his instinct to call out a command that +she should keep secret forever what he had told her. It was intolerable +to stand helpless, to realize that on her sudden decision his future +depended. Did she seek her mother, or Lambert, who would understand +everything at the first word? Nevertheless, he preferred she should go +to Lambert, because he could forecast too easily the alternative--Mrs. +Planter's emotionless summoning of Betty and her mother; perhaps of +Goodhue or Wandel or Dalrymple; the brutal advertisement of just what he +was to all the people he knew, to all the people he wanted to know. That +might mean the close of Betty's friendliness, the destruction of the +fine confidence that had developed between him and Goodhue, a violent +reorganization of all his plans. He gathered strength from a warm +realization that with Squibs and Mrs. Squibs Sylvia couldn't possibly +hurt him. + +He became ashamed of his misgivings, aware that for nothing in the +world, even if he had the power, would he rearrange the last five +minutes. + +He saw her brilliant figure start forward and take an uneven course +around the edge of the room until a man caught her and swung her out +among the dancers. George turned away. He was sorry it was Wandel who +had interfered, but that would give her time to reflect; and even if she +blurted it out to Wandel, the little man might be decent enough to +advise her to keep quiet. + +George wandered restlessly across the hall to the smoking-room. How long +would the music lilt on, imprisoning Sylvia in the grasp of Wandel or +another man? + +He asked for a glass of water, and took it to a lounge in front of the +fire. Here he sat, listening to the rollicking music, to the softer +harmonies of feminine voices that seemed to define for him compelling +and pleasurable vistas down which he might no longer glance. When the +silence came Sylvia would go to her mother or Lambert. + +"My very dear--George." + +Lambert himself bent over the back of the lounge. George guessed the +other had seen him enter and had followed. All the better, even if he +had come to attack. George had things to say to Lambert, too; so he +glanced about the room and was grateful that, except for the servants, +it held only some elderly men he had never seen before, who sat at a +distance, gossiping and laughing. + +"Where," Lambert asked, "will I run into you next?" + +"Anywhere," George said. "Whenever we're both invited to the same place. +I didn't come without being asked, so my being here isn't funny." + +Lambert walked around and sat down. All the irony had left his face. He +had an air of doubtful disapproval. + +"Maybe not funny," he said, "but--odd." + +George stirred. How long would the music and the laughter continue to +drift in? + +"Why?" + +"You've travelled a long way," Lambert mused. "I wonder if in football +clothes men don't look too much of a pattern. I wonder if you haven't +let yourself be carried a little too far." + +"Why?" George asked again. + +"Princeton and football," Lambert went on, "are well enough in their +way; but when you come to a place like this and dance with those girls +who don't know, it seems scarcely fair. Of course, if they knew, and +wanted you still--that's the whole point." + +"They wouldn't," George admitted, "but why should they matter if the +people that count know?" + +Lambert glanced at him. Was the music's quicker measure prophetic of the +end? + +"What do you mean?" Lambert asked. + +"What you said last fall has worried me," George answered. "That's the +reason I came here--so that your sister would know me from Adam. She +does, and she can do what she pleases about it. It's in her hands now." + +Lambert reddened. + +"You've the nerve of the devil," he said, angrily. "You had no business +to speak to my sister. The whole thing had been forgotten." + +George shook his head. + +"You hadn't forgotten it. She told me that day that I shouldn't forget. +I hadn't forgotten it. I never will." + +"I can't talk about it," Lambert said. + +He looked squarely at George. + +"Here's what puts your being here out of shape: You're ashamed of what +you were. Aren't you?" + +"I've always thought," George said, "you were man enough to realize it's +only what I am and may become that counts. I wouldn't say ashamed. I'm +sorry, because it makes what I'm doing just that much harder; because +you, for instance, know about it, and might cause trouble." + +Lambert made no difficulty about the implied question. + +"I don't want to risk causing trouble for any one unjustly. It's up to +you not to make me. But don't bother my sister again." + +"Let me get far enough," George said, "and you won't be able to make +trouble--you, or your sister, or your father." + +Lambert grinned, the doubt leaving his face as if he had reached a +decision. + +"I wouldn't bank on father. I'd keep out of his sight." + +The advice placed him, for the present, on the safe side. Sylvia's +decision remained, and just then the music crashed into a silence, +broken by exigent applause. George got up, thrusting his hands in his +pockets. The orchestra surrendered to the applause, but was Sylvia +dancing now? + +Voices drifted in from the hall, one high and obdurate; others better +controlled, but persistent in argument. Lambert grimaced. George +sneered. + +"But that's all right, because he didn't have to work for his living." + +"If you don't come a cropper," Lambert said, "you'll get fed up with +that sort of thinking. Dolly's young." + +Dalrymple was the first in the room, flushed, a trifle uneven in his +movements. Goodhue and Wandel followed. Goodhue smiled in a pained, +surprised way. Wandel's precise features expressed nothing. + +"Why not dancing, Lambert, old Eli?" Dalrymple called jovially. "Haul +these gospel sharks off----Waiter! I say, waiter! Something bubbly, dry, +and nineteen hundred, if they're doing us that well." + +The others didn't protest. They seemed to arrange themselves as a +friendly screen between Dalrymple and the elderly men. George didn't +care to talk to Dalrymple in that condition--there was too much that +Dalrymple had always wanted to say and hadn't. He started for the door, +but Wandel caught his arm. + +"Wait around, very strong person," he whispered. "Dolly doesn't know it, +but he's leaving in a minute." + +George shook his head, and started on. Dalrymple glanced up. + +"Morton!" he said. + +Goodhue took the glass from the waiter, but Dalrymple, grinning a shamed +sort of triumph and comprehension, reached out for it and sipped. + +"Not bad. Great dancer, Morton. Around the end, and through the centre, +and all that----" + +"Keep quiet," Goodhue warned him. + +George knew that the other wouldn't. He shrank from the breaking of the +sullen truce between them. Dalrymple glanced at his cuffs, spilling a +little of the wine. + +"Damned sight more useful to stick to your laundry--it's none too good." + +Quite distinctly George caught Lambert's startled change of countenance +and his quick movement forward, Goodhue's angry flush, Wandel's apparent +unconcern. In that moment he measured his advance, understood all he had +got from Squibs and books, from Betty, from Goodhue, from Princeton; +but, although he easily conquered his first impulse to strike, his rage +glowed the hotter because it was confined. As he passed close he heard +Lambert whisper: + +"Good man!" + +But even then Wandel wouldn't let him go, and the music had stopped +again, and only the undefinable shadows of women's voices reached him. +He tried to shake off Wandel who had followed him to the hall. He +couldn't wait. He had to enter that moving, chattering crowd to find out +what Sylvia had decided. + +"Go downstairs, great man," Wandel was whispering, "get a cab, and wait +in it at the door, so that you will be handy when I bring the infant +Bacchus out." + +"I'd rather not," George said, impatiently. "Someone else will do." + +"By no means. Expediency, my dear friend, and the general welfare. +Hercules for little Bacchus." + +He couldn't refuse. Wandel and Goodhue, and, for that matter all of +Dalrymple's friends, those girls in there, depended on him; yet he knew +it was a bad business for him and for Dalrymple; and he wanted above all +other things to pass for a moment through that brilliant screen that +moved perpetually between him and Sylvia. + +He waited in the shadows of the cab until Dalrymple and Wandel left the +building. Wandel motioned the other into the cab. Dalrymple obeyed, +willingly enough, swinging his stick, and humming off the key. Probably +Wandel's diplomacy. Wandel jumped in, called an address to the driver, +and slammed the door. + +"Where are you taking him?" George asked. + +For the first time Dalrymple seemed to realize who the silent man in the +shadows was. + +"I'm not going on any party with Morton," he said, sullenly. + +"You can go to the devil," Wandel said, pleasantly, "as long as you keep +away from decent people until you're decent yourself." + +"No," George said. "He's going home or I have nothing more to do with +it." + +"Perhaps you're right," Wandel agreed, "but you can fancy I had to offer +him something better than that to get him out." + +He tapped on the pane and gave the driver the new address. Dalrymple +started to rise. + +"Won't go home--you keep your dirty hands off me, Morton. You----" + +"Hercules!" softly from Wandel. + +George grasped Dalrymple's arms, pulled him down, held him as in a +vise. Dalrymple raved. Wandel laughed pleasantly. + +"Dirty hands," flashed through George's brain. Did Dalrymple know +anything, or was it an instinctive suspicion, or merely the explosion of +helpless temper and dislike? + +The ride was brief, and the block in which Dalrymple lived was, +fortunately, at that moment free of pedestrians. Wandel descended and +rang the bell. When the door was opened George relaxed his grasp. +Dalrymple tried to spring from the opposite side of the cab. George +caught him, lifted him, carried him like a child across the sidewalk, +and set him down in the twilight of a hall where a flunky gaped. + +"There's your precious friend," he accused Wandel. + +He returned to the cab, rubbing his hands as if they needed cleansing. + +"There's no one like you, great man," Wandel said when he had come back +to the cab. "You've done Dolly and everyone he would have seen to-night +a good turn." + +But George felt he had done himself a bad one. During the rest of his +time at Princeton, and afterward in New York, he would have a dangerous +enemy. Dirty hands! Trust Dalrymple to do his best to give that +qualification its real meaning. And these people! You could trust them, +too, to stand by Dalrymple against the man who had done them a good +turn. It had been rotten of Wandel to ask it, to take him away at that +vital moment. Anyway, it was done. He forgot Dalrymple in his present +anxiety. The ride seemed endless. The ascent in the elevator was a +unique torture. The cloak-room attendants had an air of utter +indifference. When he could, George plunged into the ballroom, escaping +Wandel, threading the hurrying maze to the other end of the room where +earlier in the evening he had seen Sylvia's mother sitting with Mrs. +Alston. George passed close, every muscle taut. Mrs. Planter gave no +sign. Mrs. Alston reached over and tapped his arm with her fan. He +paused, holding his breath. + +"Betty asked me to look for you," she said. "Where have you been? She +was afraid you had found her party tiresome. You haven't been dancing +much." + +He answered her politely, and walked on. He braced himself against the +wall, the strain completely broken. She hadn't told. She hadn't demanded +that her mother take her home. She hadn't said: "Betty, what kind of men +do you ask to your dances?" Why hadn't she? Again he saw his big, +well-clothed figure in a glass, and he smiled. Was it because he was +already transformed? + +Here she came, dancing with Goodhue, and Goodhue seemed trying to lead +her close. George didn't understand at first that he silently asked for +news of Dalrymple. His own eyes studied Sylvia. Her face held too much +colour. She gave him back his challenge, but the contempt in her eyes +broadened his smile. He managed a reassuring nod to Goodhue, but +Dalrymple, for the time, was of no importance. Sylvia was going to +fight, and not like a spoiled child. He must have impressed her as being +worthy of a real fight. + +He faced the rest of the evening with new confidence. He forgot to be +over-careful with these people whose actions were unstudied. He dodged +across the floor and took Betty from Lambert Planter while Lambert +raised his eyebrows, relinquished her with pronounced reluctance, and +watched George guide her swiftly away. Maybe Lambert was right, and he +ought to tell Betty, but not now. To-night, against all his +expectations, he found himself having a good time, enjoying more than +anything else this intimate and exhilarating progress with Betty. Always +he hated to give her up, but he danced with other girls, and found they +liked to dance with him because he was big, and danced well, and was +Dicky Goodhue's friend and Betty's, and played football; but, since he +couldn't very well ask Sylvia, he only really cared to dance with Betty. + +He was at Betty's table for supper. He didn't like to hear these pretty +girls laughing about Dalrymple, but then with them Dalrymple must have +exercised a good deal of restraint. It ought to be possible to make them +see the ugly side, to bare the man's instinct to go from this party to +another. Then they wouldn't laugh. + +Lambert sat down for awhile. + +"Where's Sylvia?" Betty asked. + +Lambert shrugged his shoulders. + +"It's hard enough to keep track of you, Betty. Sylvia's a sister." + +George gathered that Sylvia's absence from that table had impressed them +both. He knew very well where she was, across the room, focus for as +large a gathering as Betty's, chiefly of young men, eager for her +brilliancy. Lambert went on, glancing at George his questions of the +smoking-room. + +It wasn't long before the dawn when George said polite things with +Goodhue and Wandel, and after their pattern. In the lower hall he +noticed that all these pleasure seekers, a while ago flushed and happy, +had undergone a devastating change. Faces were white. Gowns looked +rumpled and old. The laughter and chatter were no longer impulsive. + +"The way one feels after a hard game," he thought. + +Goodhue offered to take Wandel in and drop him. The little man alone +seemed as fresh and neat as at the start of the evening. + +"Had a good time, great person?" he asked as they drove off. "But then +why shouldn't great men always have good times?" + +Wandel's manner suggested that he had seen to George's good time. What +he had actually done was to involve him in an open hostility with +Dalrymple. The others didn't mention that youth. Was there a tactful +thought for him in their restraint? + +They left Wandel at an expensive bachelor apartment house overlooking +the park. George gathered from Goodhue, as they drove on, that Wandel's +attitude toward his family was that of an old and confidential friend. + +"You see Driggs always has to be his own master," he said. + + +XVII + +Because of the restless contrast of that trip George brought back to +Princeton a new appreciation; yet beneath the outer beauty there, he +knew, a man's desires and ambitions lost none of their ugliness. He +stared at Sylvia's portrait, but it made him want the living body that +he had touched, that was going to give him a decent fight. Already he +planned for other opportunities to meet her, although with her attitude +what it was he didn't see how he could use them to advance his cause; +and always there was the possibility of her resenting his persistence to +the point of changing her mind about telling. + +He had decided to avoid Dalrymple as far as possible, but that first +night, as he drowsed over a book, he heard a knock at his door, not +loud, and suggestive of reluctance and indecision. He hid the photograph +and the riding crop, and called: + +"Come in!" + +The door opened slowly. Dalrymple stood on the threshold, his weak face +white and perverse. George waited, watching him conquer a bitter +disinclination. He knew what was coming and how much worse it would make +matters between them. + +"It seems," the tortured man said, "that I was beastly rude to you last +night. I've come to say I didn't mean it and am sorry." + +"You've come," George said, quietly, "because Goodhue and Wandel have +made you, through threats, I daresay. If you hadn't meant it you +wouldn't have been rude in just that way. I'm grateful to Goodhue and +Wandel, but I won't have your apologies, because they don't mean a damn +thing." + +Dalrymple's face became evil. He started to back out. + +"Wait a minute," George commanded. "You don't like me because I'm +working my way through college. That's what you shot at me last night +when you'd drunk enough to give you the nerve, but it's been in your +mind all along. I'd pound a little common-sense and decency into you, +only I wouldn't feel clean after doing it." + +That, to an extent, broke down his severity. It sounded queer, from him. +If Lambert Planter could have heard him say that! + +"Let the others think they've done us a good turn," he went on. "We have +to live in the same class without clawing each other's faces every time +we meet, but you can't pull the wool over my eyes, and I won't try to +pull it over yours. Now get out, and don't come here alone again." + +He felt better and cleaner after that. When Dalrymple had gone he +finished his chapter and tumbled into bed. + + +XVIII + +George was glad of the laundry, indeed, as the holidays approached. It +gave him a sound excuse for not dashing joyously from Princeton with the +rest, but it didn't cure the depression with which he saw the college +empty. He wandered about a campus as deserted as a city swept by +pestilence, asking himself what he would have done if his father and +mother hadn't exiled him as thoroughly as Old Planter had. There was no +point thinking about that; it wasn't even a question. He took long walks +or stayed in his room, reading, and once or twice answering regretfully +invitations that had sprung from encounters at Betty's party. It was +nice to have them, but of course he couldn't go to such affairs alone +just yet. Besides, he didn't have the money. + +Squibs Bailly limped all the way up his stairs one day, scolding him for +sulking in his tent. + +"I only heard last night that you were in town. I'm not psychic. Why +haven't you been around?" + +"I didn't want to bother----" + +Bailly interrupted him. + +"I'm afraid I didn't appreciate you went quite so much alone." + +"Altogether alone," George said. "But I don't want anybody to feel sorry +for me because of that. It has some advantages." + +"You're too young to say such things," Bailly said. + +He made George go to the Dickinson Street house for Christmas dinner. +There was no other guest. The rooms were bright with holly, and a very +small but dazzling Christmas tree stood in a corner, bearing a gift for +him. Mrs. Bailly, as he entered, touched his cheek with her lips and +welcomed him by his first name. She created for him an illusion that +made him choke a trifle. She made him feel as if he had come home. + +"And," he thought, "Squibs and she know." + +He wondered if it was that knowledge that made Squibs go into his social +views one evening when he sat with him in the study. It was then that +George realized he had no such views apart from his own case. Vaguely he +knew that somewhere outside of Princeton strikes multiplied these days, +that poor people complained of the cost of food and housing, that +communistic propaganda was talked with an increasing freedom, that now +and then a bomb burst, destroying more often than not the people it was +designed to help. He saw that Squibs sought to interest him, and he gave +a close attention while the tutor elaborated his slight knowledge of the +growing unrest. + +"But it's all so far away, sir," he said. "I've so much of more +importance to me to bother about right here." + +Bailly relighted his pipe. + +"The happy, limited vision of youth!" he sighed. "You'll be through your +a, b, c's before you know it. Are you going to face such big issues +without any forethought?" + +He smoked for a few moments, then commenced to speak doubtfully. + +"And in another sense it isn't as far away as you think. It all goes on +_in petto_, right here in undergraduate Princeton. The views a man takes +away from college should be applicable to the conditions he meets +outside." + +"I don't quite see what you mean, sir." + +Why was Bailly going at it so carefully? + +"I mean," Bailly said, "that here you have your poor men, your earnest +men, and your lords of the land. I mean there is no real community of +interest here. I mean you've made friends because you're bigger and +better looking than most, and play football like a demon. You haven't +made any friends simply because you are poor and earnest. And the poor +students suffer from the cost of things, and the rich men don't know and +don't care. And the poor men, and the men without family or a good +school behind them, who haven't football or some outstanding +usefulness, are as submerged as the workers in a mine. Prospect Street +is Fifth Avenue or Park Lane, and the men who can't get in the clubs, +because of poverty or lack of prominence, remind me of the ragged ones +who cling to the railings, peering through at plenty with evil in their +hearts." + +"You're advocating communism, sir?" + +Bailly shook his head. + +"I'm advocating nothing. I'm trying to find out what you advocate." + +"I can't help feeling," George said, stubbornly, "that a man has to look +after himself." + +And as he walked home he confessed freely enough in his own mind: + +"I'm advocating George Morton. How can Squibs expect me to bother with +any one else when I have so far to go?" + + +XIX + +He thrust Squibs' uncomfortable prods from his brain. He applied himself +to his books--useful books. Education and culture were more important to +him than the physical reactions of overworked labour or the mental +processes of men who advocated violence. Such distracting questions, +however, were uncomfortably in the air. Allen, one of the poor men +against whom the careful Rogers had warned him long ago, called on him +one cold night. The manner of his address made George wonder if Squibs +had been talking to him, too. + +"Would like a few minutes' chat, Morton. No one worth while's in +Princeton. It won't queer you to have me in your room." + +No, George decided. That was an opening one might expect from Allen. The +man projected an appreciable power from his big, bony figure; his +angular face. George had heard vaguely that he had worked in a factory, +preparing himself for college. He knew from his own observation that +Allen wasn't above waiting at commons, and he had seen the lesser men +turn to him as a leader. + +"Sit down," George said, "and don't talk like an ass. You can't queer +me. What do you want me to do--offer to walk to classes with my arm over +your shoulder? There's too much of that sensitive talk going around." + +"You're a plain speaker," Allen said. "So am I. You'll admit you've seen +a lot more of the pretty crowd than you have of me and my friends. I +thought it might be useful to ask you why." + +"Because," George answered, "I'm in college to get everything I can. You +and your crowd don't happen to have the stuff I want." + +Allen fingered a book nervously. + +"I came," he said, "to see if I couldn't persuade you that we have." + +"I'm listening," George said, indifferently. + +"Right on the table!" Allen answered, quickly. "You're the biggest poor +man in the class. You're logically the poor men's Moses. They admire +you. You've always been talked of in terms of the varsity. Everybody +knows you're Princeton's best football player. The poor men would do +anything for you. What will you do for them?" + +"I won't have you split the class that way," George cried. + +"Every class," Allen said, "is split along that line, only this class is +going to let the split be seen. You work your way through college, but +you run with a rich crowd, led by the hand of Driggs Wandel." + +So even Allen had noticed that and had become curious. + +"Wandel," Allen went on, "will use you to hurt us--the poor men; and +when he's had what he wants of you he'll send you back to the muck +heap." + +George shook his head, smiling. + +"No, because you've said yourself that whatever power I have comes from +football and not from an empty pocket-book." + +"Use all the power you have," Allen urged. "Come in with us. Help the +poor men, and we'll know how to reward you." + +"You're already thinking of Sophomore elections?" George asked. "I don't +care particularly for office." + +Allen's face reddened with anger. + +"I'm thinking of the clubs first. What I said when I came in is true. +The selfish men intriguing for Prospect Street don't dare be friendly +with the poor men; afraid it might hurt their chances to be seen with a +poler. By God, that's vicious! It denies us the companionship we've come +to college to find. We want all the help we can get here. The clubs are +a hideous hindrance. Promise me you'll keep away from the clubs." + +George laughed. + +"I haven't made up my mind about the clubs," he said. "They have bad +features, but there's good in them. The club Goodhue joins will be the +best club of our time in college. Suppose you knew you could get an +election to that; would you turn it down?" + +The angular face became momentarily distorted. + +"I won't consider an impossible situation. Anyway, I couldn't afford it. +That's another bad feature. If you want, I'll say no, a thousand times +no." + +"I wouldn't trust you," George laughed, "but you know you haven't a +chance. So you want to smash the thing you can't get in. I call _that_ +vicious. And let me tell you, Allen. You may reform things out of +existence, but you can't destroy them with a bomb. Squibs Bailly will +tell you that." + +"You think you'll make a good club," Allen said. + +"I'll tell you what I think," George answered, quite unruffled, "when I +make up my mind to stand for or against the clubs. Squibs says half the +evils in the world come from precipitancy. You're precipitate. Thrash it +out carefully, as I'm doing." + +He wondered if he had convinced Allen, knowing very well that his own +attitude would be determined by the outcome of the chance he had to +enter Goodhue's club. + +"We've got to make up our minds now," Allen said. "Promise me that +you'll keep out of the clubs and I'll make you the leader of the class. +You're in a position to bring the poor men to the top for once." + +George didn't want to break with Allen. The man did control a large +section of the class, so he sent him away amicably enough, merely +repeating that he hadn't made up his mind; and ending with: + +"But I won't be controlled by any faction." + +Allen left, threatening to talk with him again. + +George didn't sleep well that night. Squibs and Allen had made him +uncomfortable. Finally he cleared his mind with the reflection that his +private attitude was determined. No matter whom it hurt he was going to +be one of the fortunates with a whip in his hand; but he, above most +people, could understand the impulses of men like Allen, and the +restless ones in the world, who didn't hold a whip, and so desired +feverishly to spring. + + +XX + +The cold weather placed a smooth black floor on Lake Carnegie. George +went down one evening with the Baillys. They brought Betty Alston, who +was just home from New York and had dined with them. A round moon smiled +above the row of solemn and vigilant poplars along the canal bank. The +shadows of the trees made you catch your breath as if on the edge of +perilous pitfalls. + +Going down through the woods they passed Allen. Even in that +yellow-splashed darkness George recognized the bony figure. + +"Been skating?" he called. + +"Hello, Morton! No, I don't skate." + +"Then," George laughed, "why don't you smash the ice?" + +Allen laughed back mirthlessly, but didn't answer; and, as they went on, +Betty wanted to know what it was all about. George told her of Allen's +visit. + +"But congenial people," she said, "will always gather together. It would +be dreadful to have one's friends arbitrarily chosen. You'll go to a +club with your friends." + +"But Allen says the poor men can't afford it," he answered. "I'm one of +the poor men." + +"You'll always find a way to do what you want," she said, confidently. + +But when they were on the lake the question of affording the things one +wanted slipped between them again. + +George had a fancy that Mrs. Bailly guided her awkward husband away from +Betty and him. Why? At least it was pleasant to be alone with Betty, +gliding along near the bank, sometimes clasping hands at a half-seen, +doubtful stretch. Betty spoke of it. + +"Where are my guardians?" + +"Let's go a little farther," he urged. "We'll find them easily enough." + +It didn't worry her much. + +"Why did you come back so soon?" she asked. + +He hesitated. He had hoped to avoid such questions. + +"I haven't been away." + +She glanced up, surprised. + +"You mean you've been in Princeton through the holiday?" + +"Yes, I feel I ought to go easy with what little I have." + +"I knew you were working your way through," she said, "but I never +guessed it meant as much denial as that." + +"Don't worry," he laughed, "I'll make money next summer." + +"I wish I'd known. And none of your friends thought!" + +"Why should they? They're mostly too rich." + +"That's wrong." + +"Are you driving me into Allen's camp?" he asked. "You can't; for I +expect to be rich myself, some day. Any man can, if he goes about it in +the right way. Maybe Allen doubts his power, and that's the reason he's +against money and the pleasant things it buys. Does it make any +difference to you, my being poor for a time?" + +"Why should it?" she asked, warmly. + +"Allen," he said, "couldn't understand your skating with me." + +Why not tell Betty the rest in this frozen and romantic solitude they +shared? He decided not. He had risked enough for the present. When she +turned around he didn't try to hold her, skating swiftly back at her +side, aware of a danger in such solitude; charging himself with a +scarcely definable disloyalty to his conception of Sylvia. + + +XXI + +He fancied Betty desired to make up for her thoughtlessness during the +holidays when she asked him for dinner on a Saturday night. With that +dinner, no matter what others might think of his lack of money and +background, she had put herself on record, for it was a large, formal +party sprinkled with people from New York, and drawing from the +University only the kind of men Allen was out to fight. Wandel, George +thought, rather disapproved of his being there, but as a result, he made +two trips to parties in New York during the winter. Both were failures, +for he didn't meet Sylvia, yet he heard of her always as a dazzling +success. + +He answered Dalrymple's cold politeness with an irritating indifference. +In the spring, however, he detected a radical alteration in Dalrymple's +manner. + +By that time, the scheme discussed carelessly at the Alstons' in the +fall had been worked out. On good afternoons, when their work allowed, a +few men, all friends of the Alstons, drove out, and, with passable +ponies, played practice matches at polo on the field Mr. Alston had had +arranged. The neighbours fell into a habit of concentrating there, and +George was thrown into intimate contact with them, seeing other gates +open rather eagerly before him, for he hadn't miscalculated his ability +to impress with horses. When Mr. Alston had first asked him he had +accepted gladly. Because of his long habit in the saddle and his +accuracy of eye he played better from the start than these other +novices. As in football, he teamed well with Goodhue. + +"Goodhue to Morton," Wandel complained, "or Morton to Goodhue. What +chance has a mere duffer like me against such a very distinguished +combination?" + +It was during these games that Goodhue fell into the practice of +shouting George's first name across the field, and when George became +convinced that such familiarity was not chance, but an expression of a +deepening friendship, he responded unaffectedly. It was inevitable the +others should adopt Goodhue's example. Even Dalrymple did, and George +asked himself why the man was trying to appear friendly, for he knew +that in his heart Dalrymple had not altered. + +It filled George with a warm and formless pleasure to hear Betty using +his Christian name, to realize that a precedent had this time been +established; yet it required an effort, filled him with a great +confusion, to call her familiarly "Betty" for the first time. + +He chatted with her at the edge of the field while grooms led the ponies +up and down. + +"What are your plans for the summer?" she asked. + +"I don't quite know what will happen." + +"We," she said, "will be in Maine. Can't you run up in August? Dicky +Goodhue's coming then." + +He looked at her. He tried to hide his hunger for the companionship, the +relaxation such a visit would give. He glanced away. + +"I wish I could. Have you forgotten I'm to make money? I've got to try +to do that this summer, Betty." + +There, it was out. Colour stole into her white cheeks. + +"I'm sorry," she said. + +He had another reason for refusing. He was growing afraid of Betty. He +was conscious of an increasing effort to drive her memory from the +little room where Sylvia's portrait watched. It was, he told himself, +because he didn't see Sylvia oftener, couldn't feel his heart respond to +the exciting enmity in her brilliant eyes. + +Goodhue and Dalrymple, it developed, were parting, amicably enough as +far as any one knew. + +"Dolly thinks he'll room alone next year," was Goodhue's explanation. +Dalrymple explained nothing. + +Driving back to town one afternoon Goodhue proposed to George that he +replace Dalrymple. + +"Campus rooms," he said, "aren't as expensive as most in town." + +He mentioned a figure. George thought rapidly. What an opportunity! And +aside from what Goodhue could do for him, he was genuinely fond of the +man. George craved absolute independence, and he knew Goodhue would give +him all of that he asked for. + +"I'd like to," he said. + +Goodhue smiled. + +"That's splendid. I think we'll manage together." + +Wandel frowned at the news. So did Allen. Allen came frequently now to +talk his college socialism. George listened patiently, always answering: + +"I've made up my mind to nothing, except that I'll take my friends where +I find them, high or low. But I'm not against you, Allen." + +Yet George was uneasy, knowing the moment for making up his mind +wouldn't be long delayed. He understood very well that already some men +knew to what club they'd go more than a year later. Secretly, perhaps +illegally, the sections for the clubs were forming in his class. Small +groups were quietly organizing under the guidance of the upper classes. +During Sophomore year these small groups would elect other men to the +limit of full membership. It was perfectly clear that unless he went in +ahead of Dalrymple his chances of making the club he wanted were +worthless. As a result of his talks with Allen, moreover, he felt that +Wandel didn't want him. If Wandel could persuade Goodhue that George +could serve the interests of the fortunates best from the outside the +issue would be settled. + +"But I won't be used that way," George decided. "I'm out for myself." + +Along that straight line he had made his plans for the summer. Somehow +he was going to study the methods of the greatest financial market in +the country, so that later he could apply them serviceably to his own +fortune. Bailly had other ideas. One night while they lounged on the +front campus listening to senior singing the long tutor suggested that +he take up some form of manual labour. + +"It would keep you in good condition," he said, "and it might broaden +your vision by disclosing the aims and the dissatisfactions of those who +live by the sweat of their brows." + +George frowned. + +"I know enough of that already. I've been a labourer myself. I haven't +the time, sir." + +Bailly probably knew that he was dealing with a point of view far more +determined and mature than that of the average undergraduate. He didn't +argue, but George felt the need of an apology. + +"I've got to learn how to make money," he said. + +"Money isn't everything," Bailly sighed. + +"I've started after certain things," George justified himself. "Money's +one of them. I'll work for next to nothing this summer if I have to. +I'll be a runner, the man who sweeps out the office, anything that will +give me a chance to watch and study Wall Street. I'm sorry if you don't +approve, sir." + +"I didn't say that," Bailly answered, "but the fact was sufficiently +clear." + +Yet George knew perfectly well a few days later that it was Bailly who +had spoken about his ambition to Mr. Alston. + +"Blodgett, I fancy," Mr. Alston said, "will offer you some small start." + +He handed George a letter addressed to one Josiah Blodgett, of the firm +of Blodgett and Sinclair. + +"Good luck, and good-bye until next fall." + +"If you do change your mind----If you can manage it----" Betty said. + +So George, two or three days before commencement, left Princeton for +Wall Street, and presented his letter. + +The offices of Blodgett and Sinclair were gorgeous and extensive, raw +with marble, and shining with mahogany. They suggested a hotel in bad +taste rather than a factory that turned out money in spectacular +quantities. + +"Mr. Blodgett will see you," a young man announced in an awed voice, as +if such condescension were infrequent. + +In the remote room where Blodgett lurked the scheme of furnishing +appeared to culminate. The man himself shared its ornamental grossness. +He glanced up, his bald head puckering half its height. George saw that +although he was scarcely middle-aged Blodgett was altogether too fat, +with puffy, unhealthily coloured cheeks. In such a face the tiny eyes +had an appearance nearly porcine. The man's clothing would have put an +habitué of the betting ring at ease--gray-and-white checks, +dove-coloured spats, a scarlet necktie. Pudgy fingers twisted Mr. +Alston's letter. The little eyes opened wider. The frown relaxed. A bass +voice issued from the broad mouth: + +"If you've come here to learn, you can't expect a million dollars a +week. Say fifteen to start." + +George didn't realize how extraordinarily generous that was. He only +decided he could scrape along on it. + +"Mr. Alston," the deep voice went on, "tells me you're a great football +player. That's a handicap. All you can tackle here is trouble, and the +only kicking we have is when Mundy boots somebody out of a job. He's my +office manager. Report to him. Wait a minute. I'd give a ping-pong +player a job if Mr. Alston asked me to. He's a fine man. But then I'm +through. It's up to the man and Mundy. If the man's no good Mundy +doesn't even bother to tell me, and it's twenty stories to the street." + +George started to thank him, but already the rotund figure was pressed +against the desk, and the tiny eyes absorbed in important-looking +papers. + +Mundy, George decided, wasn't such an ogre after all. He wore glasses. +He was bald, thin, and stoop-shouldered. He had the benign expression of +a parson; but behind that bald forehead, George soon learned, was stored +all the knowledge he craved, without, however, the imagination to make +it personally very valuable. + +If he didn't sweep the office at first, George approximated such labour, +straightening the desks of the mighty, checking up on the contents of +waste-paper baskets, seeing that the proper people got mail and +newspapers, running errands; and always, in the office or outside, he +kept his ears open and his eyes wide. He absorbed the patter of the +Street. He learned to separate men into classes, the wise ones, who +always made money, and the foolish, who now and then had good luck, but +most of the time were settling their losses. And at every opportunity he +was after what Mundy concealed behind his appearance of a parson. + +At night he dissected the financial journals, watching the alterations +in the market, and probing for the causes; applying to this novitiate +the same grim determination he had brought to Squibs Bailly's lessons a +year before. Never once was he tempted to seek a simple path to fortune. + +"When I speculate," he told himself, "there'll be mighty little risk +about it." + +Even in those days his fifteen dollars a week condemned him to a cheap +lodging house near Lexington Avenue, the simplest of meals, and +practically no relaxation. He exercised each morning, and walked each +evening home from the office, for he hadn't forgotten what Princeton +expected from him in the fall. + +Sylvia's photograph and the broken riding crop supervised his labours, +but he knew he couldn't hope, except by chance, to see her this summer. + +One Saturday morning Goodhue came unexpectedly into the office and +carried him off to Long Island. George saw the tiny eyes of Blodgett +narrow. + +Blodgett, perhaps because of Mr. Alston's letter, had condescended to +chat with George a number of times in the outer office. On the Monday +following he strolled up and jerked out: + +"Wasn't that young Richard Goodhue I saw you going off with Saturday?" + +"Yes sir." + +"Know him well?" + +"Very. We're in the same class. We're rooming together next year." + +Blodgett grunted and walked on, mopping his puffy face with a shiny blue +handkerchief. George wondered if he had displeased Blodgett by going +with Goodhue. He decided he hadn't, for the picturesquely dressed man +stopped oftener after that, chatting quite familiarly. + +Whatever one thought of Blodgett's appearance and manner, one admired +him. George hadn't been in the Street a week before he realized that the +house of Blodgett and Sinclair was one of the most powerful in America, +with numerous ramifications to foreign countries. There was no phase of +finance it didn't touch; and, as far as George could see, it was all +Josiah Blodgett, who had come to New York from the West, by way of +Chicago. In those offices Sinclair was scarcely more than a name in gold +on various doors. Once or twice, during the summer, indeed, George saw +the partner chatting in a bored way with Blodgett. His voice was high +and affected, like Wandel's, and he had a house in Newport. According to +office gossip he had little money interest in the firm, lending the +prestige of his name for what Blodgett thought it was worth. As he +watched the fat, hard worker chatting with the butterfly man, George +suddenly realized that Blodgett might want a house in Newport, too. Was +it because he was Richard Goodhue's room-mate that Blodgett stopped him +in the hall one day, grinning with good nature? + +"If I were a cub," he puffed, "I'd buy this very morning all the Katydid +I could, and sell at eighty-nine." + +George whistled. + +"I knew something was due to happen to Katydid, but I didn't expect +anything like that." + +"How did you know?" Blodgett demanded. + +He shot questions until he had got the story of George's close +observation and night drudgery. + +"Glad to see Mundy hasn't dropped you out the window yet," he grinned. +"Maybe you'll get along. Glad for Mr. Alston's sake. See here, if I were +a cub, and knew as much about Katydid as you do, I wouldn't hesitate to +borrow a few cents from the boss." + +"No," George said. "I've a very little of my own. I'll use that." + +He had, perhaps, two hundred dollars in the bank at Princeton. He drew a +check without hesitation and followed Blodgett's advice. He had +commenced to speculate without risk. Several times after that Blodgett +jerked out similar advice, usually commencing with: "What does young +Pierpont Morgan think of so and so?" And usually George would give his +employer a reasonable forecast. Because of these discreet hints his +balance grew, and Mundy one day announced that his salary had been +raised ten dollars. + +All that, however, was the brighter side. Often during those hot, heavy +nights, while he pieced together the day's complicated pattern, George +envied the fortunates who could play away from pavements and baking +walls. He found himself counting the days until he would go back to +Princeton and football, and Betty's charm; but even that prospect was +shadowed by his doubt as to how he would emerge from the club tangle. + +He didn't meet Sylvia, but one day he saw Old Planter step from an +automobile and enter the marble temple where he was accustomed to +sacrifice corporations and people to the gods of his pocket-book. The +great man used a heavy stick and climbed the steps rather slowly, +flanked by obsequious underlings, gaped at by a crowd, buzzing and +over-impressed. Somehow George couldn't fancy Blodgett with the gout--it +was too delightfully bred. + +He peered in the automobile, but of course Sylvia wasn't there, nor, he +gathered from his mother's occasional notes to thank him for the little +money he could send her, was she much at Oakmont. + +"I'll see her this fall," he told himself, "and next winter. I've +started to do what I said I would." + +As far as Wall Street was concerned, Blodgett evidently agreed with him. + +"I can put up with you next summer," he said at parting. "I'll write Mr. +Alston you're fit for something besides football." + +Mundy displayed a pastoral sadness. + +"You ought to stay right here," he said. "College is all right if you +don't want to amount to a hill of beans. It's rotten for making money." + +Nevertheless, he agreed to send George a weekly letter, giving his wise +views as to what was going on among the money makers. They all made him +feel that even in that rushing place his exit had caused a perceptible +ripple. + + +XXII + +The smallness, the untidiness, the pure joy of Squibs Bailly's study! + +The tutor ran his hands over George's muscles. + +"You're looking older and a good deal worn," he said, "but thank God +you're still hard." + +Mrs. Bailly sat there, too. They were both anxious for his experiences, +yet when he had told them everything he sensed a reservation in their +praise. + +"I think I should turn my share of the laundry back," he said, +defiantly. "I've something like three thousand dollars of my own now." + +"Does it make you feel very rich?" Mrs. Bailly asked. + +He laughed. + +"It's a tiny start, but I won't need half of it to get through the +winter." + +Bailly lighted his pipe, stretched his legs, and pondered. + +"You're giving the laundry up," he said, finally, "because--because it +savours of service?" + +George didn't get angry. He couldn't with Squibs in the first place; +and, in the second, hadn't that thought been at the bottom of his mind +ever since Dalrymple's remark about dirty hands? + +"I don't need it any more," he said, "and I'd like to have you dispose +of it where it will do the most good." + +His voice hardened. + +"But to somebody who wants to climb, not to any wild-eyed fellow who +thinks he sees salvation in pulling down." + +"You've just returned from the world," Bailly said, "and all you've +brought is three thousand dollars and a bad complexion. I wish you'd +directed your steps to a coal mine. You'd have come back richer." + + +XXIII + +Goodhue got in a few hours after George. There was a deep satisfaction +in their greetings. They were glad to be together, facing varsity +football, looking ahead to the pleasures and excitements of another +year, but George would have been happier if he could have shared his +room-mate's unconcern about the clubs. Of course, Goodhue was settled. +Did he know about George? George was glad the other couldn't guess how +carefully he had calculated the situation--to take the best, or a +dignified stand against all clubs with Allen getting behind him with all +the poor and unknown men. But wasn't that exactly Wandel's game? + +Stringham and Green were glad enough to see him, but Green thought he +had been thoughtless not to have kept a football in the office for +kicking goals through transoms. + +It was good to feel the vapours of the market-place leaving his lungs +and brain. Goodhue and he, during the easy preliminary work, resumed +their runs. He felt he hadn't really gone back. If he didn't get hurt he +would do things that fall that would drive the perplexed frown from +Bailly's forehead, that would win Betty's applause and Sylvia's +admiration. Whatever happened he was going to take care of her brother +in the Yale game. + +Betty was rather too insistent about that. She had fallen into the habit +again of stopping George and Goodhue on their runs for a moment's +gossip. + +"See here, Betty," Goodhue laughed once, "you're rather too interested +in this Eli Planter." + +George had reached the same conclusion--but why should it bother him? It +was logical that Betty and Lambert should be drawn together. He blamed +himself for a habit of impatience that had grown upon him. Had it come +out of the strain of the Street, or was it an expression of his +knowledge that now, at the commencement of his second year, he +approached the culmination of his entire college course? With the club +matter settled there would remain little for him save a deepening of +useful friendships and a squeezing of the opportunity to acquire +knowledge and a proper manner. For the same cause, the approaching +election of officers for Sophomore year was of vital importance. It was +generally conceded that the ticket put through now, barring accident, +would be elected senior year to go out into the world at the head of the +class. The presidency would graduate a man with a patent of nobility, as +one might say. George guessed that all of Wandel's intrigues led to the +re-election of Goodhue. He wanted that influential office in his own +crowd. Even now George couldn't wholly sound Wandel's desires with him. +He yielded to the general interest and uneasiness. Squibs had been +right. Princeton did hold a fair sample of it all. He understood that +very much as this affair was arranged he would see the political +destinies of the country juggled later. + +Allen got him alone, begging for his decision. + +"Have you been asked for a club yet?" + +"None of your business," George said, promptly. + +"You've got to make up your mind in a hurry," Allen urged. "Promise me +now that you'll leave the clubs alone, then I can handle Mr. Wandel." + +"You're dickering with him?" George asked, quickly. + +"No. Mr. Wandel is trying to dicker with me." + +But George couldn't make up his mind. There were other problems as +critical as the clubs. Could he afford to fight Dick Goodhue for that +high office? If only he could find out what the Goodhue crowd thought of +him! + +He had an opportunity to learn one evening, and conquered a passionate +desire to eavesdrop. As he ran lightly up the stairs to his room he +heard through the open study door Wandel and Goodhue talking with an +unaccustomed heat. + +"You can't take such an attitude," Wandel was saying. + +"I've taken it." + +"Change your mind," Wandel urged. "I've nursed him along as the only +possible tie between two otherwise irreconcilable elements of the class. +I tell you I can't put you over unless you come to your senses." + +George hurried in and nodded. From their faces he gathered there had +been a fair row. Wandel grasped his arm. George stiffened. Something was +coming now. It wasn't quite what he had expected. + +"How would you like," Wandel said, "to be the very distinguished +secretary of your class?" + +George gazed from the window at the tree-bordered lawns where lesser men +contentedly kicked footballs to each other. + +"It ought to be what the class likes," he muttered. "I'm really only +interested in seeing Dicky re-elected." + +"If," Wandel said, "I told you it couldn't be done without your +distinguished and untrammelled name on the ticket?" + +George flushed. + +"What do you mean by untrammelled?" + +"You stop that, Spike," Goodhue said, more disturbed than George had +ever seen him. "It's indecent. I won't have it." + +George relaxed. Untrammelled had certainly meant free from the taint of +the clubs. He was grateful Goodhue had interfered. + +"Why don't you run for something yourself, Mr. Wandel?" he asked, dryly. + +Goodhue laughed. + +"Carry your filthy politics somewhere else." + +He and George, with an affectation of good nature, pushed Wandel out of +the room. They looked at each other. Neither said anything. + +George had to call upon his will to keep his attention on his books that +night. In return for Allen's support for Goodhue Wandel wanted to give +Allen for a minor place on the ticket a poor man untrammelled by the +clubs. The realization angered George. Aside from any other +consideration he couldn't permit himself to be bartered about to save +any one--even Goodhue. But was Goodhue trying to spare him at a +sacrifice? George, with a vast relief, decided that that was so when +Goodhue mentioned casually one day that he was a certainty for the club. + +"Don't say anything about it," he advised. "The upper classmen have been +getting a few of us together. I'm glad you're among us. We'll elect the +full section later." + +"Of course I came here a stranger," George began, trying to hide his +pleasure. + +"Quite a lot of us have learned to know you pretty well," Goodhue +smiled. + +George wouldn't accept this coveted gift without putting himself on +record. + +"I needn't ask you," he said, "if Dalrymple's already in." + +Goodhue shook his head. + +"Maybe later." + +"I think," George said, distinctly, "that the men who are responsible +for my election should know I'll hold out against Dalrymple." + +"You're a conscientious beggar," Goodhue laughed. "It's your own +business now, but there'll be a nice little rumpus just the same." + +George was conscientious with Allen, too. + +"I feel I ought to tell you," he said, "that I've made up my mind, if +I'm asked, to join a club. Anything that has so much to offer can't be +as bad as you think." + +Without answering Allen flushed and walked off angrily. + +It was the next day that the parties gathered on the top floor of +Dickinson Hall for the election. George went as an amused spectator. He +had played the game on the level and had destroyed his own chances, but +he was afraid he had destroyed Goodhue's, too, or Goodhue had destroyed +his own by insisting on taking George into the club. That was a +sacrifice George wanted to repay. + +Wandel, as usual, was undisturbed. Allen's angular figure wandered +restlessly among the groups. George had no idea what the line-up was. + +George sensed weakness in the fact that, when the nominations were +opened, Wandel was the first on his feet. He recited Goodhue's virtues +as an athlete and a scholar. Like a real political orator at a +convention he examined his record as president the previous year. He +placed him in nomination amid a satisfactory applause. Now what was +coming? Who did Allen have? + +When he arose Allen wore an air of getting through with a formality. He +insisted on the fact that his candidate was working his way through +college, and would always be near the top scholastically. He represented +a section of the class that the more fortunate of the students were +prone to forget. And so on--a condensation of his complaints to George. +The room filled with suspense, which broke into loud laughter when Allen +named a man of absolutely no importance or colour, who couldn't poll +more than the votes of his personal friends. A trick, George guessed it, +and everyone else. But Wandel was quickly moving that the nominations be +closed. Allen glanced around with a worried, expectant air. Then George +saw that Rogers was up--a flushed, nervous figure--and had got the +floor. He spoke rapidly, nearly unintelligibly. + +"My candidate doesn't need any introduction," he recited. "All factions +can unite on him--the man that smashed the Yale and Harvard Freshmen. +The man who is going to smash the Yale and Harvard varsities this +year--George Morton!" + +A cheer burst out, loud, from the heart. George saw that it came from +both sides. The poor men had been stampeded, too. + +Goodhue was on his feet, his arms upraised, demanding recognition. +Suddenly George realized what this meant to Goodhue, and temper replaced +his amazement. He sprang up, shouting: + +"I won't have it----" + +A dozen pairs of hands dragged him down. A dozen voices cried in his +ears: + +"Shut up, you damned fool!" + + +XXIV + +Goodhue got the floor and withdrew his name, but the chairman wouldn't +see or hear George. He declared the nominations closed. It was as if he +and all the lesser men, who weren't leading factions, had seen in +George the one force that could pull the class together. The vote was +perfunctory, and Allen lazily moved to make it unanimous. George took +the chair, frowning, altogether unhappy in his unforeseen victory. He +had a feeling of having shabbily repaid Goodhue's loyalty and sacrifice, +yet it hadn't been his fault; but would Goodhue know that? + +"Speech! Shoot something, George! Talk up there, Mr. President!" + +He'd give them a speech to chew over. + +"Back-door politicians have done their best to split the class. The +class has taken matters into its own hands. There isn't going to be a +split. It won't be long before you'll have Prospect Street off your +minds. That seems to be two thirds of the trouble. Let's forget it, and +pull together, and leave Princeton a little better than we found it. If +you think anything needs reform let's talk about it openly and sensibly, +clubs and all. I appreciate the honour, but Dick Goodhue ought to have +had it, would have had it, if he hadn't been born with a silver spoon. +Ought a man's wealth or poverty stand against him here? Think it over. +That's all." + +There was no opposition to Goodhue's election as Secretary. + +Allen slipped to George at the close of the meeting. + +"About what I'd have expected of you, anyway." + +But George was looking for Goodhue, found him, and walked home with him. + +"Best thing that could have happened," Goodhue said. "They're all +marvelling at your nerve for talking about Prospect Street as you did." + +George spied Rogers, and beckoned the freshly prominent youth. + +"See here, young man, please come to my room after practice." + +Rogers, with a frightened air, promised. Wandel appeared before, quite +as if nothing had happened. He wouldn't even talk about the election. + +"Just the same, Warwick," George said, "I'm not at all sure a poler +named Allen couldn't tell you something about juggling crowns." + +"A penetrating as well as a great president," Wandel smiled. "I haven't +thanked you yet for joining our club." + +George looked straight at him. + +"But I've thanked Dicky for it," he said. + +Rogers, when he arrived after Wandel's departure, didn't want to +confess, but George knew how to get it out of him. + +"You've put your finger in my pie without my consent," he said. "I'll +hold that against you unless you talk up. Besides, it won't go beyond +Goodhue and me. It's just for our information." + +"All right," Rogers agreed, nervously, "provided it doesn't go out of +this room. And there's no point mentioning names. A man we all know came +to me this morning and talked about the split in the class. He couldn't +get Goodhue elected because he didn't have any way of buying the support +of the poor men. Allen, he figured, was going to nominate a lame duck, +and then have somebody not too rich and not too poor spring his own +name, figuring he would get the votes of the bulk of the class which +just can't help being jealous of Goodhue and his little crowd. This chap +thought he could beat Allen at that game by stampeding the class for you +before Allen could get himself up, and he wanted somebody representative +of the bulk of the class, that holds the balance of power, to put you in +nomination. He figured even the poor men would flock to you in spite of +Allen's opposition." + +"And what did he offer you?" George sneered. + +Rogers turned away without answering. + +"Like Driggs," Goodhue said, when Rogers had gone. "He couldn't have +what he wanted, but he got about as good. Politically, what's the +difference? Both offices are in his crowd, but he's avoided making you +look like his president." + +George grinned. + +"I don't wonder you call him Spike." + + +XXV + +George, filled with a cold triumph, stared for a long time at Sylvia's +portrait that night. If she thought of him at all she would have to +admit he had come closer. At Princeton he was as big a man as her rich +brother was at Yale. He belonged to a club where her own kind gathered. +Give him money--and he was going to have that--and her attitude must +alter. He bent the broken crop between his fingers, his triumph fading. +He had come closer, but not close enough to hurt. + +The Baillys and Betty congratulated him at practice the next day. + +"You were the logical man," Betty said, "but the politicians didn't seem +to want you." + +Bailly drew him aside. + +"It was scandal in the forum," he said, "that money and the clubs were +an issue in this election." + +George fingered his headgear, laughing unpleasantly. + +"Yes, and they elected a poor man; a low sort of a fellow with a +shadowed past." + +"Forget your past," Bailly pled, "and remember in the present that the +poor men, who helped elect you, are looking for your guidance. They need +help." + +"Then," George said, "why didn't they get themselves elected so they +could help themselves?" + +"Into the world there are born many cripples," Bailly said, softly. +"Would you condemn them for not running as fast as the congenitally +sound?" + +"Trouble is, they don't try to run," George answered. + +He looked at the other defiantly. Bailly had to know. It was his right. + +"I can guess what house I'm going to on Prospect Street." + +"Which?" Bailly sighed. + +"To the very home of reaction," George laughed. "But it's easier to +reform from the inside." + +"No," Bailly said, gravely. "The chairs are too comfortable." + +He pressed George's arm. + +"It isn't the clubs here that worry me in relation to you. It's the +principle of the lights behind the railing in the restless world. Try +not to surrender to the habit of the guarded light." + +George was glad when Stringham called from the field. + +"Jump in here, Morton!" + +He took his turn at the dummy scrimmage. Such exercise failed to offer +its old zest, nor was it the first day he had appreciated that. The +intrusion of these unquiet struggles might be responsible, yet, with +them determined in his favour, his anxiety did not diminish. Was Bailly +to blame with his perpetual nagging about the outside world where grave +decisions waited? George frankly didn't want to face them. They seemed +half-decipherable signposts which tempted him perplexingly and +precariously from his path. What had just happened, added to the passage +of a year and his summer in Wall Street, had brought that headlong world +very close, had outlined too clearly the barriers which made it +dangerous; so even here he spent some time each night studying the +changing lines in the battle for money. + +Yet Goodhue, with a settled outlook, shared George's misgivings at the +field. + +"It isn't the fun it was Freshman year," he grumbled one night. "We used +to complain then that they worked us too hard. Now I don't believe they +work us hard enough." + +That was a serious doubt for two men who realized they alone might save +inferior if eager material from defeat; and it grew until they resumed +surreptitiously the extra work they had attempted hitherto only outside +of the season or just at its commencement. Then it had not interfered +with Green's minutely studied scheme of physical development. Now it +did. The growth of their worry, moreover, measured the decline of their +condition. These apprehensions had a sharper meaning for George than for +his room-mate. Almost daily he saw his picture on the sporting pages of +newspapers. "Morton of Princeton, the longest kicker in the game." "The +keystone of the Princeton attack." "The man picked to lead Stringham's +hopes to victory over Harvard and Yale." And so on. Exaggeration, George +told himself, that would induce the university, the alumni, the Baillys, +Betty, and Sylvia--most of all Sylvia--to expect more than he could +reasonably give at his best. + +"Don't forget you've promised to take care of Lambert Planter----" + +In some form Betty repeated it every time George saw her. It irritated +him--not that it really made any difference--that Lambert Planter should +occupy her mind to that extent. No emotion as impersonal as college +spirit would account for it; and somehow it did make a difference. + +George suspected the truth a few days before the Harvard game, and +persuaded Goodhue to abandon all exercise away from Green's watchful +eye; but he went on the field still listless, irritable, and stale. + +That game, as so frequently happens, was the best played and the +prettiest to watch of the season. George wondered if Sylvia was in the +crowd. There was no question about her being at New Haven next week. He +wanted to save his best for that afternoon when she would be sure to see +him, when he would take her brother on for another thrashing. But it +wasn't in him to hold back anything, and the cheering section, where +Squibs sat, demanded all he had. To win this game, it became clear after +the first few plays, would take an exceptional effort. Only George's +long and well-calculated kicking held down the Harvard attack. Toward +the close of the first half a fumble gave Princeton the ball on +Harvard's thirty-yard line, and Goodhue for the first time seriously +called on George to smash the Harvard defence. With his effort some of +the old zest returned. Twice he made it first down by inches. + +"Stick to your interference," Goodhue was begging him between each play. + +Then, with his interference blocked and tumbling, George yielded to his +old habit, and slipped off to one side at a hazard. The enemy secondary +defence had been drawing in, and there was no one near enough to stop +him within those ten yards, and he went over for a touchdown, and +casually kicked the goal. + +When, a few minutes later, he walked off the field, he experienced no +elation. He realized all at once how tired he was. Like a child he +wanted to go to Stringham and say: + +"Stringham, I don't want to play any more games to-day. I want to lie +down and rest." + +He smiled as he dreamed of Stringham's reply. + +It was Stringham, really, who came to him as he sat silently and with +drooping shoulders in the dressing-room. + +"What's wrong here? When you're hurt I want to know it." + +George got up. + +"I'm not hurt. I'm all right." + +Green arrived and helped Stringham poke while George submitted, wishing +they'd leave him alone so he could sit down and rest. + +"We've got to have him next week," Stringham said, "but this game isn't +won by a long shot." + +"What's the matter with me?" George asked. "I'll play." + +He heard a man near by remark: + +"He's got the colour of a Latin Salutatorian." + +They let him go back, nevertheless, and at the start he suffered his +first serious injury. He knew when he made the tackle that the strap of +his headgear snapped. He felt the leather slide from his head, +experienced the crushing of many bodies, had a brief conviction that the +sun had been smothered. His next impression was of bare, white walls in +a shaded room. His brain held no record of the hushing of the multitude +when he had remained stretched in his darkness on the trampled grass; of +the increasing general fear while substitutes had carried him from the +field on a stretcher; or of the desertion of the game by the Baillys, by +Betty and her father, by Wandel, the inscrutable, even by the +revolutionary Allen, by a score of others, who had crowded the entrance +of the dressing room asking hushed questions, and a few moments later +had formed behind him a silent and frightened procession as he had been +carried to the infirmary. Mrs. Bailly told him about it. + +"I saw tears in Betty's eyes," she said, softly, "through my own. It was +so like a funeral march." + +"And you missed the end of the game?" George asked. + +She nodded. + +"When my husband knew Harvard had scored he said, 'That wouldn't have +happened if George had been there.' And it wouldn't have." + +But all George could think of was: + +"Squibs missed half a game for me, and there were tears in Betty's +eyes." + +Tears, because he had suggested the dreadful protagonist of a funeral +march. + +His period of consciousness was brief. He drifted into the darkness once +more, accompanied by that extraordinary and seductive vision of Betty in +tears. It came with him late the next morning back into the light. +Sylvia's portrait was locked in a drawer far across the campus. What +superb luxury to lie here with such a recollection, forecasting no near +physical effort, quite relaxed, dreaming of Betty, who had always meant +rest as Sylvia had always meant unquiet and absorbing struggle. + +He judged it wise to pretend to be asleep, but hunger at last made him +stir and threw him into an anxious agitation of examinations by +specialists, of conferences with coaches, and of doubts and prayers and +exhortations from everyone admitted to the room; for even the +specialists were Princeton men. They were non-committal. It had been a +nasty blow. There had been some concussion. They would guarantee him in +two weeks, but of course he didn't have that long. One old fellow turned +suspiciously on Green. + +"He was overworked when he got hurt." + +"I'll be all right," George kept saying, "if you'll fix a headgear to +cover my new soft spot." + +And finally: + +"I'll be all right if you'll only leave me alone." + +Yet, when they had, Squibs came, totally forgetful of his grave problems +of the classes, foreseeing no disaster nearly as serious as a defeat by +Yale--"now that we've done so well against Harvard, and would have done +better if you hadn't got hurt"--limping the length of the sick-room +until the nurse lost her temper and drove him out. Then Goodhue arrived +as the herald of Josiah Blodgett, of all people. + +"This does me good," George pled with the nurse. + +And it did. For the first time in a number of weeks he felt amused as +Blodgett with a pinkish silk handkerchief massaged his round, unhealthy +face. + +"Thought you didn't like football," George said. + +"Less reason to like it now," Blodgett jerked out. "Only sensible place +to play it is the front yard of a hospital. Thought I'd come down and +watch you and maybe look up what was left afterward." + +George fancied a wavering of the little eyes in Goodhue's direction, and +became even more amused, for he believed a more calculating man than +Blodgett didn't live; yet there seemed a real concern in the man's +insistence that George, with football out of the way, should spend a +recuperative Thanksgiving at his country place. George thought he would. +He was going to work again for Blodgett next summer. + +Betty and Mrs. Bailly were the last callers the nurse would give in to, +although she must have seen how they helped, one in a chair on either +side of the bed; and it was difficult not to look at only one. In her +eyes he sought for a souvenir of those tears, and wanted to tell her how +sorry he was; but he wasn't really sorry, and anyway she mustn't guess +that he knew. Why had Mrs. Bailly bothered to tell him at all? Could her +motherly instinct hope for a coming together so far beyond belief? His +memory of the remote portrait reminded him that it was incredible in +every way. He sighed. Betty beckoned Mrs. Bailly and rose. + +"Don't go," George begged, aware that he ought to urge her to go. + +"Betty was having tea with me," Mrs. Bailly offered. + +"I would have asked to be brought anyway," Betty said, openly. "You +frightened us yesterday. We've all wanted to find out the truth." + +There was in her eyes now at least a reminiscent pain. + +"Don't worry," he said, "I'll take care of Lambert Planter for you after +all." + +She stooped swiftly and offered her hand. + +"You'll take care of yourself. It would be beastly if they let you play +at the slightest risk." + +He grasped her hand. The touch of her flesh, combined with such a +memory, made him momentarily forgetful. He held her hand too long, too +firmly. He saw the colour waver in her pale cheeks. He let her hand go, +but he continued to watch her eyes until they turned uncertainly to Mrs. +Bailly. + +When they had left he slept again. He slept away his listlessness of the +past few weeks. As he confided to his callers, who were confined to an +hour in the afternoon, he did nothing but sleep and eat. He was more +content than he had been since his indifferent days, long past, at +Oakmont. All these people had deserted the game for him when he was no +longer of any use to the game. Then he had acquired, even for such +clashing types as Wandel and Allen, a value that survived his football. +He had advanced on a road where he had not consciously set his feet. He +treasured that thought. Next Saturday he would reward these friends, for +he was confident he could do it now. By Wednesday he was up and dressed, +feeling better than he had since the commencement of the season. If only +they didn't hurt his head again! The newspapers helped there, too. If he +played, they said, it would be under a severe handicap. He smiled, +knowing he was far fitter, except for his head, than he had been the +week before. + +Until the squad left for New Haven he continued to live in the +infirmary, watching the light practice of the last days without even +putting on his football clothes. + +"The lay-off won't hurt me," he promised. + +Stringham and Green were content to accept his judgment. + +As soon as he was able he went to his room and got Sylvia's portrait. He +disciplined himself for his temporary weakness following the accident. +He tried to force from his memory the sentiment aroused by Betty's tears +through the thought that he approached his first real chance to impress +Sylvia. He could do it. He was like an animal insufficiently exercised, +straining to be away. + + +XXVI + +He alone, as the squad dressed in the gymnasium, displayed no signs of +misgiving. Here was the climax of the season. All the better. The larger +the need the greater one's performance must be. But the others didn't +share that simple faith. + +He enjoyed the ride to the field in the cold, clear air, through +hurrying, noisy, and colourful crowds. He liked the impromptu cheers +they gave the team, sometimes himself particularly. + +In the field dressing-room, like men condemned, the players received +their final instructions. Already they were half beaten because they +were going to face Yale--all but George, who knew he was going to play +better than ever, because he was going to face one Yale man, Lambert +Planter, with Sylvia in the stands. He kept repeating to himself: + +"I will! I _will_!" + +He laughed at the others. + +"There aren't any wild beasts out there--just eleven men like ourselves. +If there's going to be any wild-beasting let's do it to them." + +They trotted through an opening into a vast place walled by men and +women. At their appearance the walls seemed to disintegrate, and a +chaotic noise went up as if from that ponderous convulsion. + +George dug his toes into the moist turf and looked about. Sylvia was +there, a tiny unit in the disturbed enclosure, but if she had sat alone +it would have made no difference. His incentive would have been +unaltered. + +Again the convulsion, and the Yale team was on the field. George singled +Planter out--the other man that Sylvia would watch to-day. He did look +fit, and bigger than last year. George shrugged his shoulders. + +"I will!" + +Nevertheless, he was grateful for his week of absolute rest. He smiled +as the crowd applauded his long kicks to the backs. He wasn't exerting +himself now. + +The two captains went to the centre of the field while the teams trotted +off. Lambert came up to George. + +"The return match," he said, "and you won't want another." + +George grinned. + +"I've heard it's the Yale system to try to frighten the young opponent." + +"You'll know more about the Yale system after the first half," Lambert +said, and walked on. + +George realized that Lambert hadn't smiled once. In his face not a trace +of the old banter had shown. Yale system or Yale spirit, it possessed +visible qualities of determination and peril, but he told himself he +could lick Lambert and smile while doing it. + +At the whistle he was off like a race horse, never losing sight of +Lambert until he was reasonably sure the ball wouldn't get to him. They +clashed personally almost at the start. Yale had the ball, and Lambert +took it, and tore through the line, and lunged ahead with growing speed +and power. George met him head on. They smashed to the ground. As he +hugged Lambert there for a moment George whispered: + +"Nothing fantastic about that, is there? Now get past me, Mr. Planter." + +The tackle had been vicious. Lambert rose rather slowly to his feet. + +George's kicks outdistanced Lambert's. Once he was forced by a Princeton +fumble, and a march of thirty yards by Yale, to kick from behind his own +goal line. He did exert himself then, and he outguessed the two men +lying back. As a result Yale put the ball in play on her own thirty-yard +line, while the stands marvelled, the Princeton side demonstratively, +yet George, long before the half was over, became conscious of something +not quite right. Since beyond question he was the star of his team he +received a painstaking attention from the Yale men. There is plenty of +legitimate roughness in football, and it can be concentrated. In every +play he was reminded of the respect Yale had for him. Perpetually he +tried to spare his head, but it commenced to ache abominably, and after +a tackle by Lambert, to repay him for some of his own deadly and painful +ones, he got up momentarily dazed. + +"Let's do something now," he pled with Goodhue, when, thanks to his +kicks, they had got the ball at midfield. He wanted a score before this +silly weakness could put him out. With a superb skill he went after a +score. His forward passes to Goodhue and the ends were well-conceived, +beautifully executed, and frequently successful. Many times he took the +ball himself, fighting through the line or outside of tackle to run +against Lambert or another back. Once he got loose for a run of fifteen +yards, dodging or shaking off half the Yale team while the stands with +primeval ferocity approved and prayed. + +That made it first down on Yale's five-yard line. He was absolutely +confident that the Yale team could not prevent his taking the ball over +in the next few plays. + +"I will! I will! I will!" he said to himself. + +Alone, he felt, he could overcome that five yards against the eleven of +them. + +"Let's have it, Dicky," he whispered. "I'm going over this play or the +next. Shoot me outside of tackle." + +On the first play Goodhue fumbled, and a Yale guard fell on the ball. +George stared, stifling an instinct to destroy his friend. The chance +had been thrown away, and his head made him suffer more and more. Then +he saw that Goodhue wanted to die, and as they went back to place +themselves for the Yale kick, George said: + +"You've proved we can get through them. Next time!" + +Would there be a next time? And Goodhue didn't seem to hear. With all +his enviable inheritance and training he failed to conceal a passionate +remorse; his conviction of a peculiar and unforgivable criminality. + +In the dressing-room a few minutes later some of the players bitterly +recalled that ghastly error, and a coach or two turned furiously on the +culprit. It was too bad Squibs and Allen weren't there to watch +George's white temper, an emotion he didn't understand himself, born, he +tried to explain it later, of his hurt head. + +"Cut that out!" he snarled. + +The temper of one of the coaches--an assistant--flamed back. + +"It was handing the game on a----" + +George reached out and caught the shoulders of that man who during the +season had ordered him around. The ringing in his head, the increasing +pain, had destroyed all memory of discipline. + +"Say another word and I'll throw you out of here." + +The room fell silent. Some men gasped. The coach shrank from the furious +face, tried to elude the powerful grasp. Stringham hurried up. George +let the other go. + +"Mr. Stringham," he said, quietly, "if there's any more of this I'll +quit right now, and so will the rest of the team if they've any pluck." + +Stringham motioned the coach away, soothed George, led him to a chair, +where Green and a doctor got off his battered headgear. George wanted to +scream, but he conquered the brimming impulse, and managed to speak +rationally. + +"You've done all you can for us. We've got to play the game ourselves, +and we're not giving anything away. We're not making any mistakes we can +help." + +Goodhue came up and gripped his shoulder. The touch quieted him. + +"This man oughtn't to go back, Green," the doctor announced. + +George stiffened. He hadn't made that score. He hadn't smashed Lambert +Planter half enough. Better to leave the field on a stretcher, and in +darkness again, than to quit like this: to walk out between the halves; +not to walk back. He began to lie, overcoming a physical agony of which +he had never imagined his powerful body capable. + +"No, that doesn't hurt, nor that," he replied, calmly, to the doctor's +questions. "Don't think I'm nutty because I lost my temper. My head's +all right. That gear's fine." + +So they let him go back, and he counted the plays, willing himself to +receive and overcome the pounding each down brought him, continuing by +pure force of will to outplay Lambert; to save his team from dangerous +gains, from possible scores; nearly breaking away himself half-a-dozen +times, although the Princeton eleven was tiring and much of the play was +in its territory. + +The sun had gone behind heavy clouds. A few snowflakes fluttered down. +It was nearly dark. In spite of his exertions he felt cold, and knew it +for an evil sign. Once or twice he shivered. His throbbing head gave him +an illusion of having grown enormously so that it got in everybody's +way. Instinctively he caught a Yale forward pass on his own thirty-yard +line and tore off, slinging tacklers aside with the successful fury of a +young bull all of whose dangerous actions are automatic. He had come a +long way. He didn't know just how far, but the Yale goal posts were +near. Then, quite consciously, he saw Lambert Planter cutting across to +intercept him. The meeting of the two was unavoidable. He thought he +heard Lambert's voice. + +"Not past me!" + +Lambert plunged for the tackle. George's right hand shot out and smashed +open against Lambert's face. He raced on, leaving Lambert sprawled and +clawing at the ground. + +The quarterback managed to bring him down on the eight-yard line, then +lost him; yet, before George could get to his feet others had pounced, +and his heavy, awkward head had crashed against the earth again. + +They dragged him to his feet. For a few moments he lurched about, +shaking off friendly hands. + +"Only five minutes more, George," somebody prayed. + +Only five minutes! Good God! For him each moment was a century of +unspeakable martyrdom. Flecks of rain or snow touched his face, lifted +in revolt. The contact, wet and cold, cleared his brain a trifle--let in +the screaming of the multitude, hoarse and incoherent, raised at first +in thanksgiving for his run, then, after its close, altering to menacing +disappointment and command. What business had they to tell him what to +do? Up there, warm and comfortable, undergoing no exercise more violent +than occasional excited rising and sitting down, they had the selfish +impudence to order him to make a touchdown. Why should he obey, or even +try? He had done his job, more than any one could reasonably have asked +of him. He had outplayed Lambert, gained more ground than any man on the +field, made more valuable tackles. Could he really impress Sylvia any +further? Why shouldn't he walk off now in the face of those unjust +commands to the rest he had earned and craved with all his body and +mind? + +"Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown! Morton! Morton! Morton!" + +Damn them! Why not, indeed, walk off, where he wouldn't have to listen +to that thoughtless and autocratic impertinence? + +He glanced down at his blackened hands, at his filthy breeches, at his +jersey striped about the sleeves with orange; and with a wave of +self-loathing he knew why he couldn't go. He had sworn never to wear +anything like livery again, yet here he was--in livery, a servant to men +and women who asked dreadful things without troubling even to +approximate the agony of obedience. + +"I'll not be a servant," he had told Bailly. + +Bailly had made him one after all, and an old phrase of the tutor's +slipped back: + +"Some day, young man, you'll learn that the world lives by service." + +George had not believed. Now for a moment his half-conscious brain knew +Bailly had been right. He had to serve. + +He knocked aside the sponge Green held to his face. He indicated the +bucket of cold water the trainer had carried out. + +"Throw it over my head," he said, "the whole thing. Throw it hard." + +Green obeyed. He, too, who ought to have understood, was selfish and +imperious. + +"You make a touchdown!" he commanded hoarsely. + +The water stung George's eyes, rushed down his neck in thrilling +streams, braced him for the time. The teams lined up while the +Princeton stands roared approval that their best servant should remain +on the job. + +Goodhue called the signal for a play around the left tackle. Every Yale +player was confident that George would take the ball, sensed the +direction of the play, and, over-anxious, massed there, all but the +quarter, who lay back between the goal posts. George saw, and turned +sharply, darting to the right. Suddenly he knew, because of that +over-anxiety of Yale, that he had a touchdown. Only the Yale quarterback +had a chance for the tackle, and he couldn't stop George in that +distance. + +Out of the corner of his eye George noticed Goodhue standing to the +right and a little behind. He, too, must have seen the victorious +outcome of the play, and George caught in his attitude again that air of +a unique criminal. They'd hold that fumble against Dicky forever +unless--if Goodhue had the ball the Yale quarter couldn't even get his +hands on him until he had crossed the line. + +"Dicky!" + +The dejected figure sprang into action. Without weighing his sacrifice, +without letting himself think of the crime of disobeying a signal, of +the risks of a hurried throw or of another fumble, George shot the ball +across, then forged ahead and put the Yale quarterback out of the play, +while Goodhue strolled across the line and set the ball down behind the +goal posts. + +As he went back to kick the goal George heard through the crashing +cacophony from the stands Goodhue's uncertain voice: + +"Why didn't you make that touchdown yourself? It was yours. You had it. +You had earned it." + +"It was the team's," George answered, shortly. "I might have been +spilled. Sure thing for you." + +"You precious idiot!" Goodhue whispered. + +As George kicked the goal there came to him again, across his pain, that +sensation of being on a road he had not consciously set out to explore. +He wondered why he was so well content. + +Eternity ended. With the whistle and the crunching of the horn George +staggered to his feet. Goodhue and another player supported him while +the team clustered for a cheer for Yale. The Princeton stands were a +terrific avalanche descending upon that little group. Green tried to +rescue him, shouting out his condition; but the avalanche wouldn't have +it. It dashed upon him, tossed him shoulder high, while it emitted +crashing noises out of which his name emerged. + +Goodhue was up also, and the others. Goodhue was gesturing and talking, +pointing in his direction. Soon Goodhue and the others were down. The +happy holocaust centred its efforts on George. Why? Had Goodhue given +things away about that touchdown? Anyhow, they knew how to reward their +servants, these people. + +They carried George on strong shoulders at the head of their careening +procession. His dazed brain understood that they desired to honour the +man who had done the giant's share, the one who had made victory +possible, and he sensed a wrong, a sublime ignorance or indifference +that they should carry only him. The victory went back of George Morton. +He bent down, screaming into the ears of his bearers. + +"Squibs Bailly! He found me. If it wasn't for him I wouldn't have played +to-day. Bailly, or let me down! Bailly made that run! I tell you, Bailly +played that game!" + +In his earnestness he grew hysterical. + +Maybe it was because they wanted to humour the hero, or perhaps they +caught his own hysteria, realizing what Bailly had done for him. They +stopped in front of the stands to which Bailly's bad foot had condemned +him during this triumphant march. They commenced a high-pitched, frantic +chant. + +"We want Squibs Bailly! We want Squibs Bailly! We want Squibs Bailly!" + +George waved his hands, holding the column until the slender figure, +urged by the spectators remaining in the stands, came down with +difficulty and embarrassment to be caught and lifted tenderly up beside +George. + +Then, with these two aloft in the very front, the wild march was resumed +through the Yale goal posts while Squibs' wrinkled face twitched, while +in his young eyes burned the unsurpassable light of a hopeless wish +miraculously come true. + + +XXVII + +Green rescued George when his head was drooping and his eyes blurred. He +got him to the gymnasium and stretched him out there and set the doctors +to work on his head. + +A voice got into George's brain. Who was talking? Was it Goodhue, or +Stringham? + +"I guess you can see him, but he's pretty vague. Played the whole game +with a broken head. Lied to the doctors." + +George forced his eyes open. Lambert Planter, still in his stained +football clothes, bent over him. + +"Hello, Planter!" + +Lambert grasped the black hand. + +"Hello, George Morton!" + +That was all. Lambert went away, but George knew that what he had really +said was: + +"It's only what you've made of yourself that counts." + + +XXVIII + +At Princeton they kept him in the infirmary for a few days, but he +didn't like it. It filled him with a growing fear. Since it made no +particular difference now how long he was ill, they let him see too many +callers. He distrusted hero worship. Most of all was he afraid when such +devotion came from Betty. + +"Being a vicarious hero," Mrs. Bailly said, "has made my husband the +happiest man in Princeton." + +After that she didn't enter the conversation much, and again George +sensed, with a reluctant thrill, a maternal caring in her heart for him. + +"You never ought to have gone back in the second half," Betty said. + +"If I hadn't," he laughed, "who would have taken care of Lambert Planter +for you?" + +"Squibs says you might have been killed." + +"He's a great romancer," George exploded. + +"Just the same, it was splendid of you to play at all." + +She touched the white bandage about his head. + +"Does it hurt a great deal?" + +"No," he said, nearly honestly. "I only let them keep me here to cut +some dull lectures." + +He glanced at Betty wistfully. + +"Did I take care of Lambert Planter as you wanted?" + +She glanced away. + +"Are you punishing me? Haven't you read the papers? You outplayed him +and every man on the field." + +"That was what you wished?" + +She turned back with an assumption of impatience. + +"What do you mean?" + +He couldn't tell her. He couldn't probe further into her feelings for +Lambert, her attitude toward himself. He had to get his mind in hand +again. + +Betty brought her mother one day. Mrs. Alston was full of praise, but +she exuded an imperial distaste for his sick-room. Both times he had to +overcome an impulse to beg Betty not to go so soon. That more than +anything else made him afraid of himself. It was, he felt, an excellent +change to escape to an active life. + +Blodgett's place gave him a massive, tasteless welcome. It was one of +those houses with high, sloping roofs, numerous chimneys, and much +sculptured stone, slightly reminiscent of Mansart, and enormously +suggestive of that greatest architect of all, the big round dollar. In +its grounds it fitted like a huge diamond on a flowered shirt-front. +There were terraces; and a sunken garden, a little self-conscious with +coy replicas of regency sculpture; and formal walks between carefully +barbered trees and hedges. It convinced George that his original choice +of three necessities had been wise. Blodgett had the money, but he +didn't have Squibs Bailly and Goodhue or the things they personified. +And how Blodgett coveted The Goodhue Quality! George told himself that +was why he had been asked, because he was so close to Goodhue. But +Blodgett let him see that there was another motive. After those games +George was temporarily one of the nation's famous men. + +It wasn't until he had arrived that George understood how near +Blodgett's place was to Oakmont--not more than fifteen miles. He was +interested, but he had no idea, even if the Planters were there for +Thanksgiving, that he would see any of them. + +At Blodgett's bachelor enormity people came and went. At times the huge, +over-decorated rooms were filled, yet to George they seemed depressingly +empty because he knew they didn't enclose the men and the women Blodgett +wanted. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, indeed, motored out for Thanksgiving +dinner--a reluctant concession, George gathered, to a profitable +partnership. Blodgett brought him forth as a specimen, and the specimen +impressed, for it isn't given to everyone to sit down at the close of +the season with the year's most famous football player. It puzzled +George that in the precious qualities he craved he knew himself superior +to everyone in the house except these two who made him feel depressingly +inferior. Would he some day reach the point where he would react +unconsciously, as they did, to every social emergency? + +When the dinner party had scattered, Blodgett and he walked alone on the +terrace in an ashen twilight. There the surprise was sprung. It was +clearly no surprise to his host, who beamed at George, pointing to the +drive. + +"I 'phoned him he would find an old football friend here if he'd take +the trouble to drive over." + +"But you didn't tell him my name?" George gasped. + +"No, but why----" + +Blodgett broke off and hurried his heavy body to the terrace edge to +greet these important arrivals. + +Lambert sprang from the runabout he had driven up and helped Sylvia +down. She was bundled in becoming furs. The sharp air had heightened her +rich colouring. How beautiful she was--lovelier than George had +remembered! Here was the tonic to kill the distracting doubts raised by +Betty. Here was the very spring of his wilful ambition. Glancing at +Sylvia, Betty's tranquil influence lost its power. + +At her first recognition of him she stopped abruptly, but Lambert ran +across and grasped his hand. + +"How do, Morton. Never guessed Blodgett's message referred to you." + +George disapproved of Blodgett's methods. Why had the man made him a +mystery at the very moment he used him as a bait to attract Lambert and +Sylvia? Wasn't he important enough, or was it only because he was a +Princeton man and Blodgett had feared some enmity might linger? + +Lambert's manner, at least, was proof that he had, indeed, meant to give +George a message that night in the dressing-room at New Haven. George +appreciated that "How do, Morton"--greeting at last of a man for a man +instead of a man for a servant or a former servant; nor was Lambert's +call to his sister without a significance nearly sharp enough to hurt. + +"Sylvia! Didn't you meet this strong-armed Princetonian at Betty's dance +a year ago?" + +George understood that she had no such motives as Lambert's for altering +her attitude, so much more uncompromising from the beginning than his. +There had been no contact or shared pain. Only what she might have +observed from a remote stand that Saturday could have affected her. How +would she respond now? + +She advanced slowly, at first bewildered, then angry. But Blodgett had +nothing but his money to recommend him to her. She wouldn't, George was +certain, bare any intimacies of emotion before him. + +"I rather think I did." + +In her eyes George recognized the challenge he had last seen there. + +"Thanks for remembering me," he said rather in Wandel's manner. + +"A week ago Saturday----" she began, uncertainly, as though her +remembering needed an apology. + +"Who could forget the great Morton?" Lambert laughed. "With a broken +head he beat Yale. That was a hard game to lose." + +"I'd heard," she said, indifferently, "that you had been hurt." + +George would have preferred words as ugly and unforgettable as those she +had attacked him with the day of her accident. She turned to Blodgett. +George had an instinct to shake her as she chatted easily and casually, +glancing at him from time to time. He could have borne it better if she +hadn't included him at all. + +He was glad her brother occupied him. Lambert was for dissecting each +play of the game, and he made no attempt to hide the admiration for +George it had aroused. He gave the impression that he knew very well men +didn't do such things--particularly that little trick with +Goodhue--unless they were the right sort. + +Blodgett said something about tea. They strolled into the house. A fire +burned in the great hall. That was the only light. George came last, +directly after Sylvia. + +"So you're a friend of Mr. Blodgett's!" she said with an intonation +intended to hurt. + +"I wouldn't have expected," he answered, easily, "to find you a caller +here." + +She paused and faced him. Lights from the distant fire got as far as her +face, disclosing her contempt. He wouldn't let her speak. + +"I won't have you think I had anything to do with bringing you. I never +guessed until I saw your brother drive up." + +She didn't believe him, or she tried to impress him with that affront. +Blodgett and Lambert had gone on into the library. They remained quite +alone in the huge, dusky hall, whose shadow masses shifted as the fire +blazed and fell. For the first time since their ancient rides he could +talk to her undisturbed. He wouldn't let that fact tie his tongue. She +couldn't call him "stable boy" now, although she did try to say "beast" +in another way. This solitude in the dusk, shared with her, stripped +every distracting thought from his mind. He was as hard as steel and +happy in his inflexibility. + +"You believe me," he said. + +She shook her head and turned for the door. + +"Let me say one thing," he urged. "It's rather important." + +She came back through the shadows, her attitude reminiscent of the one +she had assumed long ago when she had sought to hurt him. He caught his +breath, waiting. + +"There is nothing," she said, shivering a little in spite of the hall's +warmth and the furs she still wore, "that you would think of saying to +me if you had changed at all from the impertinent groom I had to have +discharged." + +He laughed. + +"Oh! Call me anything you please, only I've always wanted to thank you +for not making a scene at Miss Alston's dance a year ago." + +He would be disappointed if that failed to hurt back. The thought of +Sylvia Planter making a scene! At least it fanned her temper. + +"What is there," she threatened, defensively, "to prevent my telling Mr. +Blodgett, any one I please, now?" + +"Nothing, except that I'm a trifle more on my feet," he answered. "I'm +not sure your scandal would blow me over. We're going to meet again +frequently. It can't he helped." + +"I never want," she said, as if speaking of something unclean and +revolting, "to see you again." + +His chance had come. + +"You're unfair, because it was you yourself, Miss Planter, who warned me +I shouldn't forget. I haven't. I won't. Will you? Can't we shake hands +on that understanding?" + +With a hurried movement she hid her hands. + +"I couldn't touch you----" + +"You will when we dance." + +He thought her lips trembled a little, but the light was uncertain. + +"I will never dance with you again." + +"I'm afraid you'll have to," he said with a confident smile, "unless you +care to make a scene." + +She drew away, unfastening her cloak, her eyes full of that old +challenge. + +"You're impossible," she whispered. "Can't you understand that I dislike +you?" + +His heart leapt, for didn't he hate her? + + +XXIX + +Lambert appeared in the doorway. + +"Blodgett's rung for tea----" + +He glanced curiously from one to the other. The broken shadows disclosed +little, but the fact that she had lingered at all was arresting. + +"What's up, Sylvia?" + +She went close to her brother. + +"This--this old servant has been impertinent again." + +Lambert smiled. + +"He's rather more than that now, sis. That's over--forgotten. Still if +the Princeton fellow Morton's been impertinent----" + +He spread his arms, smiling. + +"Have I got to submit myself to a trouncing more than once a year?" + +Sylvia shrugged her shoulders. + +"No," she said, impatiently. "You say it's forgotten. All right." + +George knew it would never be forgotten now by either of them. Lambert's +unruffled attitude made him uneasy. Her brother's scoffing response to +her accusation suggested that Lambert saw, since they would be more or +less thrown together, a beneficial side to such encounters as the one +just ended. For George didn't dream that Lambert had forgotten, either, +those old boasts. + +Another depressing thought made him bad company for Blodgett after the +callers had driven away. It came from a survey, following his glimpse of +Sylvia's beauty, of all the blatant magnificence with which Blodgett had +surrounded himself. Blodgett after dinner, a little flushed with wine, +and the triumph of having had in his house on the same day two Sinclairs +and two Planters, attempted an explanation. + +"I didn't build this, Morton, or my place in town, just for Josiah +Blodgett." + +George wasn't in a mood for subtleties of expression. + +"I've often wondered why you haven't married. With your money you ought +to have a big choice." + +Blodgett sipped a liqueur. He smiled in a self-satisfied way. + +"Money will buy about anything--even the kind of a wife you want. I'm in +no hurry. When I marry, young man, it will be the right kind." + +And George understood that he meant by the right kind some popular and +well-bred girl who would make the Blodgett family hit a social average. + +He carried that terrifying thought of marriage back to Princeton. He had +no fear Sylvia would ever look seriously in Blodgett's direction. Money +could scarcely bribe her. This, however, was her second season. Of +course she would marry someone of her own immediate circle. She could +take her choice. When that happened what would become of his +determination and his boasts? Frequently he clenched her riding crop and +swore: + +"Nothing--not even that--can keep me from accomplishing what I've set +out to do. I'll have my way with her." + +He shrank, nevertheless, from the thought of her adopting such a +defence. It was intolerable. He read the New York papers with growing +suspense. As an antidote he attacked harder than ever his study of cause +and effect in the Street. With football out of the way he could give a +good deal of time to that, and Blodgett now and then enclosed a hint in +Mundy's letters. It was possible to send a fair amount of money to his +parents; but his mother's letters never varied from their formality of +thanks and solicitations as to his health. His father didn't write at +all. Of course, they couldn't understand what he was doing. The shadow +of the great Planter remained perpetually over their little home. + +Another doubt troubled George. With the club matter out of the way, and +the presidency of the class his, and a full football garland resting on +his head, was he wasting his time at Princeton? The remembrance of +Blodgett steadied him. He needed all that Princeton and its +companionships could give. + +Purposefully he avoided Betty. Was she, indeed, responsible for that +softness he had yielded to in the infirmary and during the final game? +In his life, he kept telling himself, there was no room for sentiment. +Sentiment was childish, a hindrance. Hadn't he decided at the start that +nothing should turn him from his attempt for the summit? Still he +couldn't avoid seeing Betty now and then in Princeton, or at the dances +in New York to which he went with Goodhue. The less he saw of Betty, +moreover, the stronger grew his feeling of something essential lacking +from his life; and it bothered that, after a long separation, she was +invariably friendly instead of reproachful. He found that he couldn't +look at her eyes without hungrily trying to picture them wet with tears +for him. + +To some extent other demands took his mind from such problems. The +rumpus Goodhue had foreseen developed. Important men came or wrote from +New York or Philadelphia in Dalrymple's cause, but at the meetings of +the section George sat obdurate, and, when the struggle approached a +crisis, Goodhue came out openly on the side of his room-mate. + +"You can have Dalrymple in the club," was George's ultimatum, "or you +can have me, but you can't have us both." + +If George resigned, Goodhue announced, he would follow. Dalrymple was +doomed. The important men went back or ceased writing. Then Wandel +slipped Rogers into the charmed circle--the payment of a debt; and +George laughed and left the meeting, saying: + +"You can elect anybody you please now." + +Cynically, he was tempted to try to force Allen in. + +"You're not honest even with your own group," he said afterward to +Wandel. + +The club lost its value as a marker of progress. Besides, he didn't +look forward to eating with that little snob, Rogers, for two years. Nor +did he quite care for Wandel's reply. + +"You've enough class-consciousness for both of us, heroic and puissant +Apollo." + +For the first time George let himself go with Wandel. + +"You'll find Apollo Nemesis, little man, unless you learn to say what +you mean in words of one syllable." + +And the discussion of the clubs went on, breeding enmities but +determining no radical reform. + +The struggle at Princeton was over. George looked often at the younger +men, who didn't have to prepare themselves minutely for the greater +struggle just ahead, envying them their careless play, their proneness +to over-indulgence in beer and syncopated song. While he worked with +high and low prices and variations in exchange he heard them calling +cheerily across the campus, gathering parties for poker or bridge or a +session at the Nassau. Goodhue, even Wandel, found some time for +frivolity. George strangled his instinct to join them. He had too much +to do. In every diversion he took he wanted to feel there was a phase +personally valuable to him. + +He counted the days between his glimpses of Sylvia, and tried not to +measure the hours dividing his meetings with Betty. If only he dared let +himself go, dared cease battle for a little, dared justify Sylvia's +attitude! Even Goodhue noticed his avoidance of Betty. + +He encountered Sylvia in New York; asked her to dance with him; was +refused; cut in when she was, in a sense, helpless; and glided around +the room with a sullen, brilliant body that fairly palpitated with +distaste. + +Even during the summer he ran into her once on Long Island. Then he was +always missing her. Perhaps she had learned to avoid him. He shrank each +morning from his paper, from any bit of rumour connecting her with a +man; and Blodgett, he noticed, was still making money for a bachelor +bank account. + +He came to conceive a liking for his flabby employer, although he was +quite sure Blodgett wouldn't have bothered with him a moment if he +hadn't been a prominent college man with such ties among the great as +Blodgett hadn't been able to knot himself. What was more to the point, +the stout man admired George's ambition. He was more generous with his +surreptitious advice. He paid a larger salary which he admitted was less +than George earned during that summer. George, therefore, went back to +Princeton with fuller pockets. Again Mundy was loath to let him depart. + +"You know more about this game than men who've worked at it for years." + +His face of a parson grimaced. + +"You'd soon be able to hire me, if you'd stick on the job instead of +going back to college to get smashed up at football." + +George, however, didn't suffer much damage that year. He played +brilliantly through a season that without him would have been far more +disastrous than it was. + +When it was all over Squibs sat one night silently for a long time. At +last he stirred, lighted his pipe, and spoke. + +"I ought to say to you, George, that I was as satisfied with you in +defeat as I was in victory." + +"I outplayed Planter, anyway, didn't I?" + +Bailly studied him. + +"Did that mean more to you than having Princeton beaten?" + +"It kept Princeton from being beaten worse than it was." + +"Yes," Bailly admitted, "and, perhaps, you are right to find a personal +victory somewhere in a general defeat." + +"But you really think it selfish," George said. + +"I wish," Bailly answered, "I could graft on your brain some of Allen's +mental processes, even his dissatisfactions." + +"You can't," George said, bluntly. "I'm tired of Allen's smash talk. +Most people like him could be bought with the very conditions they +attack." + +Bailly arose and limped up and down. When he spoke his voice vibrated +with an unaccustomed passion: + +"I don't know. I don't think so. But I want you to realize that +prostrate worship of the fat old god success is as wicked as any other +idolatry. I want you to understand that Allen and his kind may be +sincere and right, that a vision unblinded by the bull's-eye may see +the target all awry. My fear goes back to your first days here. You are +still ashamed of service." + +"I've served," George said, hotly. + +"Was it real service," Bailly asked gently, "or a shot at the +bull's-eye?" + +Almost involuntarily George clapped his fingers to his head. + +"You're wrong, sir," he cried. "I've served when nothing but the thought +of service brought me through." + +Mrs. Bailly hurried in. She put one hand on George's shoulder. With the +other she patted his hair. + +"What's he scolding my boy for?" + +George grinned at Bailly. + +"Don't you see, sir, if I were as bad as you think she couldn't do +that?" + +Bailly nodded thoughtfully. + +"If you've served as you say you must be merely hiding the good." + + +XXX + +To himself at times George acknowledged his badness, in Bailly's terms +at least. He sometimes sympathized with Allen's point of view, even +while he heckled that angular man who often sat with him and Goodhue, +talking about strikes, and violence, and drunkenness as the quickest +recreation for men who had no time for play. He longed to tell Allen in +justification that he had walked out of the working class himself. +Later, staring at Sylvia's portrait, he would grow hard again. Men, he +would repeat, wanted to smash down obstacles only because they didn't +have the strength to scramble over. He had the strength. But Bailly +would intrude again. What about the congenitally unsound? + +"I'm not unsound," he would say to himself, studying the picture. + +And he suspected that it was because he didn't want to be good that he +was afraid of seeing too much of Betty Alston and her kindliness and the +reminiscence of tears in her eyes. If Squibs only knew how blessedly +easy it would be to turn good, to let ambition and Sylvia slip into a +remote and ugly memory! More frequently now he stared at her portrait, +forcing into his heart the thought of hatred and into her face the +expression of it; for the more hatred there was between them, the +smaller was the chance of his growing weak. + +He longed for the approaching escape from his gravest temptation. When +he was through college and definitely in New York he would find it +simpler to be hard. For that matter, why should he grow weak? He had +achieved a success far beyond the common. He would graduate president of +his class, captain of the football team, although he had tried to throw +both honours to Goodhue; member of the club that had drawn the best men +of his year, a power in the Senior Council; the man who had done most +for Princeton; a high-stand scholar; and, most important of all, one who +had acquired with his education a certain amount of culture and an ease +of manner in any company. Allen was still angular, as were most of those +other men who had come here, like George, with nothing behind them. + +In his success he saw no miracle, no luck beyond Squibs' early interest. +What he had won he had applied himself to get with hardness, cold +calculation, an indomitable will. He had kept his eyes open. He had used +everybody, everything, to help him climb toward Sylvia out of the valley +of humiliation. The qualities that had brought him all that were good +qualities, worth clinging to. As he had climbed he would continue in +spite of Bailly or Allen or Betty. But when he thought of Betty he had +to fight the tears from his own eyes. + +A little while before his graduation he went to her, knowing he must do +something to make her less kind, to destroy the impression she gave him +of one who, like Mrs. Bailly, always thought of him at his best. + +He walked alone through a bland moonlight scented with honeysuckle from +the hedges. His heart beat as it had that day four years ago when he had +unintentionally let Sylvia know his presumptuous craving. + +Two white figures strolled in front of the house. He went up, striving +to overcome the absurd reluctance in his heart. It wasn't simple to +destroy a thing as beautiful as this friendship. Betty paused and +turned, drawing her mother around. + +"I thought you'd quite forgotten us, George." + +Nor did he want to kill the welcome in her voice. + +"You're leaving Princeton very soon," Mrs. Alston said. "I'm glad you've +come. Of course, it isn't to say good-bye." + +He wondered if she didn't long for a parting to be broken only by +occasional meetings in town. He wondered if she didn't fear for Betty. +If there had been no Sylvia, if he had dared abandon the hard things and +ask for Betty, this imperious woman would have put plenty of searching +questions. But, he reflected, if it hadn't been for Sylvia he never +would have come so far, never would have come to Betty. Every +consideration held him on his course. + +He feared that Mrs. Alston, in her narrow, careful manner, wouldn't give +him an opportunity to speak to Betty alone. He was glad when they went +in and found Mr. Alston, who liked and admired him. When he left there +must come a chance. As he said good-night, indeed, Betty followed him to +the hall, and he whispered, so that the servant couldn't hear: + +"Betty, I've a confession. Won't you walk toward the gate with me?" + +The colour entered her white face as she turned and called to her +mother: + +"I'll walk to the gate with George." + +From the room he fancied a rustling, irritated acknowledgment. + +But she came, throwing a transparent scarf over her tawny hair, and they +were alone in the moonlight and the scent of flowers, walking side by +side across grass, beneath the heavy branches of trees. + +"See here, Betty! I've no business to call you that--never have had. +Without saying anything I've lied to you ever since I've been in +Princeton. I've taken advantage of your friendship." + +She paused. The thick leaves let through sufficient light to show him +the bewilderment in her eyes. Her voice was a little frightened. + +"You can't make me believe that. You're not the sort of man that does +such things. I don't know what you're talking about." + +"Thanks," he said, "but you're wrong, and I can't go away without +telling you just what I am." + +"You're just--George Morton," she said with a troubled smile. + +He tried not to listen. He hurried on with this killing that appealed to +him as necessary. + +"Remember the day in Freshman year, or before, wasn't it, when you +recognized Sylvia Planter's bulldog? It was her dog. She had given him +away--to me, because she had set him on me, and instead of biting he had +licked my face. So she said to take him away because she could never +bear to see him again." + +Betty's bewilderment grew. She spoke gropingly. + +"I guessed there had been something unusual between you and the +Planters. What difference does it make? Why do you tell me now? Anything +as old as that makes no difference." + +"But it does," he blurted out. "I know you too well now not to tell +you." + +"But you and Lambert are good friends. You dance with Sylvia." + +"And she," he said with a harsh laugh, "still calls me an impertinent +servant." + +Betty started. She drew a little away. + +"What? What are you talking about?" + +"Just that," he said, softly. + +He forced himself to a relentless description of his father and mother, +of the livery stable, of the failure, of his acceptance of the privilege +to be a paid by the week guardian on a horse of the beautiful Sylvia +Planter. The only point he left obscure was the sentimental basis of his +quarrel with her. + +"I _was_ impertinent," he ended. "She called me an impertinent servant, +a stable boy, other pleasant names. She had me fired, or would have, if +I hadn't been going anyway. Now you know how I've lied to you and what I +am!" + +He waited, arms half raised, as one awaits an inevitable blow. For a +minute she continued to stare. Then she stepped nearer. Although he had +suffered to win an opposite response, she did what he had forced Lambert +Planter to do. + +"No wonder Lambert admires you," she said, warmly. "To do so much from +such a beginning! I knew at first you were different from--from us. +You're not now. It's----" + +She broke off, drawing away a little again. He struggled to keep his +hands from her white, slender figure, from her hair, yellow in the +moonlight. + +"You don't understand," he said, desperately. "This thing that you say +I've become is only veneer. It may have thickened, but it's still +veneer." + +It hurt to say that more than anything else, for all along he had been +afraid it was the truth. + +"Underneath the veneer," he went on, "I'm the mucker, the stable boy if +you like. If I were anything else I would have told you all this years +ago. Betty! Betty!" + +She drew farther away. He thought her voice was frightened, not quite +clear. + +"Please! Don't say anything more now. I'd rather not. I--I----Listen! +What difference does it make to me or anybody where you came from? +You're what you are, what you always have been since I've known you. It +was brave to tell me. I know that. I'm going now. Please----" + +She moved swiftly forward, stretching out her hand. He took it, felt its +uncertain movement in his, wondered why it was so cold, tightened his +grasp on its delightful and bewitching fragility. Her voice was +uncertain, too. It caressed him as he unconsciously caressed her hand. + +"Good-night, George." + +He couldn't help holding that slender hand tighter. She swayed away, +whispering breathlessly: + +"Let me go now!" + +He opened his fingers, and she ran lightly, with a broken laugh, across +the lawn away from him. + +The moonlight was like the half light of a breathless chapel, and the +scent of flowers suggested death; yet he had not killed what he had come +to kill. + +When he couldn't see her white figure any more George Morton, greatest +of football players, big man of his class, already with greedy fingers +in the fat purse of Wall Street, flung himself on the thick grass and +fought to keep his shoulders from jerking, his throat from choking, his +eyes from filling with tears. + + + + +PART III + +THE MARKET-PLACE + + +I + +George left Princeton with a sense of flight. The reception of a diploma +didn't interest him, nor did the cheers he received class day or on the +afternoon of the Yale baseball game when, beneath a Japanese parasol, he +led the seniors in front of admiring thousands who audibly identified +him for each other. + +The man that had done most for Princeton! He admitted he had done a good +deal for himself. Of course, Squibs was right and he was abnormally +selfish; only it was too bad Betty couldn't have thought so. He had +tried to make her and had failed, he told himself, because Betty +couldn't understand selfishness. + +He avoided during those last days every chance of seeing her alone; but +even in the presence of others he was aware of an alteration in her +manner, to be traced, doubtless, to the night of his difficult +confession. She was kinder, but her eyes were often puzzled, as if she +couldn't understand why he didn't want to see her alone. + +He counted the moments, anxious for Blodgett and the enveloping +atmosphere of his marble-and-mahogany office. That would break the last +permanent tie. He would return to Princeton, naturally, but for only a +day or two now and then, too short a time to permit its influences +appreciably to swerve him. + +Without meaning to, he let himself soften on the very edge of his +departure when the class sang on the steps of Nassau Hall for the last +time, then burned the benches about the cannon, and in lock step, hands +on shoulders, shuffled slowly away like men who have accomplished the +interment of their youth. + +A lot of these mourning fellows he would never meet again; but he would +see plenty of Goodhue and Wandel and other useful people. Why, then, did +he abruptly and sharply regret his separation from all the others, even +the submerged ones who had got from Princeton only an education taken +like medicine and of about as much value? In the sway of this mood, +induced by permanent farewells, he came upon Dalrymple. + +"There's no point saying good-bye to you," George offered, kindly. + +Of course not. They would meet each other in town too frequently, +secreting a private enmity behind publicly worn masks of friendship. +George was wandering on, but Dalrymple halted him. The man was a trifle +drunk, and the sentiment of the moment had penetrated his narrow mind. + +"Not been very good friends, George, you and I." + +Even then George shrank from his apologies, since he appreciated their +precise value. + +"Why don't you forget it?" he asked, gruffly. + +Dalrymple nodded, but George knew in the morning the other would regret +having said as much as he had. + +Immediately after that sombre dissolution of the class George said +good-bye to the Baillys. Although it was quite late they sat waiting for +him in the study, neat and serene as it had been on that first day a +hundred years ago. The room was quite the same except that Bill +Gregory's picture had lost prominence while George's stood in the place +of honour--an incentive for new men, although George was confident +Squibs didn't urge certain of his qualities on his youngsters. + +Squibs looked older to-night, nearly as old, George thought, as the +disgraceful tweeds which he still wore. Mrs. Bailly sat in the shadows. +George kissed her and sank on the sofa at her side. She put her hand out +and groped for his, clinging to his fingers with a sort of despair. For +a long time they sat without speaking. George put his arm around her and +waited for one or the other to break this silence which became +unbearable. He couldn't, because as he dreamed among the shadows there +slipped into his mind the appearance and the atmosphere of another room +where three had sat without words on the eve of a vital parting. Tawdry +details came back of stove and littered table and ungainly chairs, and +of swollen hands and swollen eyes. He had suffered an unbearable silence +then because he had found himself suddenly incapable of speaking his +companions' language. With these two the silence was more difficult, +because there was too much to say--more than ever could be said. + +He started. Suppose Squibs at the very last should use his father's +parting words: + +"It's a bad start, but maybe you'll turn out all right after all." + +His lips tightened. Would it be any truer now than it had been then? For +that matter, would Squibs have cared for him or done as much for him, if +he had been less ambitious, if he had compromised at all? + +One thing was definite: No matter what he did these two would never +demand his exile; and the old pain caught him, and he knew it was real, +and not a specious cover for his relief at not having to see his parents +again. It hurt--most of all his mother's acceptance of a judgment she +should have fought with all her soul. + +He stroked the soft hand that clung to his. From that parting he had +come to the tender and eager maternal affection of this childless woman, +and he knew she would always believe he was right. + +But she wanted him to have Betty---- + +He stood up. He was going away from home. She expressed that at the +door. + +"This is your home, George." + +Bailly nodded. + +"Never forget that. Don't let your ideas smoulder in your own brain. +Come home, and talk them over." + +George kissed Mrs. Bailly. He put his hands on Bailly's narrow +shoulders. He looked at the young eyes in a wrinkled face. + +"The thing that hurts me most," he muttered, "is that I haven't paid you +back." + +"Perhaps not altogether," Bailly answered, gravely, "but someday you +may." + + +II + +The last thing George did before leaving his dismantled room, which for +so long had sheltered Sylvia's riding crop and her photograph, was to +write this little note to Betty: + + DEAR BETTY: + + It's simpler to go without saying good-bye. + + G. M. + +Then he was hustled through the window of the railroad train, out of +Princeton, and definitely into the market-place. + +After the sentiment of the final days the crowding, unyielding +buildings, and the men that shared astonishingly their qualities, +offered him a useful restorative. He found he could approximate their +essential hardness again. + +The Street at times resembled the campus--it held so many of the men he +had learned to know at Princeton. Lambert was installed in his father's +marble temple. He caught George one day on the sidewalk and hustled him +to a luncheon club. + +"I suppose I really ought to put you up here." + +"Why?" George asked. + +"Because I'm always sure of a good scrap with you. I missed not playing +against you in the Princeton game last fall. Now there's no more +football for either of us. I like scraps." + +Blodgett, he chanced to mention later, had spent the previous week-end +at Oakmont. Blodgett had already bragged of that in George's presence. +He forgot the excellent dishes Lambert had had placed before him. + +"Have you put Blodgett up here, too?" he asked in his bluntest manner. + +Lambert shook his head. + +"That's different." + +"Not very honestly different," George said, attempting a smile. + +"You mean," Lambert laughed, "because I've never asked you to Oakmont? +Under the circumstances----" + +"I don't mean that," George said. "I mean Blodgett." + +"I can only arrange my own likes and dislikes," Lambert answered, still +amused. + +Then who at Oakmont liked the fat financier? + +Rogers was in the street, too, selling bonds with his old attitude +toward the serious side of life, striving earnestly only to spy out the +right crowd and to run with it. + +"Buy my bonds! Buy my bonds!" he would cry, coming into George's office. +"They're each and every one a bargain. Remember, what's a bargain to-day +may be a dead loss to-morrow, so buy before it's too late." + +Goodhue planned to enter a stock exchange firm in the fall, and a lot of +other men from the class would come down then after a long rest between +college and tackling the world on twenty dollars a month. Wandel alone +of George's intimates rested irresolute. George, since he had taken two +rooms and a bath in the apartment house in which Wandel lived, saw him +frequently. He could easily afford that luxury, for each summer his +balance had grown, and Blodgett, now that he had George for as long as +he could keep him, was paying him handsomely, and flattering him by +drawing on the store of special knowledge his extended and difficult +application had hoarded. + +To live in such a house, moreover, was necessary to his campaign, which, +he admitted, had lagged alarmingly. Sylvia had continued to avoid him. +She seemed to possess a special sense for the houses and the parties +where he would be, and when, in spite of this, they did meet, she tried +to impress him with a thorough indifference; or, if she couldn't avoid a +dance, with a rigid repulsion that failed to harmonize with her warm +colouring and her exquisite femininity. + +Through some means he had to get on. His restless apprehension had +grown. Her departure for Europe with her mother fed the rumours that +from time to time had connected her name with eligible men. It was even +hinted now that her mother's eyesight, which reached to social greatness +across the Atlantic, was responsible for her celibacy. + +"There'll be an announcement before she comes back," the gossip ran. +"They'll land a museum piece of a title." + +George didn't know about that, but he did realize that unless he could +progress, one day a rumour would take body. He resented bitterly her +absence this summer, but if things would carry on until the fall he +would manage, he promised himself, to get ahead with Sylvia. + +Wandel seemed to enjoy having George near, for, irresolute as he was, he +spent practically the entire summer in town. George, one night when they +had returned from two hours' suffering of a summer show, asked him the +reason. They smoked in Wandel's library. + +"I can look around better here," was all Wandel would say. + +"But Driggs! Those precious talents!" + +Wandel stretched himself in an easy chair. + +"What would you suggest, great man?" + +George laughed. + +"Do you write poetry in secret--the big, wicked, and suffering city, +seen from a tenth-story window overlooking a pretty park?" + +Vehemently Wandel shook his head. + +"You know what most of our modern American jinglers are up to--talking +socialism or anarchy to get themselves talked about. If only they +wouldn't apply such insincere and half-digested theories to their art! +It's a little like modern popular music--criminal intervals and measures +against all the rules. But crime, you see, is invariably arresting. My +apologies to the fox-trot geniuses. They pretend to be nothing more than +clever mutilators; but the jinglers! They are great reformers. Bah! They +remind me of a naughty child who proudly displays the picture he has +torn into grotesque pieces, saying: 'Come quick, mother, and see what +smart little Aleck has done.' You'll have to try again, George." + +George glanced up. His face was serious. + +"Don't laugh at me. I mean it. Politics." + +"At Princeton I wasn't bad at that," Wandel admitted, smiling +reminiscently. "But politics mixes a man with an unlovely crowd--uncouth +provincials, a lot of them, and some who are to all purposes foreigners. +Do you know, my dear George, that ability to read and write is essential +to occupying a seat in the United States Senate? I was amazed the other +day to hear it was so. You see how simple it is to misjudge." + +"Then there's room," George laughed, "for more honest, well-educated, +well-bred Americans." + +"Seems to me," Wandel drawled, "that a little broad-minded practicality +in our politics would be more useful than bovine honesty. I could +furnish that. How should I begin?" + +"You might get a start in the State Department," George suggested, +"diplomacy, a secretaryship----" + +"For once you're wrong," Wandel objected. "In this country diplomacy is +a destination rather than a route. The good jobs are frequently given +for services rendered, or men pay enormous sums for the privilege of +being taken for waiters at their own functions. To start at the +bottom----Oh, no. I don't possess the cerebral vacuity, and you can only +climb out of the service." + +"Just the same," George laughed, "you'd make a tricky politician." + +Wandel puffed thoughtfully. + +"You're a far-seeing, a far-going person," he said. "You are bound to be +a very rich man. You'll want a few practical politicians. Isn't it so? +Never mind, but it's understood if I ever run for President or coroner +you'll back me with your money bags." + +George glanced about the room, as striking and costly in its French +fashion as the green study had been. + +"You have all the money you need," he said. + +"But I'd be a rotten politician," Wandel answered, "if I spent any of my +own money on my own campaigns. So we have an understanding if the +occasion should arise----" + +With a movement exceptionally quick for him, suggesting, indeed, an +uncontrollable nervous reaction, Wandel sprang to his feet and went to +the window where he leant out. George followed him, staring over the +park's far-spread velvet, studded with the small but abundant yellow +jewels of the lamps. + +"What is it, little man? It's insufferable in town. Why don't you go +play by the sea or in the hills?" + +"Because," Wandel answered, softly, "I can't help the feeling that any +occasion may arise. I don't mean our little politics, George. Time +enough for them. I don't want to go. I am waiting." + +George understood. + +"You mean the murders at Sarajevo," he said. "You're over-sensitive. Run +along and play. Nothing will come of that." + +"Tell me," Wandel said, turning slowly, "that you mean what you say. +Tell me you haven't figured on it already." + +George shrugged his shoulders. + +"You're discreet. All right. I have figured, because, if anything should +come of it, it offers the chance of a lifetime for making money. Mundy's +put me in touch with some useful people in London and Paris. I want to +be ready if things should break. I hope they won't. Honestly, I very +much doubt if they will. Even Germany will think twice before forcing a +general war." + +"But you're making ready," Wandel whispered, "on the off-chance." + +George pressed a switch and got more light. It was as if a heavy shadow +had filled the delightful room. + +"We're growing fanciful," he said, "seeing things in the dark. By the +way, you run into Dalrymple occasionally? I'm told he comes often to +town." + +Wandel left the window, nodding. + +"How long can he keep it up?" George asked. + +"I'm not a physician." + +"No, no. I mean financially. I gather his family live up to what they +have." + +"I daresay it would pain them to settle Dolly's debts frequently," +Wandel smiled. + +"Then," George said, slowly, "he is fairly sure to come to you--that is, +if this keeps up." + +"Why," Wandel asked, "should I encourage Dolly to be charitable to rich +wine agents and under-dressed females?" + +George shook his head. + +"If he asks you for help don't send him to the money lenders. Send him +discreetly to me. If I didn't have what he'd want, I daresay I could get +it." + +Wandel stared, lighting another cigarette. + +"I'd like to keep him from the money lenders," George said, easily. + +He didn't care whether Wandel thought him a forgiving fool or a +calculating scoundrel. Goodhue and Wandel had long since seen that he +had been put up at a number of clubs. The two had fancied they could +control Dalrymple's resentments. George, following his system, preferred +a whip in his own hand. He harboured no thought of revenge, but he did +want to be able to protect himself. He would use every possible means. +This was one. + +"We'll see," Wandel said. "It's too bad great men don't get along with +little wasters." + + +III + +More than once George was tempted to follow Sylvia, trusting to luck to +find means of being near her. Such a trip might, indeed, lead to profit +if the off chance should develop. Still that could be handled better +from this side, and it was, after all, a chance. He must trust to her +coming back as she had gone. His place for the present was with Blodgett +and Mundy. + +The chance, however, was at the back of his head when he encountered +Allen late one hot night in a characteristic pose in Times Square. Allen +still talked, but his audience of interested or tolerant college men had +been replaced by hungry, ragged loafers and a few flushed, well-dressed +males of the type that prefers any diversion to a sane return home. +Allen stood in the centre of this group. His arms gestured broadly. His +angular face was passionate. From the few words George caught his +sympathy for these failures was beyond measure. He suggested to them the +beauties of violence, the brilliancies of the social revolution. The +loafers commented. The triflers laughed. Policemen edged near. + +"Free liquor!" a voice shrilled. + +Allen shook his fist, and continued. The proletariat would have to take +matters into its own hands. + +"Fine!" a hoarse and beery listener shouted, "but what'll the cops say +about it?" + +The edging policemen didn't bother to say anything at first. They +quietly scattered the scarecrows and the laggards. They indicated the +advisability of retreat for the orator. Then one burst out at Allen. + +"God help the proletariat if I have to take it before McGloyne at the +station house." + +And George heard another sneer: + +"Social revolution! They've been trying to throw Tammany out ever since +I can remember." + +George got Allen away. The angular man was glad to see him. + +"You look overworked," George said. "Come have a modest supper with me." + +Allen was hungry, but he managed to grumble discouragement over his +food. + +"They laugh. They'll stop listening for the price of a glass of beer." + +"Maybe," George said, kindly, "they realize it's no good trying to help +them." + +"They've got to be helped," Allen muttered. + +"Then," George suggested, "put them in institutions, but don't expect me +nor any one else to approve when you urge them to grab the leadership of +the world. You must have enough sense to see it would mean ruin. I know +they're not all like this lot, but they're all a little wrong or they +wouldn't need help." + +"It's because they've never had a chance," Allen protested. + +It came to George that Allen had never had a chance either, and he +wondered if he, too, could be led aside by the price of a glass of beer. + +"You all want what the other fellow's got," he said. "From that one +motive these social movements draw the bulk of their force. A lot for +nothing is a perfect poor man's creed." + +"You're a heathen, Morton." + +"That is, a human being," George said, good naturedly. "You're another, +Allen, but you won't acknowledge it." + +Because he believed that, George took the other's address. Allen was +loyal, aggressive, and extraordinarily bright, as he had proved at +Princeton. It might be convenient to help him. Besides, he hated to see +a man he knew so well waste his time and look like a fool. + + +IV + +By late July the off chance had pretty thoroughly defined itself except +to the blind. Blodgett, however, was still skeptical. He thought +George's plans were sound, provided a war should come. But there +wouldn't be any war. His correspondents were optimistic. + +"Have I your permission to use Mundy in his off time?" George asked. + +"As far as I'm concerned," Blodgett said, "Mundy can play parchesi in +his off time." + +George telephoned Lambert Planter and sent a telegram to Goodhue. He +took them to luncheon and had Mundy there, too. He outlined his plans +for the formation of the firm of Morton, Planter, and Goodhue. + +"He's called the turn of the cards," Mundy offered. + +Such cards as he possessed George placed on the table. He furnished the +idea, and the preliminary organization, and what money he had. He took, +therefore, the major share of the profits. The others would give what +time to the business they could, but it was their money he wanted, and +the credit their names would give the firm. Mundy and he had made lists +of buyers and sellers. No man in the Street was better equipped than +Mundy to pick such a force. If Lambert and Goodhue agreed, these men +could be collected within a week. Some would go to Europe. Others would +scatter over the United States. It would cost a lot, but it meant an +immeasurable amount in return, for the war was inevitable. + +Goodhue and Lambert were as skeptical as Blodgett, but they agreed to +give him what he needed to get his organization started. By that time, +he promised them, they would see how right he was, and then he could use +more of their money. + +"It's the nearest I've ever come to gambling," he thought as he left +them. "Gambling on a war!" + +Because of his confidence, before a frontier had been crossed he had +bought or contracted for large quantities of shoes and cloths and +waterproofing. He had taken options on stock in small and wavering +automobile concerns, and outlying machine shops and foundries, some of +them already closed down, some struggling along without hope. + +"If the war lasts a month," he told his partners, "those stocks will +come from the bottom of nothing to the sky." + +Goodhue became thoroughly interested at last. He cancelled his vacation +and installed himself in the offices George had rented in Blodgett's +building. With the men Mundy had picked, and under Mundy's tutelage, he +took charge of the routine. George went to Blodgett the first of August. + +"I want to quit," he said. "I've got a big thing. I want to give it all +my time." + +Blodgett mopped his face. His grin was a little sheepish. + +"I want to invest some money in your firm," he jerked out. + +"I can use it," George said. + +"You've got Goodhue there," Blodgett went on in a complaining way, "and +Mundy's working nights for you. Don't desert an old man without notice. +I'll give you plenty of time upstairs. Other things may come off here. I +can use you." + +"If you want to pay me when you know my chief interest is somewhere +else," George said, "it's up to you." + +"When I think I'm getting stung I'll let you know," Blodgett roared. + +George sent for Allen, and urged him to go to London to open an office +with an expert Lambert had got from his father's marble temple. Allen +would be a check on the more experienced men whose scruples might not +stand the temptations of this vast opportunity. Allen said he couldn't +do it; couldn't abandon the work he had already commenced. + +"There'll be precious little talk of socialism," George said, "until +this thing is over. It's a great chance for a man to study close up the +biggest change the world has ever undergone. Those fellows will want +everything, and I'll give them everything I can lay my hands on. I'm +ahead of a lot of jobbers here. I'll pay you well to see I don't get +robbed on that side. Come on. Take a shot at hard facts for a change." + +Allen gasped at the salary George mentioned. He hesitated. He went. +George was glad to have helped him. He experienced also an ugly sense of +triumph. He felt that he wanted to tell Squibs Bailly right away. + +Sylvia and her mother, he heard later, had come home out of the turmoil, +unacquainted with the discomforts of people who had travelled without +the Planter prestige. Whether the war was to blame or not, she had +returned without a single rumour touching fact. He didn't see her right +away, because she clung to Oakmont. More and more, as his success +multiplied, keeping pace with the agony in Europe, he longed to see her. +All at once a return to Oakmont was, in a sense, forced upon him, but he +went without any thought of encountering Sylvia, hoping, indeed, to +avoid her. + +It was like his mother to express her letter with telegraphic bluntness +without, however, going to the expense of actually wiring. Where he had +expected her customary stiff gratitude for money sent he found a +scrawled announcement of his father's death, and her plans for the +funeral the following afternoon. + +"Of course you won't come," she ended. + +Yet it seemed to him that he should go, to arrange her future. This was +the moment to snap the last enslaving tie between the Mortons and +Oakmont. There was, of course, the chance of running into Sylvia, or +some visitor who might connect him with the little house. Suppose +Dalrymple, for example, should be staying with the Planters as he often +did? George shrugged his shoulders. Things were coming rather rapidly to +him. Besides, it was extremely unlikely that any one from the great +house would see the Morton ceremony. The instincts of those people +would be to avoid such sights. + + +V + +About his return there was a compelling thrill. He drove from the +station in one of the cheap automobiles that had made his father +practically a pensioner of the Planters. With an incredulous +appreciation that he had once accepted its horizon as the boundary of +his life, he examined the familiar landscape and the scar made upon it +by the village. Curtly he refused to satisfy the driver's curiosity. He +had some business at the little house on the Planter estate. + +There, through the nearly stripped trees, it showed, almost audibly +confessing its debt to the Planter carpenters, painters, and gardeners. +In a clouded light late fall flowers waved from masses of dead leaves. +Their gay colours gave them an appearance melancholy and apprehensive. + +Here he was back at last, and he wasn't going in at the great gate. + +He walked around the shuttered house and crossed the porch where his +father had liked to sit on warm evenings. He rapped at the door. Feet +shuffled inside. The door swayed open, and his mother stood on the +threshold. Most of the changes had come to him, but in her red eyes +sparkled a momentary and mournful importance. At first she didn't +recognize her son. + +"What is it?" + +George stooped and kissed her cheek. + +"I'm sorry, Mother." + +Instead of holding out her arms she drew away, staring with fascination, +a species of terror, at his straight figure, at his clothing, at his +face that wouldn't coarsen now. When she spoke her voice suggested a +placating of this stranger who was her son. + +"I didn't think you'd come. I can't believe you're George--my Georgie." + +Over her shoulders in the shadowed house he saw the inquisitive faces of +women. It was clear that for them such an arrival was more divertive +than the sharing of a sorrow that scarcely touched their hearts. + +George went in. He remembered most of the faces that disclosed +excitement while fawning upon his prosperity. He received an unpleasant +impression that these poor and ignorant people concealed a dangerous +envy, that they would be glad to grasp in one moment, even of violence, +all that it had taken him years of difficult struggle to acquire. +Whether that was so or not they ought not to stand before him as if his +success were a crown. He tried to keep contempt from his voice. + +"Please sit down. I want to talk to my mother. Where----" + +With slow steps she crossed the kitchen and opened the door of the +parlour, beckoning. He followed, knowing what he would find in that +uncomfortable, gala room of the poor. + +He closed the door. In the half light he saw standing on trestles an +oblong box altogether too large for the walls that seemed to crowd it. +He had no feeling that anything of his father was there. He realized +with a sense of helpless regret that all that remained to him of that +unhappy man were the ghosts of such emotions as avarice, fear, and the +instinct to sacrifice one's own flesh and blood for a competence. + +"Why don't you look at him, George?" + +"I don't think he'd care to have me looking at him now." + +She wiped her eyes. + +"You are too bitter against your father. After all, he was a good man." + +"Why should death," he asked her, musingly, "make people seem better +than they were in life? It isn't so." + +"That's wicked. If your father could rise----" + +His attention was caught by an air of pointing the oblong box had, as if +to something infinitely farther than ambition and success, yet so close +it angered him he couldn't see or touch it. His father had gone there, +beyond the farthest horizon of all. Old Planter couldn't make trouble +for him now. He was quite safe. + +Over in Europe, he reflected, they didn't have enough coffins. + +The oblong box for the first time made him think of that war, that was +making him rich, in terms of life instead of dollars and cents. He felt +dissatisfied. + +"There should be more light here," he said, defensively. + +But his mother shook her head. + +He arranged a chair for her and sat near by while they discussed the +details of her departure. She let him see that she shrank from leaving +the house, against which, nevertheless, she had bitterly complained ever +since Old Planter had got it. Evidently she wanted to linger in her +familiar rut, awaiting with the attitude of a martyr whatever fate might +offer. That was the reason people had to be helped, because they +preferred vicious inertia to the efforts and risks of change. Then why +did they want the prizes of those who had had the courage to go forth +and fight? Why couldn't Squibs see that? + +Patiently George told her she needn't worry about money again. She had a +sister who years ago had married and moved West to a farm that was not +particularly flourishing. Undoubtedly her sister would be glad to have +her and her generous allowance. So his will overcame his mother's +reluctance to help herself. She glanced up. + +"Who is that?" + +He listened. The women in the kitchen were standing again. Light feet +crossed the floor. + +"Maybe somebody from the big house," his mother whispered. "They sent +Simpson last night." + +For a moment the entire building was as silent as the oblong box. Then +the door opened. + +Sylvia Planter slipped in and closed the door. + +George caught his breath, studying her as she hesitated, accustoming +herself to the insufficient light. She wore a broad-brimmed hat that +gave her the charm and the grace of a portrait by Gainsborough. When she +recognized him, indeed, she seemed as permanently caught as a portrait. + +"Miss Sylvia!" his mother worshipped. + +"They told me I would find you here," Sylvia said, uncertainly. "I +didn't know----" + +She broke off, biting her lip. George strolled around the oblong box to +the window, turning there with a slow bow. Even across that desolate, +dead shell, the obstinate distaste and the challenge were lively in her +glance. + +"It was very kind of you to come," he said. + +But he was sorry she had come. To see him in such surroundings was a +stimulation of the ugly memories he had struggled to destroy. He read +her instinct to hurt him now as she had hurt the impertinent man, +Morton, who had lived in this house. + +"When one of our people is in trouble----" she began, deliberately. "I +thought I might be of some help to your mother." + +Even over the feeling of security George had just tried to give her the +old menace reached the uneasy woman. + +"You--you remember him, Miss Sylvia?" + +"Very well," Sylvia answered. "He used to be my groom." + +"The title comes from you," George said, dryly. + +His mother's glance fluttered from one to the other. What did she +expect--Old Planter stalking in to carry out his threats? + +"After all these years I scarcely knew him myself." + +Sylvia's colour heightened. He appraised her rising temper. + +"Bad servants," he said, "linger in good employers' memories." + +"I know, Miss Sylvia," his mother burst out, "that he wasn't to come +back here, but----" + +She unclasped her nervous hands. One indicated the silent cause of his +disobedience. George moved toward the door. Sylvia stepped quickly +aside. He felt, like a physical wave, her desire to hurt. + +"At such a time," she said, "it's natural he should come back to his +home. I think my father would be glad to have him with his mother." + +George shrugged his shoulders, slipped out, navigated the shoals of +whispering women, and reached the clean air. He buttoned his overcoat +and shuffled through the dead leaves beneath the trees until he found +himself at the spot where Lambert and he had fought. He recalled his +hot boasts of that day. Fulfilment had seemed simple enough then. The +scene just submitted reminded him how short a distance he had actually +travelled. + +He knew she would pass that way on her return to the big house, so he +waited, and when he heard her feet disturbing the dead leaves he didn't +turn. She came closer than he had expected, and he heard her contralto +voice, quick and defiant: + +"I hadn't expected to see you. I didn't quite realize what I was saying. +I should have had more respect for any one's grief." + +Having said that, she was going on, but he turned and stopped her. As he +looked at her he reflected that everything had altered since that +day--she most of all. Then the woman had been a little visible in the +child. Now, he fancied, the child survived in the woman only through the +persistence of this old quarrel. He stared at her lips, recalling his +boast that no man should touch them unless it were George Morton. He was +no nearer them than he had been that day. Unless he got nearer some man +would. It was incredible that she hadn't married. She would marry. + +"In the sense you mean, I have no grief," he said. + +"Then I needn't have bothered. I once said you were a--a----" + +"Something melodramatic. A beast, I think it was," he answered. "If you +don't mind I'll walk on with you for a little way." + +"No," she said. + +"If you please." + +"You've no perception," she cried, angrily. + +"Don't you think it time," he suggested, "that you ceased treating me +like a groom? It isn't very convincing to me. I doubt if it is to you. I +fancy it's really only your pride. I don't see why you should have so +much where I am concerned." + +Her hand made a quick gesture of repulsion. + +"You've not changed. You may walk on with me while I tell you this: If +you were like the men I know and can be friends with you'd leave me +alone. Will you stop this persecution? It comes down to that. Will you +stop forcing me to dance with you, to listen to you?" + +He smiled, shaking his head. + +"I'll make you dance with me more than ever. I've seen very little of +you lately. I hope this winter----" + +She stopped, facing him, her cheeks flaming. + +"You see! You remind me every time I meet you of just what you are, just +what you came from, just what you said and did that day." + +"That is my aim," he smiled. + +He moved his hand in the direction of the little house. + +"When we're all like that will it make much difference who our fathers +and mothers were?" + +She shivered. She started swiftly away. + +"Miss Planter!" + +The unexpectedness of the naked command may have brought her around. He +walked to her. + +"When will you realize," he asked, "that it is unforgivable to turn your +back on life?" + +Had he really meant to suggest that she could possess life only through +him? Doubtless the sublime effrontery of that interpretation reached +her. She commenced to laugh, her colour rising. She glanced away, and +her laughter died. + +"You may as well understand," he said, "that I am never going to leave +you alone." + +She started across the leaf-strewn grass. He kept pace with her. + +"Are you going to force me to make a scene?" she asked. + +"Except with your father," he said, "I don't think it would make much +difference." + +He felt that if she had had anything in her hands then she would have +struck at him. + +"It's not because I'm a beast," he said, quietly, "that I have no grief +for my father. He was through. Life had nothing to offer him. He had +nothing to offer life. Don't think I'm incapable of grief. I experienced +it the day I thought you might be dead. That was because you had so +much to offer life--rather more than life had to offer you." + +He saw her shrink from him but she walked on, repressing her pain and +her anger. + +"Since I've known intimately girls of your class," he said, "I've +realized that not all of them would have turned and tried to wound as +you did that day. Some would have laughed. Some would have been sorry +and sympathetic. I don't think many would have made such a scene." + +He smiled down at her. + +"I want you to realize it is your own fault. You started this. I'm not +scolding. I'm glad you were such a little fury. Otherwise, I might have +gone on working for your father or for somebody else's father. But +you're to blame for my persistence, so learn to put up with it. As long +as I keep the riding crop with which you tried to cut my face I'll +remember what I said I'd do, and I'll do it." + +She didn't answer, but if she tried to give him the impression she +wasn't listening she failed utterly. + +Around a curve in the path came a bent, white old man, bundled in a +heavy muffler and coat. In one hand he carried a thick cane. The other +rested on the arm of a young fellow of the private secretary stamp. +There, George acknowledged, advanced the single person with whom a scene +might make a serious difference, yet a more compelling thought crept in +and overcame his sense of danger. That was the type of man who made +wars. That man, indeed, was helping to finance this war. George was +obsessed by the dun day: by the leaves, fallen and rotten; by the memory +of the oblong box. Everything reminded him that not far away Death +marched with a bland, black triumph, greeting science as an ally instead +of an enemy. + +"Suppose," he mused, "America should get in this thing." + +At last she spoke. + +"What did you say? Do you see my father?" + +He nodded. + +"Wouldn't it be wiser," she asked, "to leave me alone?" + +"Your father," he said, "looks a good deal older." + +Old Planter had, in fact, gone down hill since George's last glimpse of +him in New York, or else he didn't attempt here to assume a strength he +no longer possessed. He was quite close before he gave any sign of +seeing the pair, and then he muttered to his secretary who answered with +a whisper. He limped up and took Sylvia's hand. + +"Where has my little girl been?" + +She laughed harshly. + +"To a rendezvous in the forest. You shouldn't let me go out alone." + +Planter glanced from clouded eyes at George. His lips between the white +hair smiled amiably. + +"I don't believe I remember----" + +"It's one of Lambert's business friends," Sylvia said, hastily. "Mr. +Morton." + +The old man shifted his cane and held out his hand. + +"Lambert," he joked, "says he's going to make more money through you +than I can hope to leave him. You seem to have got the jump on a lot of +shrewd men. I'll see you at dinner? Lambert isn't coming to-night?" + +George briefly clasped the hand of the big man. + +"I must go back to town this afternoon." + +"Then another time." + +Planter shifted his cane and leant again on his secretary. + +"Let's get on, Straker. Doctor's orders." + +"Why," George asked when Sylvia and he were alone, "didn't you spring at +the chance?" + +"I prefer to fight my own battles," she said, shortly. + +"Don't you mean," he asked, quizzically, "that you're a little ashamed +of what you did that day?" + +She shook her head. + +"I was a frightened child. I have changed." + +"Isn't it," he laughed, "a little because I, too, have changed? It never +occurred to your father to connect me with the Mortons living on his +place." + +Again she shook her head, turning away. He held out his hand. + +"I must go back. Let's admit we've both changed. Let us be friends." + +She didn't answer. She made no motion to take his hand. + +"One of the promises I made that day," he reminded her, "was to teach +you not to be afraid of my touch." + +"Does it amuse you to threaten me?" she asked. + +Suddenly he reached out, caught her right hand before she could avoid +him, and gave it a quick pressure. + +"Of course you're right," he laughed. "Actions are more useful than +threats." + +While she stared, flushed and incredulous, at the hand he had pressed, +George walked swiftly away, tingling with life, back to the house of +death. + + +VI + +At the funeral he submitted to the amazed scrutiny of the country +people. They couldn't hurt him, because they impinged not at all on his +world; but he was relieved when the oblong box had been consigned to the +place reserved for it, and he could, after arranging the last details of +his mother's departure, take the train back to New York. + +Blodgett didn't even bother to ask where he had been. He was content +these days to let George go his own way. He hadn't forgotten that the +younger man had seen farther off than he the greatest opportunity for +money making the world had ever offered the greedy. He personally was +more interested in the syndicating of foreign external loans. The +Planters weren't far from the head of that movement, and George rather +resented his stout employer's working hand in hand with the Planters. +George longed to ask him how often he was trying to appear graceful at +Oakmont these days. + +The firm of Morton, Planter, and Goodhue had grown so rapidly that it +took practically all of George's and Lambert's time. Mundy, to whom +George had given a small interest, asked Blodgett if he couldn't leave +to devote himself entirely to the offices upstairs. + +"Go to it," Blodgett agreed, good naturedly. "Draw your profits and your +salary from Morton after this." + +George mulled over the sacrifice. Did it mean that Blodgett was so close +to the Planters that a merger was possible? + +"There's no use," he told Blodgett. "I'm earning practically nothing in +your office, because I'm never here. I want to resign." + +"Run along, sonny," Blodgett said. "Your salary is a small portion of +the profits your infant firm is bringing me. I like you around the +office once a day. Old Planter hasn't fired his boy, has he, and he's +upstairs all the time, and he's taken over some of the old man's best +clerks." + +"He's Mr. Planter's son," George reminded him. + +"And ain't you like a good son to me," the other leered, "making money +for papa Blodgett?" + +"Why did you let Mundy go so peacefully?" George asked, suspiciously. + +"Because," Blodgett said, "he's been here a good many years, and he can +make more money this way. Didn't want to stand in his light, and I had +somebody in view." + +But George wouldn't credit Blodgett with such altruism. Why was the man +so infernally good natured, exuding an oily content? Goodhue hinted at a +reason one day when they were talking of Sinclair and his lack of +interest in the office. + +"I've heard rather privately," Goodhue said, "that Sinclair got pretty +badly involved a few months ago. If it hadn't been for Blodgett he'd +have gone on the rocks a total wreck. Josiah puffed up and towed him +away whole. Naturally Sinclair and his lady are grateful. I daresay this +winter Blodgett's receiving invitations he's coveted, and if he gives +any parties himself he'll have some of the people he's always wanted." + +George hid his disapproval. Blodgett didn't even have a veneer. Money +was all he could offer. And was Sinclair a great fool, or Blodgett the +cleverest man in Wall Street, that Sinclair didn't know who had involved +him and why? + +As a matter of fact, Blodgett did appear at several dances, wobbling +about the room to the discomfort of slender young things, getting +generally in everyone's way. George hated to see him attempting to dance +with Sylvia Planter. Sylvia seemed rather less successful in avoiding +him than she did in keeping out of George's way. Until Blodgett's +extraordinary week-end in February, indeed, George didn't have another +chance to speak to her alone. + +"Of course you'll come, George," Blodgett said. "If this weather holds +there'll be skating and sleighing--horses always, if you want 'em; and a +lot of first-class people." + +"Who?" George asked. + +"How about another financial chick--one of your partners?" + +"Lambert Planter?" + +The puffy face expanded. + +"And the Sinclairs, because I'm a bachelor, and----" + +But, since he could guess Sylvia would be there, George didn't care for +any more names. He wondered why Lambert or his sister should go. Had her +attitude toward the fat, coarse man conceivably altered because of his +gambolling at Oakmont? While he talked business with Mundy, Lambert, and +Goodhue, George's mind was distracted by a sense of imponderable loss. +Was it the shadow of what Sylvia had lost by accepting such an +invitation? + +He didn't go until Saturday afternoon--there was too much to occupy him +at the office. This making money out of Europe's need had a good deal +constricted his social wanderings. It was why he hadn't frequently seen +Dalrymple close enough for annoyance; why he had met Betty only briefly +a very few times. He hadn't expected to run into either of them at +Blodgett's, but both were there. Betty was probably Lambert's excuse for +rushing out the night before. + +George felt sorry for Mrs. Sinclair. Still against the corpulent +crudities of her host she could weigh the graces of his guests. It +pleased George that her greeting for him should be so warm. + +The weather, too, had been considerate of Blodgett, refraining from +injuring his snow or ice. A musical and brassy sleigh met George at the +station. Patches of frosty white softened the lines of the house and +draped the self-conscious nudity of the sculpture in the sunken garden. + +"And it'll snow again to-night, sir," the driver promised, as if even +the stables pulled for the master's success. + +Everyone was out, but it was still early, so George asked for a horse +and hurried into his riding clothes. He had been working rather too hard +recently. The horse a groom brought around was a good one, and by no +means overworked. George was as eager as the animal to limber up and go. +Off they dashed at last along a winding bridle-path, broken just enough +to give good footing. The war, and his share of helping the allies--at a +price; his uncomfortable fear that the Baillys didn't like him to draw +success from such a disaster; his disapproval of Sylvia's coming +here--all cleared from his head as he galloped or trotted through the +sharp air. + +One thing: Blodgett hadn't spoiled these woodland bridle-paths; yet +George had a sensation of always looking ahead for a nude marble figure +at a corner, or an urn elaborately designed for simple flowers, or some +iron animals to remind a hunter that Blodgett knew what a well-bred +forest was for. Instead he saw through the trees ice swept clear of snow +across which figures glided with joyful sounds. + +"Some of his flashy guests," George thought. + +He rode slowly to the margin of the pond, which shared the colour of the +sky. Several of the skaters cried greetings. He recognized Dalrymple +then, skating with a girl. Dalrymple veered away, waving a careless +hand, Lambert came on, fingers locked with Betty's, and scraped to a +halt at the pond's edge. + +"So the war's stopped for the week-end at last?" Lambert called. + +"I wondered if you'd come at all," Betty cried. + +George dismounted, smothering his surprise. + +"A men and youths' general furnisher," he said, "has to stick pretty +much to the store. I never dreamed of seeing you here, Betty." + +Perhaps Lambert caught George's real meaning. + +"She's staying with Sylvia," he explained, "so, of course, she came." + +George mounted and rode on, his mood suddenly as sunless as the +declining afternoon. Those two still got along well enough. Certainly it +was time for a rumour to take shape there. He had a sharp appreciation +of having once been younger. Suppose, because of his ambition, he should +see all his friends mate, leaving him as rich as Blodgett, and, like +him, unpaired? He quickened the pace of his horse. It was inconceivable. +No matter what Sylvia did he would never slacken his pursuit. In every +other direction he had forged ahead. Eventually he would in that one. +Then why did it hurt him to picture Betty gone beyond his reach? + +He crossed the Blodgett boundaries, and entered a country road as +undisturbed and enticing as the private bridle-paths had been. He took +crossroads at random, keeping only a sense of direction, trying to +understand why he was sorry he had to be with Betty when he had come +only to be near Sylvia. + +The thickening dusk warned him, and he chose a road leading toward +Blodgett's. First he received the horseman's sense of something ahead of +him. Then he heard the muffled tread of horses in the snow, and +occasionally a laugh. + +"More of Josiah's notables," he hazarded. + +He put spurs to his horse, and in a few minutes saw against the snow +three dark figures ambling along at an easy trot. When he had come +closer he knew that two of the riders were men, the other a woman. It +was easy enough to identify Blodgett. A barrel might have ridden so if +it had had legs with which to balance itself; and that slender figure +was probably the trapped Sinclair. George hurried on, his premonition +assuming ugly lines of reality. Even at that distance and from the rear +he guessed that the graceful woman riding between the two men was +Sylvia. Why had she chosen an outing with the ridiculous Blodgett? +Sinclair, no man possessed sufficient charm to offset the disadvantages +of such a companionship. + +George, when he was sure, reined in, surprised at his reflections. +Blodgett, heaven knew, had been good to him, and he had once liked the +man. Why, then, had he turned so viciously against him? Adjectives his +mind had recently applied to Blodgett flashed back: "Coarse," "fat," +"ridiculous." Was it just? Why did he do it in spite of himself? + +Sinclair turned and saw him. The party reined in, Sylvia, as one would +have expected, impatiently in advance of the others. Her nod and +something she said were lost in the men's cheery greetings. Since she +was in advance, and edging on, as if to get farther away from him, +George's opportunity was plain. The road wasn't wide enough for four +abreast. If he could move forward with her Blodgett and Sinclair would +have to ride together. + +"Since I'm the last," he interrupted them, "mayn't I have first place?" + +Quite as a matter of course he put his horse through and reined in at +her side. They started forward. + +"You ride as well as ever," he commented. + +She shot a glance at him. Calmly he studied the striking details of her +face. Each time he saw her she seemed more desirable. How was he to +touch those lips that had filled his boy's heart with bursting thoughts? +For the first time since that day they rode together, only now he was at +her side, instead of heeling like a trained dog. In his man's fashion he +was as well clothed as she. When they got back he would enter the great +house with her instead of going to the stables. Whether she cared to +acknowledge it or not he was of her kind--more so than the millionaire +Blodgett ever could be. So he absorbed her beauty which fired his +imagination. Such a repetition seemed ominous of a second climax in +their relations. + +Her quick glance, however, disclosed only resentment for his intrusion. +He excused it. + +"You see, I couldn't very well ride behind you." + +She turned away. + +"Hurry a little," Blodgett called. + +It was what George wished, as she wished to crawl, never far in advance +of the others. + +"Come," he said, and flecked her horse with his crop. + +"Don't do that again!" + +He had gathered his own horse, and was galloping. Hers insisted on +following. When George pulled in to keep at her side they were well in +advance of the others. Now that he was alone with her he found it +difficult to speak, and evidently she would limit his opportunity, for +as he drew in she spurred her horse. He caught her, laughing. + +"You may as well understand that I'll never ride behind you again." + +She pressed her provocative lips together. So in silence, except for the +crunching and scattering of the snow, they tore on through the dusk, +rounding curves between hedges, rising to heights above bare, white +stretches of landscape, dipping into hollows already won by the night. +And each moment they came nearer the house. + +In the night of the hollows he battled his desire to reach over and +touch her, and cry out: + +"Sylvia! You've got to understand!" + +And in one such place her horse stumbled, and she pulled in and bent low +over her saddle, and said, as if he had really spoken: + +"I can't understand----" + +Her outline was blurred, but her face was like a light in that shadowed +valley. He didn't speak until they were up the hill and the wind had +caught them. + +"What?" he asked then. + +Was it the glow, offered by the white earth rather than the sky, that +made him fancy her lips quivered? + +"Why you always try to hurt me." + +He thought of her broken riding crop, of her attempts to hurt him every +time he had seen her since the day she had tried to cut him with it. A +single exception clung to his memory--the night of Betty's dance, years +ago, when she had failed to remember him. Her words, therefore, carried +a thrill, a colour of surrender, since from the very first she had made +him attack for his own defence. + +"That's an odd thing for you to say." + +There were lights ahead, accents in the closing night for Blodgett's +huge and ugly extravagance. They rode slowly up the drive. + +"Will you ever stop following me? Will you ever leave me alone?" + +He stared at her, answering softly: + +"It is impossible I should ever leave you alone." + +At the terrace he sprang down, tossed his reins to a groom, and went to +her, raising his hands. For a moment she looked at him, hesitating. +There were two grooms. So she took his hands and leapt down. It was a +quick, uncertain touch her fingers gave him. + +"Thanks," she said, and crossed the terrace at his side. + +That moment, he reflected, was in itself culminating, yet he couldn't +dismiss the feeling that their relations approached a larger climax. All +the better, since things couldn't very well go on as they were. Was it +that fleeting contact that had altered him, or her companionship in the +gray night? He only knew as he walked close to her that the bitterness +in his heart had diminished. He was willing to relinquish the return +blow if she would ease the hurt she had given him. He told himself that +she had never been nearer. An odd fancy! + +The others rode up as they reached the door, and the hall was noisy with +people just returned from the pond, so that their solitude was +destroyed. While he bathed and dressed he tried to understand just what +had happened. The alteration in his own heart could only be accounted +for by a change in hers. Perhaps his mood was determined by her +unexpected wonder that he should always try to hurt. He couldn't drive +from his mind the definite impression of her having come nearer. + +"Winter sentiment!" he sneered, and hurried, for it was late. + + +VII + +Lambert dropped in and lounged in a satin-covered chair while George +wrestled with his tie. He gave Lambert the freshest news from the +office, but his mind wasn't on business, nor, he guessed, was Lambert's. + +"Blodgett does one rather well," Lambert said, glancing around the room. + +George agreed. + +"Only a marquise might feel more at ease in this room than a mere male." + +He turned, smiling. + +"I'm always afraid the furniture won't hold. Why should he have raised +such a monster?" + +"Maybe," Lambert offered, "to have it ready for a wife." + +"Who would marry him?" George flashed. + +"Nearly any girl," Lambert said. "So much money irons out a lot of fat. +Then, when all's said and done, he's amusing and generous. He always +tries to please. Why? What's made you scornful of Josiah?" + +"There are some things," George said, "that one oughtn't to be able to +buy with money." + +Lambert arose, walked over to George, put his hands on his shoulders, +and stared at him quizzically. + +"You're a curious brute." + +"I know what you mean," George said, "but let me remind you that money +was just one of three things I started for." + +Lambert's grasp tightened. + +"And in a way you've got them all." + +George shook off Lambert's grasp. + +In a way! + +"Let's go down." + +In a way! It was rather cooling. It reminded him, too, that Squibs +Bailly remained unpaid; and there was Sylvia, only a trifle nearer, and +that, perhaps, in an eager imagination. Certainly he had forced some +success, but would he actually ever complete anything? Would he ever be +able to say I have acquired an exterior exactly as genuine as that one +inherits, or I am a great millionaire, or I have proved myself worthy of +all Squibs has given me, or I am Sylvia Planter's husband? Of course he +had succeeded, but only in a way. Where was his will that he couldn't +conquer altogether? + +As he came down the stairs he saw Sylvia in a dazzling gown standing in +front of the great fireplace surrounded by a group which included +Dalrymple and Rogers who had managed an invitation and had just arrived +with Wandel. Wandel brought excuses from Goodhue. It was like Goodhue, +George thought, to avoid such a party. + +Dalrymple smirked and chatted. George left Lambert and went straight to +them. Sylvia could always be depended upon to be gracious to Dalrymple. +She glanced at George and nodded. Although she continued to talk to +Dalrymple she didn't turn away. George thought, indeed, that he detected +a slight movement as if to make room for him. It was as if he had been +any man of her acquaintance coming up. Then he had been right? + +"Josiah said we'd have you," Dalrymple drawled. "Why didn't you skate? +Anything to get on a horse, what? Freezing pleasure this weather." + +George smiled at Sylvia. + +"Not with the right horse and companionship." + +Any one could see that Dalrymple had already swallowed an antidote for +whatever benefit the day's fresh air and exercise had given him. Still +in the weak face, across which the firelight played, George read other +traits, settled, in a sense admirable; more precious than any +inheritance a son could expect from a washerwoman mother and a labouring +father. Then what was it Dalrymple had always coveted? What had made him +rude to the poor men at Princeton? Something he hadn't had. Money. +America, George reflected, could breed people like that. There was more +than one way of being a snob. He wondered if Dalrymple would ever +submerge his pride enough to come to him for money. He might go to +Blodgett first, but George wasn't at all sure Blodgett would find it +worth his while to buy up the young man. + +Blodgett just then joined them. The white waistcoat encircling his +rotund middle was like an advance agent, crying aloud: "The great Josiah +is arriving just behind me." + +"Everybody having a good time?" he bellowed. + +Mrs. Sinclair, sitting near by, looked up, but her husband smiled +indulgently. George watched Sylvia. Blodgett put the question to her. + +"That was a fine ride, wasn't it? I'm always a little afraid for the +horse I ride, though; might bend him in the middle." + +George couldn't understand why she gave that friendly smile he coveted +to Blodgett. + +"I'd give a lot to ride like this young man," Blodgett went on, patting +George's back. He preened himself. "Still we can't all be born in the +saddle." + +The thing was so obvious George laughed outright. Even Sylvia conceded +its ugly, unintentional humour. A smile drew at the corners of her +mouth. If she could enjoy that she was, indeed, for the moment nearer. + +Two servants glided around with trays. + +Blodgett gulped the contents of his glass and smacked his lips. + +"That fellow of mine," he boasted, "has his own blend. Not bad." + +Sylvia drank hers with Dalrymple, while Betty over there shook her head. +Probably it was his ungraceful inheritance that made George dislike a +glass in Sylvia's fingers. Dalrymple slipped away. + +"Dividends in the smoking-room!" Blodgett roared. + +"Dalrymple's drawing dividends," George thought. + +The procession for the dining-room formed and disbanded. Blodgett had +Mrs. Sinclair and Sylvia at either hand. It was natural enough, but +George resented the arrangement, particularly with Dalrymple next to +Sylvia on the other side. Betty sat between Dalrymple and Lambert. +George was nearly opposite, flanked by fluffy clothes and hair; and +straightway each ear was choked with fluffy chatter--the theatre; the +opera, from the side of sartorial criticism; the east coast of +Florida--"but why should I go so far to see exciting bathing suits out +of season and tea tables wabbling under palm trees?"--a scandal or +two--that is such details as were permissible in his presence. He +divided his ears sufficiently to catch snatches from neighbouring +sections of the table. + +"Of course, we'll keep out of it." + +It was Wandel, speaking encouragingly to a pretty girl. Out of what? +Confound this chatter! Oh! The war, of course. It was the one remark of +serious import that reached him throughout the dinner, and the country +faced that possibility, and an increasing unrest of labour, and grave +financial questions. The diners might have been people who had fled to a +high mountain to escape an invasion, or happy ones who lived on a peak +from which the menace was invisible. But it wasn't that. At other social +levels, he knew, there was the same closing of the shutters, the same +effort to create an enjoyable sunlight in a cloistered room. On the +summit, he honestly believed, men did more and thought more. Perhaps +where sensible men gathered together the curtains weren't drawn against +grave fires in an abnormal night. Then it was the women. Did all men, +like Wandel, choose to keep such things from the women? Did the women +want them kept? Hang it! Then let them have the vote. Make them talk. + +"You're really not going to Palm Beach, Mr. Morton?" + +"I've too much to do." + +"Men amuse me," the young lady fluffed. "They always talk about things +to do. If one has a good time the things get done just the same." + +God! What a point of view! Yet he wasn't one to pass judgment since he +was more interested in the winning of Sylvia than he was in the winning +of the war. + +He watched her as he could, talking first to Blodgett then to Dalrymple. +The brilliant Sylvia Planter had no business sitting between two such +men. The fact that Blodgett had got the right people stared him in the +face, but even so the man wasn't good enough to be Sylvia Planter's +host. Nor did George like the way she sipped her wine. She seemed +forcing herself to a travesty of enjoyment. Betty, on the other hand, +drank nothing. He questioned if she was sorry Sylvia had brought her. +She seemed glad enough, at least, to be with Lambert. He appeared to +absorb her, and, in order to listen to him, she left Dalrymple nearly +wholly to Sylvia. Once or twice she glanced across and smiled at George, +but her kindliness had an air of coming from a widening distance. George +was trapped--a restless giant tangled in a snarl of fluff. + +He sighed his relief when the women had gone. He didn't remain long +behind, wandering into the deserted hall where he stood frowning at the +fire. He heard a reluctant step on the stairs and swung around. Sylvia +walked slowly down, a cloak about her shoulders. In a sort of +desperation he raised his hand. + +"This party has got on my nerves." + +He couldn't read the expression in her eyes. + +"It's stifling in here," she said. + +She walked the length of the hall, opened the door, and went through to +the terrace. + +George's heart quickened. She was out there alone. What had her eyes +meant? He had never seen them just like that. They had seemed without +challenge. + +There was a coat closet at the rear of the hall. He ran to it, got a cap +and somebody's overcoat, and followed her out. + +She sat on the railing, far from the house. The only light upon her was +the nebulous reflection from the white earth. He hurried to her, his +heart beating to the rhythm of nearer--nearer--nearer---- + +She stirred. + +"As usual with you," she said, "I am unfortunate. I didn't think you +would follow me. I came here because I wanted to be alone. I wanted to +think. Can you appreciate that?" + +He sat on the railing close to her. + +"You never want me. I have to grasp what opportunities I can." + +He waited for her to rise and wander away. He was prepared to urge her +to remain. She didn't move. + +"I can't always be running away from you," she said. + +She stared straight ahead over the garden, nearly phosphorescent with +its snow. + +"Nearer, nearer, nearer," went through his head. + +"It has been a long time since I've seen you," he said, "but even so I +wish you hadn't come here." + +"Why did you come?" she asked. + +"Because I thought I should find you." + +"Why did you think that?" + +"I'd heard Blodgett had been a good deal at Oakmont. I guessed if +Lambert came you would, too." + +"It is impertinent you should interest yourself in my movements. +Why--why do you do it?" + +"Because everything you do absorbs me. Why else do you suppose I took +the trouble at Betty's dance years ago to tell you who I was?" + +She drew back without answering. Her movement caught his attention. The +change in her manner, the white night, made him bold. + +"I've often wondered," he said, "why you didn't remember me that day in +Princeton, or that night. It hadn't been long. Don't you see it was an +acknowledgment that I wasn't the old George Morton even then?" + +"Oh, no," she answered with a little laugh, "because I remembered you +perfectly well." + +"Remembered me!" he cried. "And you danced with me, and said you didn't +remember, and let me take you aside, and----" + +He moved swiftly nearer until his face was close to hers, until he +stared into her eyes that he could barely see. + +"Why did you do that?" + +She didn't answer. + +"Why do you tell me now?" he urged with an increasing excitement. + +Such a confession from her had the quality of a caress! He felt himself +reaching up to touch the summit. + +"Why? You've got to answer me." + +She arose with easy grace and stood looking down at him. + +"Because," she said, "I want you to stop being ridiculous and +troublesome; and, really, the whole thing seems so unimportant now that +I am going to be married." + +He cried out. He sprang to his feet. He caught her hands, and crushed +them as if he would make them a part of his own flesh so that she could +never escape to accomplish that unbearable act. + +"Sylvia! Sylvia!" + +She fought, gasping: + +"You hurt! I tell you you hurt! Let me go you--you----Let me go----" + + +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. + +"I hope you're feeling better." + +"Better! I haven't been ill," she flashed. + +Betty helped him out. + +"Last night Mrs. Sinclair told us you had a headache." + +"You ought to know, Betty, that means I was tired." + +But George noticed she no longer looked at him. She hurried on. + +"Dolly!" he heard her laugh. "You must have sat up rather late." + +"Trying to forget my worry about you, Sylvia. Guess it gave me your +headache." + +George shrugged his shoulders and edged away, measuring his chances of +seeing her alone. They were slender, for as usual she was a magnet, yet +luck played for him and against her after luncheon, bringing them at the +same moment from different directions to the empty hall. She wanted to +hurry by, as if he were a disturbing shadow, but he barred her way. + +"I suppose I should say I'm sorry I hurt you last night. I'll say it, if +you wish, but I'm not particularly sorry." + +She showed him her hands then, spread them before him. They trembled, +but that was all. They recorded no marks of his precipitancy. + +"I shouldn't expect you to be sorry. After that certainly you will never +speak to me again." + +"Will you tell me now who it is?" he asked. + +Her temper blazed. + +"I ought always to know what to expect from you." + +She ran back to the door through which she had entered. + +"Oh, Dolly!" + +Dalrymple met her on the threshold. + +"Take me for a walk," she said. "It won't hurt you." + +Dalrymple indicated George. + +"Morton coming?" + +She shook her head and ran lightly upstairs. + +"No, I'm not going," George said. "She's right. The fresh air will do +you good." + +"Thanks," Dalrymple answered, petulantly. "I'm quite capable of +prescribing for myself." + +He went out in search of his hat and coat. + +George watched him, letting all his dislike escape. Continually they +hovered on the edge of a break, but Dalrymple wouldn't quite permit it +now. George was confident that the seed sown last night would flower. + +He was glad when Mundy telephoned before dinner about some difficulties +of transportation that might have been solved the next day. George +sprang at the excuse, however, refused Blodgett's offer of a car to +town, and drove to the station. + +Dalrymple and Sylvia hadn't returned. + + +XII + +In town Goodhue, too, read his discontent. + +"You look tired out, George," he said the next morning. "Evidently +Blodgett's party wasn't much benefit." + +"I'm learning to dislike parties," George answered. "You were wise to +duck it. What was the matter? Didn't fancy the Blodgett brand of +hospitality?" + +"Promised my mother to spend the week-end at Westbury. I'd have enjoyed +it. I'm really growing fond of Blodgett." + +There it was again, and you couldn't question Goodhue. Always he said +just what he meant, or he kept his opinions to himself. Every word of +praise for Blodgett reached George as a direct charge of disloyalty, of +bad judgment, of narrow-mindedness. His irritation increased. He was +grateful for the mass of work in which he was involved. That chained his +imagination by day, but at night he wearily reviewed the past five +years, seeking his points of weakness, some fatal omission. + +Perhaps his chief fault had been too self-centred a pursuit of Sylvia. +Because of her he had repressed the instincts to which he saw other men +pandering as a matter of course. Dalrymple did, yet she preferred him, +perhaps to the point of making a gift of herself. He had avoided even +those more legitimate pleasures of which the dice had appealed to him as +a type. What was the use of it? Why had he done it? Yet even now, and +still because of her, when you came to that, he had no desire to turn +aside to the brighter places where plumed creatures flutter fatefully. +It was a species of tragedy that he had to keep himself for one who +didn't want him. + +It stared at him at breakfast from the page of a newspaper. It was +amazing that the journal saw nothing grotesque in such a union; found +it, to the contrary, sensible and beneficial, not only to the persons +involved, but to the entire country. + +Planter, the article pointed out, was no longer capable of bringing a +resistless energy to his house which was a notable stone in the +country's financial structure. Should any chance weaken that the entire +building would react. His son was at present too young and inexperienced +to watch that stone, to keep it intact. Later, of course--but one had to +consider the present. To be sure there were partners, but after the +fashion of great egoists Mr. Planter had avoided admitting any +outstanding personality to his firm. It was a happy circumstance that +Cupid, and so forth--for the senior partner of Blodgett and Sinclair was +more than an outstanding personality in Wall Street. Some of his recent +achievements were comparable with Mr. Planter's earlier ones. The +dissolution of his firm and his induction into the house of Planter and +Company were prophesied. + +George continued to eat his breakfast mechanically. At least it wasn't +Dalrymple, yet that resolution would have been less astonishing. Josiah +Blodgett, fat, middle-aged, of no family, married to the beautiful and +brilliant Sylvia Planter! But was it grotesque? Wasn't the paper right? +He had had plenty of proof that his own judgment of Blodgett was +worthless. He crumpled the paper in his hand and stood up. His judgment +was worth this: he was willing to swear Sylvia Planter didn't love the +man she had elected to marry. + +What did other people think? + +Wandel was at hand. George stopped on his way out. The little man was +still in bed, sipping coffee while he, too, studied that disturbing +page; yet, when he had sent his man from the room, he didn't appear to +find about it anything extraordinary. + +"Good business all round," he commented, "although I must admit I'm +surprised Sylvia had the common-sense to realize it. Impulsive sort, +didn't you think, George, who would fly to some fellow because she'd +taken a fancy to him? Phew! Planter plus Blodgett! It'll make her about +the richest girl in America, why not say the world? Some households are +uneasy this morning. Well! When you come down to it, what's the +difference between railroads and mills? Between mines and real estate? +One's about as useful as the others." + +"It's revolting," George said. + +Wandel glanced over his paper. + +"What's up, great man? Nothing of the sort. Blodgett has his points." + +"As usual, you don't mean what you say," George snapped. + +"But I do, my dear George." + +"Blodgett's not like the people he plays with." + +"Isn't that a virtue?" Wandel asked. "Perhaps it's why those people like +him." + +"But do they really?" + +"You're purposely blind if you don't see it," Wandel answered. "Why the +deuce don't you?" + +George feared he had let slip too much. With others he would have to +guard his interest closer, and he would delay the final break he had +quite decided upon with Blodgett. + +"Just the same," he muttered, ill at ease, preparing to leave, "I'd like +Lambert's opinion." + +"You don't fancy this has happened," Wandel said, "without Lambert's +knowing all about it?" + +George left without answering. At least he knew. It was simpler, +consequently, to discipline himself. His manner disclosed nothing when +he made the necessary visit to Blodgett. The round face was radiant. The +narrow eyes burned with happiness. + +"You're a cagy old Brummell," George said. "I've just seen it in the +paper with the rest of the world. When's it coming off?" + +Blodgett's content faded a trifle. + +"She says not for a long time yet, but we'll see. Trust Josiah to hurry +things all he can." + +"Congratulations, anyway," George said. "You know you're entitled to +them." + +But he couldn't offer his hand. With that he had an instinct to tear the +happiness from the other's face. + +"You bet I am," Blodgett was roaring. "Any fool can see I'm pleased as +punch." + +George couldn't stomach any more of it. He started out, but Blodgett, +rather hesitatingly, summoned him back. George obeyed, annoyed and +curious. + +"A good many years ago, George," Blodgett began, "I was a damned idiot. +I remember telling you that when Papa Blodgett got married it would be +to the right girl." + +"The convenient girl," George sneered. "Don't you think you're doing +it?" + +"Now see here, George. None of that. You forget it. I'm sorry I ever +thought or said such stuff. You get it through your head just what this +is--plain adoration." + +He sprang to his feet in an emotional outburst that made George writhe. + +"I don't see why God has been so good to me." + + +XIII + +George escaped and hurried upstairs. Lambert was there, but he didn't +mention the announcement, and George couldn't very well lead him. No one +who did talk of it in his presence, however, shared his bitter +disapproval. Most men dwelt as Wandel did on the material values of such +a match, which, far from diminishing Sylvia's brilliancy, would make it +burn brighter than ever. + +Occasionally he saw Sylvia and Blodgett together. For him she had that +air of seeking an unreal pleasure, but she was always considerate of +Blodgett, who seemed perpetually on the point of clasping her publicly +in his arms. A recurrent contact was impossible for George. He went to +Blodgett finally, and over his spirited resistance broke the last tie. + +"My remaining on your pay-roll," he complained, "is pure charity. I +don't want it. I won't have it. God knows I'm grateful for all you've +done for me. It's been a lot." + +"Never forget you've done something for Blodgett," the stout man said, +warmly. "There's no question but you've earned every penny you've had +from me. We've played and worked together a long time, George. I don't +see just because you've grown up too fast why you've got to make Papa +Blodgett unhappy." + +George had no answer, but he didn't have to see much of the beaming beau +after that, nor for a long time did he encounter Sylvia at all +intimately. Lambert, himself, unwittingly brought them together in the +spring. + +"Why not run down to Oakmont with me?" he said, casually, one Friday +morning. "Father's always asking why you're never around." + +"Your father might be pleased to know why," George said. + +"Dark ages!" Lambert said. "We're in the present now. Come ahead." + +The invitation to enter the gates! But it brought to George none of the +glowing triumph he had anticipated. He knew why Lambert had offered it, +because he considered Sylvia removed from any possible unpleasant +aftermath of the dark ages. The man Morton didn't need any further +chastisement; but he went, because he knew what Lambert didn't, that the +man Morton wasn't through with Sylvia yet; that he was going to find out +why she had chosen Blodgett when, except on the score of money, she +might have beckoned better from nearly any direction; that he was +curious why she had told the man Morton first of all. + +They rolled in at the gate. There he had stood, and there she, when she +had set her dog on him. Then around the curve to the great house and in +at the front door with an aging Simpson and a younger servant to compete +for his bag and his coat and hat. How Simpson scraped--Simpson who had +ordered him to go where he belonged, to the back door. What was the +matter with him that he couldn't experience the elation with which the +moment was crowded? + +Mrs. Planter met him with her serene manner of one beyond human +frailties. You couldn't expect her to go back and remember. Such a +return to her would be beyond belief. + +"You've not been kind to us, Mr. Morton. You've never been here before." + +And that night she had walked through the doorway treating him exactly +as if he had been a piece of furniture which had annoyingly got itself +out of place. + +Lambert's eyes were quizzical. + +Old Planter wasn't at all the bear, cracking cumbersome jokes about the +young ferret that had stolen a march on the sly old foxes of Wall +Street. So that was what his threats amounted to! Or was it because +there was nothing whatever of the former George Morton left? + +He examined curiously the bowed white head and the dim eyes in which +some fire lingered. He could still approximate the emotions aroused by +that interview in the library. He felt the old instinct to give this man +every concession to a vast superiority. In a sense, he was still afraid +of him. He had to get over that, for hadn't he come here to accomplish +just that against which Old Planter had warned him? + +"Where," Lambert asked, "is the blushing Josiah?" + +George caught the irony of his voice, but his mother explained in her +unemotional way that Sylvia and Blodgett were riding. + +Certainly all along those early days had been in Lambert's mind, for he +led George to the scene of their fight. He faced him there, and he +laughed. + +"You remember?" + +"Why not?" George said. "I was born that day." + +"Morton! Morton!" Lambert mused. + +George swung and caught Lambert's shoulders quickly. There was more than +sentiment in his quick, reminiscent outburst. It seemed even to himself +to carry another threat. + +"You call me Mr. Morton, or just George, as if I were about as good as +you." + +Lambert laughed. + +"We've had some fair battles since then, haven't we, George? You've done +a lot you said you would that day." + +"I've scarcely started," George answered. "I'm a dismal failure. Perhaps +I'll brace up." + +"You're hard to satisfy," Lambert said. + +George dug at the ground with his heel. + +"All the greater necessity to find ultimate satisfaction," he grumbled. + +Lambert glanced at him inquiringly. + +"I suppose," George continued, "I ought to thank you and your sister for +not reminding your parents what I was some years ago, for not blurting +it out to a lot of other people." + +"You've shown me," Lambert said, "it would have been vicious to have put +any stumbling blocks in your way. Driggs is right. He usually is. You're +a very great man." + +But George shook his head, and accompanied Lambert back to the house +with the despondency of failure. + +Sylvia and Blodgett were back, lounging with Mr. and Mrs. Planter about +a tea table which servants had carried to a sunny spot on the lawn. At +sight of George Sylvia's colour heightened. Momentarily she hesitated to +take his offered hand, then bowed to the presence of the others. + +"You didn't tell me, Lambert, you were bringing any one." + +Blodgett's welcome was cordial enough to strike a balance. + +"Never see anything of you these days, George. He makes money, Mrs. +Planter, too fast to bother with an old plodder like me. Thank the Lord +I've still got cash in his firm." + +That he should ever call that quiet, assured figure mother-in-law! Mrs. +Planter, however, showed no displeasure. She commenced to chat with +Lambert. Sylvia, George reflected, might with profit have borrowed some +of her mother's serenity. Still she managed to entertain him over the +tea cups as if he had been any casual, uninteresting guest. + +That hour, nevertheless, furnished George an ugly ordeal, for Blodgett's +attentions were perpetual, and Sylvia appeared to appreciate them, +treating him with a consideration that let through at least that +affection the man had surprisingly drawn from so many of his +acquaintances. + +A secretary interrupted them, hurrying from the house with an abrupt +concern stamped on his face, standing by awkwardly as if not knowing how +to commence. + +"What is it, Straker?" Mr. Planter asked. + +"Mr. Brown's on the 'phone, sir. I think you'd better come. He said he +didn't want to bother you until he was quite sure. There seems no doubt +now." + +"Of what, Straker?" Mr. Planter asked. "Wouldn't it have kept through +tea time?" + +The secretary seemed reluctant to speak. The women glanced at him +uneasily. Lambert started to rise. In spite of his preoccupation George +had a suspicion of the truth. All at once Blodgett half expressed it, +bringing his fist noisily down on the table. + +"The Huns have torpedoed an American boat!" + +Straker blurted out the truth. + +"Oh, no, Mr. Blodgett. It's the _Lusitania_, but apparently the losses +are serious." + +For a moment the silence was complete. Even the servants forgot their +errands and remained immobile, with gaping faces. An evil premonition +swept George. There were many Americans on the _Lusitania_. He knew a +number quite well. Undoubtedly some had gone down. Which of his friends? +One properly asked such questions only when one's country was at war. +The United States wasn't at war with Germany. Would they be now? How was +the sinking of the _Lusitania_ going to effect him? + +Old Planter, Blodgett, and Lambert were already on their feet, starting +for the door. Mrs. Planter rose, but unhurriedly, and went close to her +husband's side. In that movement George fancied he had caught at last +something warm and human. Probably she had weighed the gravity of this +announcement, and was determined to wheedle the old man from too much +excitement, from too great a temper, from too thorough a preoccupation +with the changes bound to reach Wall Street from this tragedy. + +"I want to talk to Brown, too, if you please," Blodgett roared. + +They crowded into the hall, all except Sylvia and George who had risen +last. He had measured his movements by hers. They entered the library +together while the others hurried through to Mr. Planter's study where +the telephone stood, anxious to speak with Brown's voice. She wanted to +follow, but he stopped her by the table where his cap had rested that +night, from which he had taken her photograph. + +"You might give me a minute," he said. + +She faced him. + +"What do you want? Why did you come here, Mr. Morton?" + +"For this minute." + +"You've heard what's happened," she said, scornfully, "and you can +persist in such nonsense." + +"Call it anything you please," he said. "To me such nonsense happens to +be vital. It's your fault that I have to take every chance, even make +one out of a tragedy like that." + +He nodded toward the study door through which strained voices vibrated. + +"Children, too!--Vanderbilt!--More than a thousand!--Good God, Brown!" + +And Blodgett's roar, throaty with a new ferocity: + +"We'll fight the swine now." + +George experienced a fresh ill-feeling toward the man, who impressed him +as possessing something of the attributes of such animals. He glanced at +Sylvia's hands. + +"You're not going to marry him." + +She smiled at him pityingly, but her colour was fuller. He wondered why +she should remain at all when it would be so easy to slip through the +doorway to the protection of Blodgett and the others. Of course to hurt +him again. + +"I don't believe you love him. I'm sure you don't. You shan't throw +yourself away." + +Her foot tapped the rug. He watched her try to make her smile amused. +Her failure, he told himself, offered proof that he was right. + +"One can no longer even be angry with you," she said. "Who gave you a +voice in my destiny?" + +"You," he answered, quickly, "and I don't surrender my rights. If I can +help it you're not going to throw away your youth. Why did you tell me +first of all you were going to be married?" + +She braced herself against the table, staring at him. In her eyes he +caught a fleeting expression of fright. He believed she was held at last +by a curiosity more absorbing than her temper. + +"What do you mean?" + +Old Planter's bass tones throbbed to them. + +"Nothing can keep us out of the war now." + +The words came to George as from a great distance, carrying no +tremendous message. In the whole world there existed for him at that +moment nothing half so important as the lively beauty of this woman +whose intolerance he had just vanquished. + +"Your youth belongs to youth," he hurried on, knowing she wouldn't +answer his question. "I've told you this before. I won't see you turn +your back on life. Fair warning! I'll fight any way I can to prevent +it." + +She straightened, showing him her hands. + +"You're very brave. You fight by attacking a woman, by trying behind his +back to injure a very dear man. And you've no excuse whatever for +fighting, as you call it." + +"Yes, I have," he said, quickly, "and you know perfectly well that I'm +justified in attacking any man you threaten to marry." + +"You're mad, or laughable," she said. "Why have you? Why?" + +"Because long ago I told you I loved you. Whether it was really so then, +or whether it is now, makes no difference. You said I shouldn't forget." + +He stepped closer to her. + +"You said other things that gave me, through pride if nothing else, a +pretty big share in your life. You may as well understand that." + +Her anger quite controlled her now. She raised her right hand in the old +impulsive gesture to punish his presumption with the maximum of +humiliation; and this time, also, he caught her wrist, but he didn't +hold it away. He brought it closer, bent his head, and pressed his lips +against her fingers. + +He was startled by the retreat of colour from her face. He had never +seen it so white. He let her wrist go. She grasped the table's edge. She +commenced to laugh, but there was no laughter in her blank, colourless +expression. A feminine voice without accent came to them: + +"Sylvia! How can you laugh?" + +He glanced up. Mrs. Planter stood in the study doorway. Sylvia +straightened; apparently controlled herself. Her colour returned. + +"It was Mr. Morton," she explained, unevenly. "He said something so +absurdly funny. Perhaps he hasn't grasped this tragedy." + +The others came in, a voluble, horrified group. + +"What's the matter with you, George?" Blodgett bellowed. "Don't you +understand what's happened?" + +"Not quite," George said, looking at Sylvia, "but I intend to find out." + + +XIV + +To find out, George appreciated at once, would be no simple task. +Immediately Sylvia raised new defences. She seemed abetted by this +incredible happening on a gray sea. + +"I shall go," Lambert said. "How about you, George?" + +"Why should I go?" George asked. "I haven't thought about it yet." + +The scorn in Sylvia's eyes made him uneasy. Why did people have to be so +impulsive? That was the way wars were made. + +During the days that followed he did think about it too absorbingly for +comfort, weighing to the penny the sacrifice his unlikely going would +involve. An inherent instinct for a fight could scarcely be satisfied at +such a cost. Patriotism didn't enter his calculations at all. He +believed it had resounding qualities only because it was hollow, being +manufactured exactly as a drum is made. Surely there were enough +impulsive and fairly useless people to do such a job. + +Then without warning Wandel confused his apparently flawless logic. +Certainly Wandel was the least impulsive of men and he was also capable +of uncommon usefulness, yet within a week of the sinking he asked George +if he didn't want to move to his apartment to keep things straight +during a long absence. + +"Where are you going, Driggs?" + +"I've been drifting too long," Wandel answered. "Unless I go somewheres, +do something, I'll become as mellow as Dolly. I've not been myself since +the business started. I suppose it's because I happen to be fond of the +French and the British and a few ideas of theirs. So I'm going to drive +an ambulance for them." + +George fancied Wandel's real motive wasn't so easily expressed. He +longed to know it, but you couldn't pump Wandel. + +"You're an ass," was all he said. + +"Naturally," Wandel agreed. "Only asses go to war." + +"Do you think it will help for you to get a piece of shell through your +head?" + +"Quite as much as for any other ass." + +"Why don't you say what you mean?" George asked, irritably. + +"Perhaps you ask that," Wandel drawled, "because you don't understand +what I mean to say." + +"I won't take care of your apartment," George snapped. "I won't have any +hand in such a piece of foolishness." + +With Goodhue, however, he went to the pier to see Wandel off; absorbed +with the little man the sorrowful and apprehensive atmosphere of the +odorous shed; listened to choked farewells; saw brimming eyes; shared +the pallid anticipations of those about to venture forth upon an +unnatural sea; touched at last the very fringe of war. + +"Why is he doing it?" George asked as Goodhue and he drove across town +to the subway. "I've never counted Driggs a sentimentalist." + +"I'm not sure," Goodhue answered, "this doesn't prove he isn't. He's +always had an acute appreciation of values. Don't you remember? We used +to call him 'Spike'." + + * * * * * + +George let himself drift with events, but Wandel's departure increased +his uneasiness. Suppose he should be forced by circumstances to abandon +everything; against his better judgment to go? Automatically his +thoughts turned to Squibs. He recalled his advice. + +"Don't let your ideas smoulder in your head. Come home and talk them +over." + +He sent a telegram and followed it the next day. The Baillys met him at +the station, affectionately, without any reproaches for his long +absence. The menace was in the air here, too, for Mrs. Bailly's first +question, sharply expressed, was: + +"You're not going, if----" + +"I don't want to go," he answered. + +Bailly studied him, but he didn't say anything. + +That afternoon there was a boat race on Lake Carnegie. The Alstons drove +the Baillys and George down some hospitable resident's lane to an +advantageous bank near the finish line. They spread rugs and made +themselves comfortable there, but the party was subdued. Squibs and Mr. +Alston didn't seem to care to talk. Betty asked Mrs. Bailly's question, +received an identical answer, and fell silent, too. Only Mrs. Alston +appeared to detect no change in the world, remaining cheerfully imperial +as if alarms couldn't possibly approach her abruptly. + +Even to George such a scene, sharing one planet with the violences of +Europe, appeared contradictory. The fancifully garbed undergraduates, +who ran along the bank; the string of automobiles on the towpath +opposite; the white and gleaming pleasure boats in the canal; the shells +themselves, with coloured oar-blades that flashed in the sunlight; most +of all the green frame for this pleasantly exciting contest had an air +of telling him that everything unseen was rumour, dream stuff; either +that, or else that the seen was visionary, while in those remote places +existed the only material world, the revolting and essential realities. + +Bailly at last interrupted his revery, with his long, thin arm making a +gesture that included the athletes; the running, youthful partisans. + +"How many are we going to lose or get back with twisted minds?" + +"Keep quiet," his wife said in a panic. + +Mrs. Alston laughed pleasantly. + +"Don't worry. Woodrow will keep us out of it." + + +XV + +Back in the little study Bailly expressed his doubt. + +"He may do it now, but later----" + +"Remember you're not going, George," Mrs. Bailly cried. + +"I think not." + +She patted his hand, while Bailly looked on with his old expression of +doubt and disapproval. When Mrs. Bailly had left them, George told the +tutor of Wandel's surprising venture, asking his opinion. + +"It's hard to form one," Bailly admitted. "He's always puzzled me. Would +it surprise you if I said I think he at least has grafted on his brain +some of Allen's generous views?" + +"Oh, come, sir. You can't make war an ideal expression of the +brotherhood of man. Far better that all men should be suspicious +strangers." + +Bailly drew noisily at his pipe. + +"It often pleases you to misunderstand," he said. "Wandel, I fancy, +would take Allen's theories and make something more practical of them. +Understand I am a pacifist--thorough-paced. War is folly. War is +dreadful. It cannot be conceived in a healthy brain. But when a fact +rises up before you you'd better face it. Wandel probably does. The +Allens probably don't--don't realize that we must win this war as the +only alternative to the world pacing of an autocratic foot that would +crush social progress like a serpent, that would boot back the +brotherhood of man, since you seem to enjoy the phrase, unthinkable +years." + +"After admitting that," George asked, quickly, "you can still tell me +that I ought to accept the point of view of your rotten, illogical +Socialists?" + +"Even in this war," Bailly confessed, "most socialists are pacifists. +No, they're not an elastic crowd. It amuses me that a lot of the lords +of the land, leading an unthinking portion of the proletariat, will +permit them to carry on their work in spite of themselves." + +"I despise such theorists," George burst out. "They are unsound. They +are dangerous." + +Bailly smiled. + +"Just the same, the very ones they want to reform are going to give them +the opportunity to do it." + +"They're all like Allen," George sneered, "purchasable." + +Bailly shook his head, waved his pipe vehemently. + +"Virtue's flaws don't alter its really fundamental quality." + +"Then you agree all Socialists are knaves or fools," George stormed. + +"Perhaps, George," Bailly said, patiently, "you'll define a +conservative for me. There. Never mind. Somewhere in between we may find +an honest generosity, a wise sympathy. It may come from this war--a huge +and wise balance of power of the right, an honest recognition of men as +individuals rather than as members of classes. Perhaps your friend +Wandel is on the track of something of the sort. I like to think it is +really what the war is being fought for." + +"The war," George said, "is being fought for men with fat paunches and +pocket-books." + +"Then you're quite sure you don't want to go?" + +"Why should I as long as my stomach and my pocket-book are comfortable? +But I'm not sure whether I'll go or not. That's what worries me." + +"You've made," Bailly said, testily, "enough out of the war to warrant +your giving it something." + +George grinned. It was quite like old times. + +"Even myself, on top of all the rest I might make out of it by staying +back?" + +"You're not as selfish as you'd have me believe," Bailly cried. + +George quoted a phrase of Wandel's since Bailly seemed just now to +approve of the adventurer. + +"The man that keeps himself makes the world better." + +Bailly drove him out of the room to dress for dinner. + +"I won't talk to you any more," he said. "I won't curse the loiterer at +the base until I am sure he isn't going to climb." + + +XVI + +At least George wouldn't have to decide at once. When it became clear +that for the present Mrs. Alston's optimism was justified he breathed +easier. With Goodhue, Lambert, and Mundy he applied himself unreservedly +to his work. Consequently he didn't visit much, didn't see Sylvia again +until the fall when he met her at a dinner at the Goodhues'. She shrank +from him perceptibly, but there was no escape. He studied her with an +easier mind. No date for her wedding had been set. Until that moment +should come there was nothing he could do. What he would be able to +accomplish then was problematical. Something. She shouldn't throw +herself away on Blodgett. + +"It must be comforting," he heard her say to Goodhue, "to know if +trouble comes your wonderful firm will be taken care of." + +George guessed she had meant him to hear that. + +"I'm sure I hope so," Goodhue answered her, "but what do you mean?" + +"I heard Mr. Morton say once he didn't think he'd care to go to war. +Didn't I, Mr. Morton?" + +Goodhue, clearly puzzled by her manner, laughed. + +"Give us something more useful, Sylvia. He's a born fighter." + +"I believe I said it," George answered her. "There might be problems +here I couldn't very well desert." + +Her eyes wavered. He recalled her hysterical manner that evening at +Oakmont. She still sought chances to hurt him. In spite of Blodgett, +then, she recognized a state of contest between them. He smiled +contentedly, for as long as that persisted his cause was alive. + + +XVII + +It languished, however, during the winter as did Blodgett's hopes of a +speedy wedding. The Planters' Fifth Avenue home remained closed, because +of Mr. Planter's health. Sylvia and her mother went south with him. +Blodgett made a number of flying trips, deserting his affairs to that +extent to be with Sylvia. George was satisfied for the present to let +things drift. + +Dalrymple certainly had drifted with events. He had taken no pains to +hide the shock of Sylvia's engagement. George of all people could +understand his disappointment, his helpless rage; but Dalrymple hadn't +bothered him, and he had about decided he never would. + +One spring day, quite without warning, he appeared in George's office. +It was not long after the Planters' return to Oakmont. What did he want +here? Was there any point spending money on him as matters stood? + +He looked at Dalrymple, a good deal surprised, reading the dissipation +recorded in his face, the nervousness exposed by the mobile hands. All +at once he understood why he had come at last. Dalrymple had wandered +too far. The patience of his friends had been exhausted. Perhaps Wandel +had taken George's hint. At any rate, he had let himself in for it. + +"An opportunity to make a little money," Dalrymple was mumbling +uneasily. "Need capital. Not much. You said at Blodgett's--just happened +to remember it, and was near----" + +"How much?" George demanded, stopping his feeble lies. + +Dalrymple, George suspected, because of his manner, asked for less than +half what he had come to get. + +"What say to a couple thousand? Make it five hundred more if you can. +Not much in the way of security." + +"Never mind the security." + +George pressed a button, and directed the clerk who responded to draw up +a note. + +"Got to sign something?" Dalrymple asked, suspiciously. + +George smiled. + +"Do you mind my keeping a little record of where my money goes--in place +of security?" + +Dalrymple was quite red. + +"All right, if you insist." + +"I insist. Care to change your mind?" + +"No. Only thought it was just a little loan between--friends." + +The word left his tongue with difficulty. George guessed that the other +retained enough decency to loathe himself for having to use it. The +nervousness of the long fingers increased while the clerk prepared the +note and George wrote the check. George put a pen in the unsteady hand. + +"Sign here, please." + +Dalrymple obeyed with a signature, shaky, barely legible. + +"Nice of you to do me a favour. Appreciate it. Thanks." + +To George it would have been worth that money to find out just how +Sylvia's extended engagement had affected Dalrymple. Was it responsible +for his speeding up on the dangerous path of pleasure? Of that he could +learn only what the other chose to disclose, probably nothing. But what +was he waiting for now that he had the money? Why were his fingers +twitching faster than ever? + +"Didn't see Lambert when I came in," he managed. + +"I daresay he's about," George said. "Want him?" + +Dalrymple raised his hand. + +"That's just it," he whispered. "Rather not see Lambert. Rather this +little transaction were kept sub rosa. You understand. No point +Lambert's knowing." + +"Why not?" George asked, coolly, feeling himself on the edge of the +truth. + +"I'm a little off the Planters," Dalrymple said. + +"Since when?" + +Dalrymple's face became redder than ever. For a moment his nervousness +abandoned him. He seemed to stiffen with violent thoughts. + +"Don't like buying and selling of women in any family. Not as decent as +slavery." + +George rose quietly. He hadn't expected just this. + +"Be careful," he warned. "What are you talking about?" + +"What the whole town talks about," Dalrymple burst out. "You know her. I +ask you. Hasn't she enough without selling herself, body and soul? No +better than an unmentionable----" + +George sprang. He didn't stop to tell himself that Dalrymple was +unaccountable, in a sense, out of his head. He didn't dare stop, because +he knew if Dalrymple finished that sentence he would try to kill him. +Dalrymple's mouth fell open, in fact, before the unexpected attack. He +couldn't complete the sentence, didn't try to; drew back against the +desk instead; grasped a convenient ink container; threw it; called +shrilly for help. + +George shook the streaming black liquid from his face. With his stained +hands he grasped Dalrymple. His fingers tightened with a feeling of +profound satisfaction. No masks now! Finally the enmity of years was +unleashed. He had Dalrymple where he had always wanted him. + +"One more word----You been saying that kind of thing----" + +The hurrying of many feet in the outer office recalled him. The +impulsive George Morton crept back beneath the veneer. He let Dalrymple +go, drew out his handkerchief, looked distastefully at the black stains +on his clothing. + +Lambert and Goodhue closed the door on the curious clerks. + +"What in heaven's name----" + +It was Lambert who had spoken. Goodhue merely shrugged his shoulders, as +if he had all along expected such a culmination. + +Dalrymple, fingering his throat spasmodically, sank in a chair. His face +infused. His breath came audibly. + +"Caught him harder than I realized," George reflected. He spoke aloud +with his whimsical smile. + +"Looks as if I'd lost my temper. I don't often do it." + +He had no regret. He was happy. He believed himself nearer Sylvia than +he had ever been. He felt in grasping Dalrymple's throat as if he had +touched her hands. + +He failed to give its true value, consequently, to Lambert's angry +turning on him after Dalrymple's shaking accusation. + +"Sorry, Lambert. Had to--to do what I could. He--he was rotten +impertinent about--about--Sylvia." + + +XVIII + +Goodhue caught Lambert's arm. In a flash George read the meaning of +Dalrymple's charge. Naturally he was the one to do something of the +sort, had to try it. He had been afraid of Lambert's knowing of the +loan. How much less could he let Lambert learn why George had +justifiably shut his mouth. + +"Keep quiet," George warned Lambert. "Dicky! Can you get him out of +here. He needs attention. I'm not a doctor. He hasn't been himself since +he came." + +But Lambert wouldn't have it. + +"Repeat that, Dolly," he commanded. + +George walked to Dalrymple. + +"You'll not say another word." + +Dalrymple stood up, weaving his fingers in and out; as it were, clasping +his hands to George. + +"I'm sorry, Morton. Damn sorry. Forget--forget----" + +His voice wandered into a difficult silence, as if he had seen this way, +too, a chance of implicating himself with Sylvia's brother; but his eyes +continued to beg George. They were like the eyes of an animal, caught in +a net, beseeching release. + +Goodhue gave him his hat. He took it but drew away from the other's +touch on his arm. + +"Don't think I'm not all right," he said in a frightened voice. "Took me +by surprise, but I'm all right--quite all right. Going home." + +He glanced at Lambert and again at George, then left the room, pulling +at his necktie, Goodhue anxiously at his heels. + +"What about it?" Lambert asked George sharply. + +George sat down, still trying to rid himself of the black souvenirs of +the encounter. + +"Don't be a fool. I said nothing about your sister--nothing whatever." + +He couldn't get rid of Dalrymple's begging eyes, yet why should he spare +him at all? + +"The rest of it," he went on, easily, "is between Dalrymple and me." + +"I'm not sure," Lambert challenged. + +He reminded George of the younger Lambert who had advanced with a whip +in his hand. + +"See here," he said. "You can't make me talk about anything I don't care +to. I've told you I didn't mention your sister. I couldn't to that +fellow." + +Lambert spread his hands. + +"What is there about you and Sylvia--ever since that day? I believe you, +but I tried to give you a licking for her sake once, and I'd do it +again." + +George laughed pleasantly. + +"You make me feel young." + +Clearly Lambert meant to warn him, for he went on, still aggressive: + +"I care more for her than anybody in the world." + +The laughter left George's face. + +"Anybody?" + +Lambert was self-conscious now. + +"Just about. See here. What are you driving at?" + +George yawned. + +"I must wash up. I've a lot of work to do." + +"I'd like to know what went on here," Lambert said. + +"Why don't you ask Dalrymple, then?" + +"Dolly isn't all bad," Lambert offered as he left. "He's been my friend +a good many years." + +"Then by all means keep him," George answered, "and keep him to +yourself; but when he comes around hang on to the ink pots." + + +XIX + +His apparent good humour didn't survive the closing of the door. His +dislike of Dalrymple fattened on his memory of the incident. It had left +a sting. He hadn't stopped the man in time. Selling herself! Was she? +She appeared to his mind, no longer intolerant, rather with an air of +shame-faced apology for all the world. That was what hurt. He hadn't +stopped Dalrymple in time. + +But there was no sale yet, nothing whatever, except an engagement which, +after a year, showed no symptoms of fruition. Blodgett was aware of it, +and couldn't hide his anxiety. Evidently he wanted to talk about it, did +talk about it to George when he met him in the hall not long after +Dalrymple's visit. + +"Why don't you ever run down to Oakmont with Lambert?" he asked. + +Only Blodgett would have put such a question, and perhaps even he +designed it merely as an entrance to his favourite topic. George evaded +with a fairly truthful account of office pressure. + +"Old Planter asks after you," Blodgett went on, uncomfortably. "Admires +you, because you've done about what he had at your age, and it was +easier then. Old man's not well. That's tough on Josiah." + +"Tough?" + +Blodgett mopped his face with a brilliant handkerchief. His rotund +stomach rose and fell with a sigh. + +"His gout's worse--all sorts of complications. She's the apple of his +eye. Guess you know that. Won't desert him now. Wants to wait till he's +better, or--or----" + +He added naïvely: + +"Hope to heaven he bucks up soon." + +George watched Blodgett's hopes dwindle, for Old Planter didn't buck up, +nor did he grow perceptibly worse. From time to time he visited his +marble temple, but for the most part men went to him at Oakmont; +Blodgett, of course, with his double errand of business and romance, +most frequently of all. And Sylvia did cling to her father, but George's +satisfaction increased, for he agreed with Wandel: she was capable of a +feeling far more powerful than filial devotion. Blodgett, clearly, had +failed to arouse it. + +Her sense of duty, however, kept her nearly entirely away from George; +for Lambert, either because Sylvia had spoken to him, or because he +himself had sensed a false step, failed to repeat his invitation to +Oakmont. The row with Dalrymple, although that had not been mentioned +again, made it unlikely that he ever would. + +Dalrymple had dropped out of sight. George heard vaguely that he was +taking a rest cure in the northern part of the state. He couldn't fancy +meeting him again without desiring to add to the punishment he had +already given. The man was impossible. He had sneaked from that room, +leaving the note in George's hands, the check in his own pocket. And the +check had been cashed. No madness of excitement could account for that. + +It wasn't until summer that he ran into him, and with a black temper saw +Sylvia at his side. If she only knew! She ought to know. It increased +his bad humour that he couldn't tell her. + +He regretted the necessity that had made such a meeting possible. It +had, however, for a long time impressed him. Even flabby old Blodgett +had noticed, and had advised less work and more play. To combat his +feeling of staleness, the relaxing of his long, carefully conditioned +muscles, George had forced himself to play polo at a Long Island club +into which he had hurried because of his skill at the game, or to take +an occasional late round of golf, which he didn't care for particularly +but which he managed very well in view of his inexperience. It was while +he was ordering dinner with Goodhue one night at the Long Island club +that Sylvia and Dalrymple drove up with the Sinclairs. The older pair +came straight to the two, while Sylvia and Dalrymple followed with an +obvious reluctance. + +"We spirited her away for the night," Mrs. Sinclair explained. + +She turned to Sylvia. + +"My dear, I'll see that you don't cloister yourself any more. Your +father's going on for years." + +Yet it occurred to George, as he looked at her, that her cloistering had +accomplished no change. The alteration in Dalrymple, on the other hand, +was striking. George, as he met him with a difficult ease of manner, +quite as if nothing had happened, couldn't account for it; for the +light-headed look had gone from Dalrymple's eyes, and much of the stamp +of dissipation from his face. His hands, too, were quiet. Was it +credible he had forgotten the struggle in George's office? No. He had +cashed the check; yet his manner suggested a blank memory except, +perhaps, for its too-pronounced cordiality. + +There was nothing for it but a dinner together. The Sinclairs expected +it, and couldn't be made to understand why it should embarrass any one. +Dalrymple really helped matters. His mind worked clearly, and he could, +George had to acknowledge, exert a certain charm when he tried. +Moreover, he didn't drink, even refusing the cocktail a waiter offered +him just before they went inside. + +As always George disliked speaking to Sylvia in casual tones of +indifferent topics. She met him at first pleasantly enough on that +ground--too pleasantly, so that he found himself waiting for some +acknowledgment that she had not forgotten; that she still believed in +their quarrel. It came at last rather sharply through the topic that was +universal just then of General Wood's civilian training camps at +Plattsburgh. Lambert had gone. Goodhue would follow the next month, +having agreed to that arrangement for the sake of the office. Even +Blodgett was there. Sylvia took a great pride in the fact, pointed it at +George. + +"Although," she laughed, "I'm told he's not popular with his tent mates. +I hear he has a telephone fastened to his tent pole. I don't know +whether that's true. He's never mentioned it. But I do know he has three +secretaries in a house just off the reservation. Of course it's a +sacrifice for him to be at Plattsburgh at all." + +George stared at her. There was no question. Her voice, her face, +expressed a tolerant liking for the man. The engagement had lasted +considerably more than a year, and now she had an air of giving a public +reminder of its ultimate outcome. Or was it for him alone, as her +original announcement had been? + +"I'm off next month," Goodhue said. "Lambert writes it's good fun and +not at all uncomfortable." + +"I'll be with you, Dicky," Dalrymple put in. "Beneficial affair, besides +duty, and all that." + +George experienced relief at the very moment he resented her attack +most. It was still worth while trying to hurt him. + +"Practically everyone has gone or is going. It's splendid. When are you +booked for, Mr. Morton?" + +Even the Sinclairs had silently asked that question. They looked at him +expectantly. + +"I'm not going at all," he answered, bluntly. + +"I remember," she said. "You didn't believe in war or something, wasn't +it? But this isn't exactly war." + +George smiled. + +"Scarcely," he said. "It's hiking, singing, playing cards, rattling off +stories, largely done by some old men who couldn't get a job in the army +of Methuselah. Why should I waste my time at that?" + +"It's a start," Mr. Sinclair said, seriously. "We have to do something." + +George hid his sneer. Everywhere the spirit was growing to make any kind +of a drum that would bang. + +"If you don't think Wilson will keep us out of it," he asked, earnestly, +"why not get after Wilson and make him start something general, +efficient, fundamental? I've never heard of a President who wasn't +sensitive to the pressure of the country." + +There was no use talking that way. These people were satisfied with the +noise at Plattsburgh. He was glad when the meal ended, when he could get +away. + +At the automobile he managed to help Sylvia into her cloak, and he took +the opportunity to whisper: + +"When is the great event coming off?" + +She turned, looked at him, and didn't answer. She mounted to the back +seat beside Dalrymple. + + +XX + +George didn't see her again until winter. He heard through the desolate +Blodgett that she had gone with her parents to the Canadian Rockies. + +Nearly everyone seemed to flee north that summer as if in a final effort +to cajole play. The Alstons moved to Maine unusually early, and didn't +return until late fall. Betty put it plainly enough to him then. + +"I'm sorry to be back. Don't you feel the desire to get as far away as +possible from things, to escape?" + +"To escape what, Betty?" + +"That's just it. One doesn't know. Something one doesn't want to know." + +It was queer that Betty never asked why he hadn't been to Plattsburgh, +never urged a definite decision as to what he would do if---- + +The "if" lost a little of its power with him. At times he was even +inclined to share Mrs. Alston's optimism. It was easy to drift with +Washington. Besides, he was too busy to worry about much except his +growing accumulation of profits from bloodshed. He was brought back +momentarily when Lambert and Goodhue received commissions as captains in +the reserve corps. The Plattsburgh noise still echoed. He couldn't help +a feeling of relief when people flocked back and the town became normal +again, encouraging him to believe that nothing could happen to tear him +away from this fascinating pursuit of getting rich for Sylvia while he +waited for her next move. + +That came with a stark brutality a few weeks after the holidays. He had +seen her only the evening before, sitting next to Blodgett at dinner +with a remote expression in her eyes that had made him hopeful. The +article in the morning newspaper, consequently, took him more by +surprise than the original announcement of the engagement had done. +Sylvia and Blodgett would be married on the fifteenth of the following +August. + +On top of that shock events combined to rebuke his recent confidence. +His desires had taken too much for granted. The folly of the Mrs. +Alstons and the wisdom of the Baillys and Sinclairs were forced upon +him. Wilson wasn't going to keep them out of it. George stood face to +face with the decision he had shirked when the _Lusitania_ had taken her +fatal dive. + +It couldn't be shirked again, for the declaration of war appeared to be +a matter of days, weeks at the most. The drum was beginning to sound +with a rising resonance. Lambert and Goodhue would be among the first to +leave. Already they made their plans. They didn't seem to care what +became of the business. + +"What are you up to, George?" they asked. + +He put them off. He wanted to think it out. He didn't care to have his +decision blurred by the rattling of a drum. Yet it was patent to him if +he should go at all it would be with his partners, among the first. The +thought of such a triple desertion appalled him. Mundy was incomparable +for system and routine, but if he had possessed the rare selective +foresight demanded for the steering of a big business he would long +since have been at the helm of his own house. It would be far better, if +George had to go, to sell the stock and the mass of soaring securities +the firm had acquired; in short, to close out before competitors could +squeeze the abandoned ship from the channel. + +Why dwell on so wasteful an alternative? Why not turn sanely from so +sentimental a choice? It was clear enough to him that it would not long +survive the war, all this singing and shouting, this driving forth by +older people on the winds of a safe enthusiasm of countless young men +to grotesque places of death. + +He paced his room. That was just it. It was the present he had to +consider, and the present thoughts of people who hadn't yet returned to +their inevitable practicality, forgetfulness, and ingratitude; most of +all to the present thoughts of Sylvia. To him she had made those +thoughts sufficiently plain. Among non-combatant enthusiasts she would +be the most exigent. Why swing from choice to choice any longer? To be +as he had fancied she would wish, he had struggled, denied, kept himself +clean, sought minutely for the proper veneer; and so far he had kept his +record straight. With her it was his one weapon. He couldn't throw that +away. + +He stopped his pacing. He sat before his desk, his head in his hands, +listening to the cacophanous beating of drums by the majority for the +anxious marching of a few. + +It was settled. He had always known it would be, in just that way. + + +XXI + +George took his physical examination at Governor's Island with the +earliest of the candidates for the First Officers' Training Camp. As +soon as he had returned to his office he wrote to Bailly: + +"I'm going to your cheerful war, after all. I'll drop in the end of the +week." + +He summoned Lambert and Goodhue. Until then he had told them nothing +definite. + +"Of course," he said, "we'll have a few months, but before we leave +America everything will have to be settled. We'll have to know just +where we stand." + +Into the midst of their sombre discussion slipped the tinkling of the +telephone. George answered. He glanced at the others. + +"It's Blodgett. Wants me right away. Something important." + +He hurried down, wondering what was up. Blodgett's voice had vibrated +with an unaccustomed passion that had left with George an impression of +whole-hearted revolt; and when he got in the massive, over-decorated +office his curiosity grew, for Blodgett looked as if he had dressed +against time and without valet or mirror. The straggly pale hair about +the ears was rumpled. His necktie was awry. The pudgy hands shook a +trifle. George's heart quickened. Blodgett had had bad news. What was +the worst news Blodgett could have? + +"I know," Blodgett began, "that you and your partners have passed and +are going to Plattsburgh to become officers." + +All at once George caught the meaning of Blodgett's disarray, and his +hope was replaced by a mirth he had difficulty hiding. + +"You don't mean you've been over to Governor's Island----" + +Blodgett stood up. + +"Yes," he confessed, solemnly. "Just got back from my physical +examination. Would you believe it, George, the darned fools wouldn't +have me, because I'm too fat? Called it obese, as if it was some kind of +a disease, instead of just my natural inclination to fleshiness." + +One of his pudgy hands struck his chest. + +"Never stopped to see that my heart's all right, and that's what we +want, people whose hearts are all right." + +Momentarily the enmity aroused by circumstances fled from George. The +man was genuine, suffering from a devastating disappointment; but surely +he hadn't called him downstairs only to witness this outbreak. + +Blodgett lowered himself to his chair. He wiped his face with one of his +gay handkerchiefs. He spoke reasonably. + +"My place is at home. All right. I'll make it easier then for the thin +people that can go. I'm going to look after you boys. Mundy's not big +enough. I've got a man in view I can keep tabs on, and Blodgett'll +always be sitting down here seeing you don't get stung." + +He sighed profoundly. + +"Guess that'll have to be my share." + +George would rather have had the man curse him. It struck directly at +his pride to submit to this unmasking of his jealous opinion. He +strangled his quick impulse to reach forward, to grasp Blodgett's hand, +to beg his pardon. Instead he tried to find ways of avoiding the +generous gift. + +"We can't settle anything yet. A dozen circumstances may arise. The war +may end----" + +"When you go, George," Blodgett said, wistfully. + +And George knew that in the end he couldn't refuse without disclosing +everything; that his partners wouldn't let him. It added strangely +enough to his discomfort that he should leave the disappointed man with +a confident feeling that he need make no move to see Sylvia before going +to Plattsburgh. In any case, the camp ought to be over before the +fifteenth of August. + +His partners were pleased enough by his recital, and determined to +accept Blodgett's offer. + +"He's the most generous soul that ever lived," Goodhue said, warmly. + +Lambert agreed, but George thought he detected a troubled light in his +eyes. + +Blodgett's generosity continued to worry George, to accuse him. After +all, Blodgett had accomplished a great deal more than he. With only one +of the necessities he had made friends, had become engaged to Sylvia +Planter. No. There was something besides that. He had had an unaffected +personality to offer, and--he had said it himself--a heart that was all +right. + +George asked himself now if Blodgett had helped him in the first place, +not because he had been Mr. Alston and Dicky Goodhue's friend, but +simply because he had liked him. He was inclined to believe it. He had +reached the point where he admitted that many people had been friendly +and useful to him because he had what Blodgett lacked, an exceptional +appearance, a rugged power behind acquired graces. Squibs, he realized, +had put his finger on that long ago. He was glad he was going down. The +tutor would give him his usual disciplinary tonic. + +But it was a changed Squibs that met George; a nearly silent Squibs, who +spoke only to praise; a slightly apprehensive Squibs. George tried to +reassure Mrs. Bailly. + +"Three months at Plattsburgh, then nobody knows how much longer to whip +our division into shape. The war will probably be over before we get +across." + +But she didn't believe it, nor did her husband. + +"You'll be in it, George, before the war's over. Do you know, you're +nearer paying me back than you've ever been." + +George was uncomfortable before such adulation. + +"Please don't think," he protested, "that I'm going over for any tricky +ideals or to save a lot of advanced thinkers from their utter folly." + +"Then what are you going for?" Bailly asked. + +George was surprised that he lacked an answer. + +"Oh, because one has to go," he evaded. + +Bailly's smile was contented. + +"What better reason could any man want?" + +They had an air of showing him about Princeton as if he must absorb its +beauties for the last time. Their visit to the Alstons was shrouded with +all the sullen accompaniments of a permanent farewell. George was +inclined to smile. He hadn't got as far as weighing his chances of being +hit; the present was too crowded, stretched too far; included Betty, for +instance, and Lambert whom he was surprised to find in the Tudor house, +prepared to remain evidently until he should leave for Plattsburgh. The +Alstons misgivings centred rather obviously on Lambert. George, when he +took Betty's hand to say good-bye that evening, felt with a desolate +regret that for the first time in all their acquaintance her fingers +failed to reach his mind. + + + + +PART IV + +THE FOREST + + +I + +"Profession?" + +"Member of the firm of Morton, Planter, and Goodhue." + +Slightly startled, a fairly youthful product of West Point twisted on +the uncomfortable orderly room chair, and glanced from the name on +George's card to the tall, well-built figure in a private's uniform +facing him. George knew he looked like a soldier, because some confiding +idiot had blankly told him so coming up on the train; but he hadn't the +first knowledge to support appearances, didn't even know how to stand at +attention, was making an effort at it now since it was clearly expected +of him, because he had sense enough to guess that the pompous, slightly +ungrammatical young man would insist during the next three months on +many such tributes. + +"I see. You're _the_ Morton." + +George was pleased the young man was impressed. He experienced again the +feelings with which he had gone to Princeton. He was being weighed, not +as skilfully as Bailly had done it, but in much the same fashion. He had +a quick thought that it was going to be nice to be at school again. + +"Any special qualifications of leadership?" + +The question took George by surprise. He hesitated. A reserve officer, +sitting by to help, asked: + +"Weren't you captain of the Princeton football team a few years ago?" + +"Yes, but we were beaten." + +"You must learn to say, 'sir,' Mr. Morton, when you address an officer." + +George flushed. That was etching his past rather too sharply. Then he +smiled, and amused at the silly business, mimicked Simpson's servility. + +"Very well, sir. I'll remember, sir." + +The West Point man was pleased, he was even more impressed, because he +knew football. He made marks on the card. When George essayed a salute +and stepped aside for the next candidate he knew he wasn't submerged in +this mass of splendid individualities which were veiled by the +similarity of their uniforms. + +Lambert, Goodhue, and he were scattered among different companies. That +was as well, he reflected, since his partners already wore officers' hat +cords. The spare moments they had, nevertheless, they spent together, +mulling over Blodgett's frequent reports which they never found time +thoroughly to digest. Even George didn't worry about that, for his +confidence in Blodgett was complete at last. + +He hadn't time to worry about much, for that matter, beyond the demands +of each day, for Plattsburgh was like Princeton only in that it aroused +all his will power to find the right path and to stick to it. At times +he wished for the nearly smooth brain with which he had entered college. +He had acquired too many wrinkles of logic, of organization, of +efficiency, of common-sense, to survive these months without frequent +mad desires to talk out in meeting, without too much humorous +appreciation of some of the arbiters of his destiny. Regular army +officers gave him the impression of having been forced through a long, +perpetually contracting corridor until they had come out at the end as +narrow as one of the sheets of paper work they loved so well. But he got +along with them. That was his business. He was pointed out enviously as +one of the football captains. It was a football captains' camp. All such +giants were slated for company or battery commander's commissions at +least. + +If he got it, George wondered if he would hate a captain's uniform as +much as the private's one he wore. + +With the warm weather the week-ends offered sometimes a relief. Men's +wives or mothers had taken little houses in the town or among the hills, +and the big hotel on the bluff opened its doors and welcomed other wives +and mothers, and many, many girls who would become both a little sooner +than they had fancied because of this. + +Betty arrived among the first, chaperoned for the time by the Sinclairs. +George dined with them, asked Betty about Sylvia, and received evasive +responses. Sylvia was surely coming up later. Betty was absorbed, +anyway, in her own affairs, he reflected unhappily. He felt lost in this +huge place where nearly everyone seemed to be paired. + +After dinner Lambert remained with Betty and Mrs. Sinclair, but George +and Mr. Sinclair wandered, smoking, through the grove above the lake. +George had had no idea that the news, for so long half expected, would +affect him as it did. + +"I suppose," Sinclair muttered, "you've heard about poor Blodgett." + +"What?" George asked, breathlessly. "We've little time for newspapers +here." + +"I'm not sure," Sinclair answered, "that it's in the papers, but in town +everybody's talking about it. Sylvia's thrown him over." + + +II + +George paused and considered the glowing end of his cigar. Instead of +vast relief he first of all experienced a quick sympathy for Blodgett. +He wanted to say something; it was expected of him, but he was occupied +with the effort to get rid of this absurd sympathy, to replace it by a +profound and unqualified satisfaction. + +"Why? Do you know why?" was all he managed. + +That was what he wanted, her private reason for this step which all at +once left the field quite open, and shifted their struggle back to its +old, honest basis. It was what he had told her would happen, must +happen. Since she had agreed at last why had she involved poor old +Blodgett at all? Had that merely been one of her defences which had +become finally untenable? Had George conceivably influenced her to its +assumption, at last to its abandonment? + +He stared at the opaque white light which rose like a mist from the +waters of the lake. He seemed to see, as on a screen, an adolescent +figure with squared shoulders and flushed cheeks tearing recklessly +along on a horse that wasn't sufficiently untamed to please its rider. +He replaced his cigar between his lips. Naturally she would be the most +exigent of enthusiasts. Probably that was why Blodgett had been so +pitifully anxious to crowd his bulk into the army. She had to be +untrammelled to cheer on the younger, stronger bodies. That was why she +had done it, because war had made her see that George was right by +bringing her to a stark realization of the value of the younger, +stronger bodies. + +Sinclair had evidently reached much the same conclusion, for he was +saying something about a whim, no lasting reason---- + +"I've always cared for Sylvia, but it's hard to forgive her this." + +"After all," George said, "Blodgett wasn't her kind. She'd have been +unhappy." + +In the opaque light Sinclair stared at him. + +"Not her kind! No. I suppose he's his own kind." + +Temporarily George had driven forth his sympathy. Blodgett, after all, +hadn't been above some sharp tricks to win such liking and admiration. +Sinclair, of all people, suffering for him! + +"I mean," George said, "he'd bought his way, hadn't he, after a fashion, +to her side?" + +Sinclair continued to stare. + +"I don't quite follow. If you mean Josiah's wanted to play with pleasant +people--yes, but the only buying he's ever done is with his amazing +generosity. He's pulled me for one out of a couple of tight holes after +I'd flown straight in the face of his advice. Nothing but a superb good +nature could be so forgiving, don't you think?" + +George walked on, keeping step with Sinclair, saying nothing more; +fighting the old instinct to reach forward, to grasp Blodgett's hand, to +beg his pardon; realizing regretfully, in a sense, that the last support +of his jealous contempt had been swept away. He was angry at the blow to +his self-conceit. It frightened him to have that attacked. He couldn't +put up with it. He would rid himself again of this persistent sympathy +for a defeated rival. Just the same, before accepting any more favours +from Blodgett, he desired to clasp the pudgy hand. + +Betty didn't know any more than Sinclair, nor did she care to talk about +the break. + +"I can't bear to think of all the happiness torn from that cheerful +man." + +George studied her face in the light from the windows as they paced up +and down the verandah. There was happiness there in spite of the +perplexing doubt with which she glanced from time to time at him. There +was no question. Betty's kindness had been taken away from him. He tried +to be glad for her, but he was sorry for himself, trying to fancy what +his life would have been if he had permitted his aim to be turned aside, +if he had yielded to the temptation of an unfailing kindness. It had +never been in his nature. Why go back over all that? + +"One tie's broken," he said, "and another's made. We're no longer the +good friends we were, because you haven't told me." + +Her white cheeks flooded with colour. She half closed her eyes. + +"What, George?" + +"That the moon is made of honey. I'm really grateful to Lambert for +these few minutes. Don't expect many more. I can't see you go without a +little jealousy, for there have been times when I've wanted you +abominably, Betty." + +They had reached the end of the verandah and paused there in a light +that barely disclosed her wondering smile; her wistful, reminiscent +expression. + +"It's funny," she said with a little catch in her voice, "to look back +on two children. I suppose I felt about the great George Morton as most +girls did." + +"You flatter me," he said. "Just what do you mean?" + +"It's rather tearful one can laugh about such things," she answered. "So +long ago! The great athlete's become a soldier!" + +"The stable boy's become a slave," he laughed. "Oh, no. Most girls +couldn't feel much sentiment about that kind of greatness." + +"Hush!" she whispered. "You know the night you told me all that I +thought it was a preliminary to your confessing how abominably you +wanted me." + +"Now, really, Betty----" + +"Quite true, George." + +"And you ran away." + +"And you," she said with a little laugh, "didn't follow." + +"Maybe I was afraid of the dragons in the castle. If I'd followed----?" + +"We'd have made the dragons angels." + +Beneath their jesting he was aware of pain in his heart, in her eyes; a +perception of lost chances, chances that never could have been captured. +One couldn't have everything. She had Lambert. He had nothing. But he +might have had Betty. + +He stooped and pressed his lips to her forehead. + +"That's as near as I shall ever come," he thought, sorrowfully, +wondering, against his will, if it were true. + +"It's to wish you and Lambert happiness," he said aloud. + +She raised her fingers to her forehead and let them linger there +thoughtfully. She sighed, straightened, spoke. + +"I'm no longer a sentimental girl, but the admiration has survived, +grown, George. Never forget that." + +"And the kindness?" he asked. + +"Of course," she said. "Why should that ever go?" + +But he shook his head. + +"All the kindness must be for Lambert. You wouldn't give by halves. +When, Betty?" + +"Let us walk back. I've left him an extraordinarily long time." + +"When?" he repeated. + +"I don't know," she answered. "After the war, if he comes home. Of +course, he wants it before. Lambert hurries one so." + +"It's the war," he said, gravely, "that hurries one." + + +III + +"I've wormed it out of Betty," he said to Lambert on the way back to +barracks. + +He added congratulations, heartfelt, accompanied by a firm clasp of the +hand; but Lambert seemed scarcely to hear, couldn't wait for George to +finish before breaking in. + +"You and Betty have always been like brother and sister. She says so. +I've seen it myself." + +George was a trifle uncomfortable. + +"What of it?" + +"If you get a chance point out to her in your brotherly way that the +sooner she marries me the more time we'll have together outside of +heaven. I can't very well go at her on that tack. Sounds slushy, but you +know there's a good chance of my not coming home, and she insists on +waiting." + +With all his soul George shrank from such a task. He glanced at the +other's long, athletic limbs. + +"There are worse fates than widowhood for war brides," he said, +brutally. + +Lambert made a wry face. + +"All the more reason for grabbing what happiness I can." + +"Pure selfishness!" George charged him. + +"You talk like a fond parent," Lambert answered. "I believe Betty is the +only one who doesn't think in those terms. She has other reasons; +ridiculous ones. When she tells them to you you'll come on my side." + +"Perhaps," George said, vaguely. + +Betty's obstinacy wasn't Lambert's only worry. Several times he opened +his mouth as if to speak, and apparently thought better of it. George +could guess the sense of those unexpressed phrases, and could understand +why Lambert should find it difficult to voice them to him. It wasn't +until they were in the sand of the company street, indeed, that Lambert +managed to state his difficulty, in whispers, so that the sleeping +barracks shouldn't be made restless. George noticed that the other +didn't mention Sylvia's name, but it was there in every word, with a +sort of apology for her, and a relief that she wasn't after all going to +marry one so much older and less graceful than herself. + +"I wish you'd suggest a way for me to pull out. I've thought it over. I +can't think of any pretty one, but I don't want to be under obligations +any longer to a man who has been treated so shabbily." + +It amused George to find himself in the position of a Sinclair, fighting +with Lambert to spare Blodgett's feelings. For Blodgett, Lambert's +proposed action would be the final humiliation. + +A day or two later, in fact, Lambert showed George a note he had had +from Blodgett. + + "Never let this come up again," a paragraph ran. "If it made + any difference between me and the rest of the family I'd feel + I'd got more than I deserve. I know I'm not good enough for + her. Let it go at that----" + +"You're right," Lambert said. "He's entitled to be met just there. I've +decided it shall make no difference to the business." + +George was relieved, but Lambert, it was clear, resented the situation, +blamed it on Sylvia, and couldn't wholly refrain from expressing his +disapproval. + +"No necessity for it in the first place. Can't see why she picked him, +why she does a lot of things." + +"Spoiled!" George offered with a happy grin. + +"Prefer to say that myself," Lambert grunted, "although God knows I'm +beginning to think it's true enough." + + +IV + +George doubted if he would see Sylvia at Plattsburgh at all, so +frequently was her visit postponed. Perhaps she preferred to cloister +herself really now, experiencing a sense of shame for the blow +circumstances had made her strike at one who had never quite earned it; +yet when she came, just before the end of camp, he detected no +self-consciousness that he could trace to Blodgett. Lambert and he +arrived at the hotel late one Saturday afternoon and saw her on the +terrace with her mother and the Alstons. For weeks George had forecasted +this moment, their first meeting since she had bought back her freedom +at the expense of Blodgett's heart; and it disappointed him, startled +him; for she was--he had never fancied that would hurt--too friendly. +For the first time in their acquaintance she offered her hand willingly +and smiled at him; but she had an air of paying a debt. What debt? He +caught the words "Red Cross," "recreation." + +"Rather faddish business, isn't it?" he asked, indifferently. + +He was still intrigued by Sylvia's manner. A chorus attacked him. Sylvia +and Betty, it appeared, were extreme faddists. Only Mrs. Planter smiled +at him understandingly from her eminent superiority. As he glanced at +his coarse uniform he wanted to laugh, then his temper caught him. The +debt she desired to pay was undoubtedly the one owed by a people. He +wanted to grasp her and shout in her ear: + +"You patriotic idiot! I won't let you insult me that way." + +"We have to do what we can," she was saying vehemently. "I wish I were a +man. How I wish I were a man!" + +If she were a man, he was thinking, he'd pound some sensible judgments +into her excited brain. Or was all this simply a nervous reaction from +her mental struggles of the past months, from her final escape--a +necessary play-acting? + +He couldn't manage a word with her alone before dinner. The party +wandered through grass-floored forest paths whose shy peace fled from +the approach of uniforms and the heavy tramp of army boots. He resented +her flood of public questions about his work, his prospects, his mental +attitude toward the whole business. Her voice was too kind, her manner +too sweet, with just the proper touch of sadness. She wasn't going to +spare him anything of the soldier's due. Since he was being fattened, +presumably for the butcher, she would turn his thoughts from the +knife---- + +He longed for the riding crop in her fingers; he would have preferred +its blows. + +If he got her alone he would put a stop to such intolerable abuse, but +the chance escaped him until long after dinner, when the moon swung high +above the lake, when the men in uniform and their women were paired in +the ballroom, or on the terrace and balconies. He asked her to dance at +last and she made no difficulty, giving him that unreal and provoking +smile. + +"You dance well," she said when the music stopped. + +They were near a door. He suggested that they go outside. + +"While I tell you that if you offer me any more of that gruel I'll +publicly accuse you of treason." + +She looked at him puzzled, hesitating. + +"What do you mean?" + +"When it comes to being killed," he answered, "I prefer the Huns to +empty kindness. It's rather more useful for the country, too. Please +come out." + +She shook her head. Her eyes were a little uncertain. + +"Yes, you will," he said. "You've let yourself in for it. I'm the victim +of one of your war charities. Let me tell you that sort of thing leads +from the dance floor to less public places. After all, the balcony isn't +very secluded. If you called for help it would come promiscuously, +immediately." + +She laughed. She tried to edge toward her mother. He stopped her. + +"Be consistent. Don't refuse a dying man," he sneered. + +"Dying man!" she echoed. + +"You've impressed me with it all evening. For the first time in your +life you've tried to treat me like a human being, and you've succeeded +in making me feel a perfect fool. Where's the pamphlet you've been +reciting from? I'll guarantee it says the next move is to go to the +balcony and be very nice and a little sentimental to the poor devil." + +Her head went up. She walked out at his side. He arranged chairs close +together at the railing where they seemed to sit suspended in limitless +emptiness above the lake and the mountains flattened by the moonlight. +Later, under very different circumstances, he was to recall that idea of +helpless suspension. She caught it, too, evidently, and gave it a +different interpretation. It was as if, engrossed by her own problems, +she had for the moment forgotten him. + +"This place is so high! It gives you a feeling of freedom." + +He knew very well what was in her mind. + +"I'm glad you can feel free. I'm glad with all my heart you are free +again." + +Caught by her sensations she didn't answer at once. He studied her +during that brief period when she was, in a fashion, helpless before his +eager eyes. Abruptly she faced him, as if the sense of his words had +been delayed in reaching her, or, as if, perhaps, his frank regard had +drawn her around, a little startled. + +"I shall not quarrel with you to-night," she said. + +"Good! Then you must let me tell you that while I'm sorry as I can be +for poor old Blodgett, I'm inexpressibly glad for you and for this +particular object of your charity." + +"It does not concern you," she said. + +"Enormously. I wonder if you would answer one or two questions quite +truthfully." + +She stirred uneasily, seemed about to rise, then evidently thought +better of it. The orchestra resumed its labours. Many figures near by +gravitated toward the ballroom, leaving them, indeed, in something very +near seclusion. And she stayed to hear his questions, but she begged him +not to ask them. + +"You and Lambert are friends. What you are both doing makes me want to +think of that, makes me want to make concessions, but don't +misunderstand, don't force me to quarrel with you until after this is +over." + +He paid no attention to her. + +"I suppose the war made you realize I was right about Blodgett?" + +"You cannot talk about that." + +"Has the war shown you I was right about myself?" he went on. + +"Are you going to make my good resolutions impossible?" she asked. + +Over his shoulder George saw the men in khaki guiding pretty girls about +the dance floor. The place was full of a heady concentration of pleasure +that had a beautiful as well as a pitiful side. About him the atmosphere +was frankly amorous, compounded of multiple desires of heart and mind +which strained for fulfilment before it should be too late. For him +Sylvia was a part of it--the greater part. It entered his senses as the +delightful and faint perfume which reached him from her. It became +ponderable in her dark hair; in her lips half parted; in her graceful +pose as she bent toward him attentively; in her sudden movement of +withdrawal, as if she had suddenly realized he would never give her her +way. + +"Isn't it time," he asked, "that you forgot some of your childish pride +and bad temper? Sylvia! When are you going to marry me?" + +Her laughter wasn't even, but she arose unhurriedly. She paused, indeed, +and sank back on the arm of the chair. + +"So even now," she said, "it's to be quarrels or nothing." + +"Or everything," he corrected her. "I shall make you realize it somehow, +some day. What's the use putting it off? Let's forget the ugly part of +the past. Marry me before I go to France." + +He was asking her what he had accused Lambert of unjustifiably wanting +Betty to do. All at once he understood Lambert's haste. He stretched out +his hand to Sylvia. He meant it--with all his heart he meant it, but she +answered him scornfully: + +"Is that your way of saying you love me?" + +The bitterness of many years revived in his mind, focusing on that +question. If he should answer it impulsively she would be in a position +to hurt him more than she had ever done. George Morton didn't dare take +chances with his impulses, and the bitterness was in his voice when he +answered: + +"You've never let me fancy myself at your feet in a sentimental fit." + +But it was difficult for him not to assume such an attitude: not to take +her hand, both of her hands; not to draw her close. + +"If you'd only answer me----" he began. + +She stood up. + +"Just as when I first saw you!" she cried, angrily. + +She controlled herself. + +"You shan't force me to quarrel. Come in. Let us dance once." + +In a sense he put himself at her feet then. + +"I'm afraid to dance with you to-night," he whispered. + +She looked at him, her eyes full of curiosity. Her eyes wavered. She +turned and started across the gallery. In a panic he sprang after her. + +"All right. Let us dance," he said. + +He led her to the floor and took her in his arms, but he had an +impression of guiding an automaton about the room. Almost at once she +asked him to stop by the door leading to the gallery. He looked at her +questioningly. Her distaste for the civilian Morton was undisguised at +last from the soldier Morton. But there was more than that to be read in +her colourful face--self-distaste, perhaps; and a sort of fright, +comparable with the panic George had just now experienced on the +verandah. Her voice was tired. + +"I've done my best. I can't keep it up." + +"No more war kindness!" he said. "Good!" + +He watched her, her draperies arranging themselves in perplexingly +graceful folds, as she hurried with an air of flight away from him along +the gallery. + + +V + +The evening the commissions were awarded George appreciated the +ingratitudes and cruelties of service rather more keenly than he had +done even as a youngster at Oakmont. + +"It's like tap day at New Haven," Lambert said, nervously. + +He had paused for a moment to compare notes with George. He hurried now +to his own organization for fear something might have happened during +his absence. The suspense increased, reaching even George, who all along +had been confident of success. + +In the dusk the entire company crowded the narrow space between the +barracks--scores of men who had been urged by passionate politicians to +abandon family, money, everything, for the discomforts, sometimes the +degradations, of this place, for the possible privilege of dying for a +cause. It had had to be done, but in the hearts of many that night was +the fancy that it might have been done rather differently. It was clear, +for instance, that the passionate and patriotic politicians hadn't +troubled to tear from a reluctant general staff enough commissions for +the size and quality of these first camps. Many of the men, therefore, +who with a sort of terror shuffled their feet in the sand, would be sent +home, to the draft, or to the questioning scorn of their friends, under +suspicion of a form of treason, of not having banged the drum quite hard +enough. And it wasn't that at all. + +George, like everyone else, had known for a long time there wouldn't be +enough commissions to go around. Why, he wondered now, had the fellows +chosen for dismissal been held for this public announcement of failure. +And in many cases, he reflected, there was no failure here beyond the +insolvency of a system. Among those who would go back to the world with +averted faces were numbers who hadn't really come at all within the +vision of their instructors, beyond whom they could not appeal. And +within a year this same reluctant army would be reaching out eagerly for +inferior officer material. And these men would not forget. You could +never expect them to forget. + +Two messengers emerged from the orderly room and commenced to thread the +restless, apprehensive groups, seeking, with a torturing slowness +finding candidates to whom they whispered. The chosen ran to the orderly +room, entered there, according to instructions, or else formed a long +line outside the window where sat the supreme arbiter, the giver, in a +way of life and death, the young fellow from West Point. + +Men patted George on the back. + +"You'll go among the first, George." + +But he didn't. He paced up and down, watching the many who waited for +the whisper which was withheld, waited until they knew it wouldn't +come, expressed then in their faces thoughts blacker than the closing +night, entered at last into the gloomy barracks where they sat on their +bunks silently and with bowed heads. + +Was that fate, through some miracle of mismanagement, reserved for him? +It couldn't be. The fellow had seen him at the start. George had forced +himself to get along with him, to impress him. Somebody touched George +on the arm. A curiously intense whisper filled his ear. + +"You're wanted in the orderly room, Morton." + +In leaving the defeated he had an impression of a difficult and +sorrowful severance. + +In the orderly room too many men rubbed shoulders restlessly. A relieved +sigh went up. It was as if everyone had known nothing vital could occur +before his arrival. The young West Pointer was making the most of his +moment. The war wasn't likely to bring him another half so great. + +Washington, he announced, had cut down the number of higher commissions +he had asked for. + +George's name was read among the first. + +"To be captain of infantry, United States Reserve--George Morton." + +There was something very like affection in the West Pointer's voice. + +"I recommended you for a majority, Mr. Morton. Stick to the job as you +have here, and it will come along." + +Lambert and Goodhue found him as he crowded with the rest through the +little door. They had kept their captaincies. Even Goodhue released a +little of his relief at the outcome. + +"Any number busted--no time to find out whether they were good or bad." + +The dark, hot, sandy street was full of shadowy figures, calling, +shouting, laughing neurotically. + +"Good fellow, but I had you on my list." "My Lord! I never expected more +than a private in the rear rank." "What do you think of Blank? Lost out +entirely." "Rotten deal." "Not the only one by several dozens." "Hear +about Doe? Wouldn't have picked him for a shave tail. Got a captaincy. +Teacher's pet." + +Brutally someone had turned on the barrack lights. Through the windows +the successful ones could see among the bunks the bowed and silent +figures, must have known how sacrilegious it was to project their +happiness into this place which had all at once become a sepulchre of +dead sacrifices. + +"I hope," George muttered to his friends, "I'll never have to see quite +so much suffering on a battlefield." + + +VI + +It wasn't pleasant to face Blodgett, but it had to be done, for all +three of the partners had determined out of necessity to spend the +greater portion of their leaves at the office. George slipped in alone +the morning he got back to New York. Blodgett looked up as if he had +been struck, taking in each detail of the uniform and its insignia, +symbols of success. The face seemed a little less round, infinitely less +contented. Sitting back there in his office he had an air of having +sought a corner. If Sylvia didn't, he clearly appreciated the shame of +the situation. George took the pudgy hand and pressed it, but he +couldn't say anything and Blodgett seemed to understand and be grateful. +He failed, however, to hide his envy of the uniform. + +"I'd give my money and something besides," he said, "to be able to climb +into that." + +"You're lucky you can't," George answered, half meaning it. + +As a substitute Blodgett spoke of some dollar-a-year work in Washington. + +"But don't worry, George. I'll see everything here is looked after." + +George was glad Blodgett had so much to take care of, for it was clear +that the more work he had the better off he would be. In Blodgett's +presence he tried not to think of Sylvia and his own intentions. He +wrote her, for the first time, boldly asking, since he couldn't suggest +such a visit to Lambert, if he might see her at Oakmont. She didn't keep +him in suspense. He smiled as he read her brief reply, it had been so +obviously dictated by the Sylvia who was going to be good to soldiers no +matter how dreadful the cost. + + "I thought I made you understand that what you proposed at + Plattsburgh can never become less preposterous; my response + less determined. So of course it wouldn't do for you to come. + When we see each other, as we're bound to do, before you sail, + I shall try to forget the absolute lack of any even merely + friendly ground between us. It would hurt Lambert----" + +"Damn Lambert!" he muttered. + +But he didn't tear her letter up. He put it in the pocket of his blouse. +He continued to carry it there. + +Instead of going to Oakmont, consequently, he spent a Sunday at +Princeton, vastly amused at the pacifist Bailly. Minute by minute the +attenuated tutor cursed his inability to take up a gun and pop at +Germans, interspersing his regrets with: + +"But of course war is dreadful. It is inconceivable in a healthy +brain----" and so forth. + +He had found a substitute for his chief ambition. He was throwing +himself heart and soul into the efforts of the Y.M.C.A. to keep soldiers +amused and fed. + +"For Princeton," he explained, "has become an armed camp, a mill to +manufacture officers; nothing more. The classics are as defunct as +Homer. I had almost made a bad pun by suggesting that of them all +Martial alone survives." + +Before he left, George was sorry he had come, for Lambert took pains to +leave Betty alone with him as they walked Sunday evening by the lake. +More powerful than Lambert's wishes in his mind was the memory of how +Betty and he had skated here, or come to boat races, or walked like this +in his undergraduate days; and she didn't take kindly to his +interference, letting him see that to her mind a marriage with Lambert +now would be too eager a jump into the house of Planter; too +inconsiderate a request for the key to the Planter coffers. + +"For Lambert may not come back," she said. + +"That's just it," he urged, unwillingly. "Why not take what you can be +sure of?" + +"What difference would it make?" she asked. "Would I love Lambert any +more? Would he love me any more?" + +"I think so," he said. + +She shook her head. + +"But the thought of a wife might make a difference at the front; might +make him hesitate, or give a little less. We all have to give +everything. So I give Lambert--entirely--if I have to." + +George didn't try to say any more, for he knew she was right; yet with +the opening of Camp Upton and the birth of the division the rather +abrupt marriages of soldiers multiplied. During the winter Officers' +House sheltered excited conferences that led to Riverhead where +licenses, clergymen, and justices of the peace could be found; and there +was scarcely a week-end that didn't see the culmination in town of a +romance among George's own friends and acquaintances. + +The week-ends he got were chiefly valuable to him because they offered +chances of seeing Sylvia. Few actually developed, however, for there +were not many general parties, since men preferred to cling, not +publicly, during such brief respites to those they loved and were on the +point of quitting. + +The Alstons had taken a house for the winter, and George caught her +there once or twice, and would rather not have seen her at all, she was +so painfully cordial, so bound up in her war work of which he felt +himself the chief victim. He began to fear that he would not see her +alone again before he sailed; that he might never be with her alone +again. + +He didn't care either for the pride she took in Dalrymple's presence at +the second camp. + +"He's sure to do well," she would say. "He's always had all sorts of +possibilities. Watch the war bring them out." + +Why did women like the man? There was no question that they did. They +talked now, in ancient terms, of his permanent exit from the field of +wild oats. He could be so fascinating, so thoughtful--of women. But men +didn't like him. Dalrymple's fascinating ways had caught them too +frequently, too expensively. And George didn't believe in his reform, +saw symptoms, as others did, of its true value when, at the close of the +second camp, Dalrymple got himself assigned to the trains of the +division. It was rumoured he had left Plattsburgh a second lieutenant. +It was fact that he appeared at Upton a captain. Secret intrigues in +Washington by fond parents, men whispered; but the women didn't seem to +care, for Dalrymple hadn't shown himself before any of them carrying +less than the double silver bars of a captain. + +George received his prophesied majority at the moment of this +disagreeable arrival. That did impress Sylvia to the point of making her +more cordial in public, more careful than before not to give him a word +in private. As the day of departure approached he grew increasingly +restless. He had never experienced a sensation of such complete +helplessness. He was bound by Upton. She could stand aside and mock him +with her studied politenesses. + +Blodgett ran down a number of times, to sit in George's quarters, +working with the three partners over figures. They made tentative lists +of what should be sold at the first real whisper of peace. + +"But there'll be no peace for a long time," Blodgett promised. "There's +a lot of money for you boys in this war yet." + +They laughed at him, and he looked a little hurt, apparently unable to +see anything humorous in his cheerful promise. + +Dalrymple was aware of these conferences, for he was frequently about +the regimental area. George wasn't surprised, when he sat alone one +night, to hear a tap on his window pane, to see Dalrymple's face at the +window. + +"Hesitate to disturb a major, and all that," Dalrymple said as he +entered. "Two rooms. You're lucky." + +"Not luck; work," George said, shortly. "What is it? Didn't come here to +envy my rank, did you?" + +Although he was in far better shape nervously and physically than he had +been that day in George's office, Dalrymple bore himself with much the +same confused and hesitant manner. It recalled to George the existence +of the note which the other had made no effort to redeem. + +"You know," Dalrymple began, vaguely, "there's a lot of--what do you +call it--bunk--about this hurrah for the dear old soldier business. Fact +is, the more chance there is of a man's getting blown up the nastier +some people become." + +George laughed shortly. + +"You mean when you owe them money." + +"As Driggs used to say," Dalrymple answered, "'you're a very penetrating +person.'" + +He hesitated, then went on with an increasing difficulty: + +"You're one of the people I owe money to." + +Wandel had taken George's hint, evidently. George was sorry he had ever +let it drop. But was he? Mightn't it be as well in the end? In spite of +all this talk of people's leaving their bones in France, there was a +fair chance that both Dalrymple and he would bring theirs, unaltered, +back to America. + +"Don't worry," George said. "I shan't press you." + +"Handsome enough," Dalrymple thanked him in a voice scarcely above a +whisper. "But everybody isn't that decent. It's this talk of the +division sailing that's turned them nasty." + +George fingered a pamphlet about poison gases. He didn't much blame +debtors for turning nasty. + +"You want to borrow some more money from me," he said. + +Dalrymple's face lightened. + +"If you'd be that good; but it's a lot." + +"Why," George asked, quietly, "don't you go to someone you're closer +to?" + +Dalrymple flushed. He wouldn't meet George's eyes. + +"Dicky would give it me," he said, "but I can't ask him; I've made him +too many promises. So would Lambert, but it would be absurd for me to go +to him." + +"Why absurd?" George asked, quietly. + +"Wholly impossible," was all Dalrymple would say. "Quite absurd." + +There came back to George his ugly sensations at Blodgett's, and he knew +he would give Dalrymple a lot of money now, as he had given him a +little then, and for precisely the same reason. + +"I'm afraid I've been a bit hard on my friends," Dalrymple admitted. "As +a rule they've dried up." + +"So you come to one who isn't a friend?" George asked. + +"Now see here, Morton, that's scarcely fair." + +"You haven't forgotten that day in my office," George accused him, "when +you made a brutal ass of yourself." + +"Said I was sorry. Don't you ever forget anything?" + +Dalrymple was angry enough himself now, but his worry apparently forced +him on. + +"I wouldn't have come to you at all, only Driggs said--and you said +yourself once, and you can spare it. I know that. See here. Unless +somebody helps me these people will go to Division Headquarters or +Washington. They'll stop my sailing. They'll----" + +"Don't cry," George interrupted. "You want money, and you don't give a +hang where it comes from. That's it, isn't it?" + +"I have to have money," Dalrymple acknowledged. + +"Then you ought to have sense enough to know the only reason I'd give it +to you. Do you think I'd care if they held you in this country for your +silly debts? What you borrow you have to pay back in one way or another. +Don't make any mistake. If I give you money it's to be able to make you +pay as I please. You've always had a knife out for me. I don't mind +putting one in my own hands. If you want money on those terms come to my +office with your accounts Saturday afternoon. We'll see what can be +done." + +Dalrymple was quite white. He moistened his lips. As he left he +muttered: + +"I can't answer back. I have to have money. You've got me where you +want." + + +VII + +Dalrymple's necessities turned out to be greater than George had +imagined. They measured pretty accurately the extent of his +reformation. George got several notes to run a year in return for +approximately twenty thousand dollars. + +"Remember," he said at the close of the transaction, "you pay those back +when and how I say." + +"I wouldn't have come to you if I could have helped it," Dalrymple +whined. "But don't forget, Morton, somebody will pull me out at a pinch. +I'm going to work to pay you if I live. I'm through with nonsense. Give +me a chance." + +George nodded him out, and sent for his lawyer. In case of his death +Dalrymple's notes would go back to the man. Everything else he had +divided between his mother and the Baillys. He wrote his mother a long +letter, telling her just what to do. Quite honestly he regretted his +inability to get West to say good-bye. The thought of bringing her to +New York or Upton had not occurred to him. + +For during these days of farewells everyone flocked to Upton, sitting +about the hostess houses all day and evening for an occasional chat with +their hurried men. Then they let such moments slip by because of a +feeling of strangeness, of dumb despair. + +The Alstons and the Baillys were there, and so, of course, was Sylvia, +with her mother, more minutely guarded than she had ever been. His few +glimpses of her at luncheon or supper at Officers' House increased the +evil humour into which Dalrymple had thrown him. Consequently he looked +at her, impressing upon his morose mind each detail of her beauty that +he knew very well he might never study again. The old depression of +complete failure held him. She was going to let him go without a word. +Even this exceptional crisis was without effect upon her intolerant +memory. He would leave her behind to complete a destiny which he, +perhaps, after all, had affected only a very little. + +With the whispered word that there would be no more meetings at +Officers' House, that before dawn the regiment would have slipped from +Upton, George turned to his packing with the emotions of a violently +constricted animal. He wouldn't even see her again. When Lambert came to +confer with him about some final dispositions he watched him like such +an animal, but Lambert let him see that he, too, was at a loss. He had +sent word by an orderly that he couldn't get to Officers' House that +evening. + +"I couldn't make it any plainer. If they've any sense they'll know and +hunt me up." + +They were wise, and a little of George's strain relaxed, for they found +Lambert in his quarters, and they made it clear that they had come to +say good-bye to George, too. After many halting efforts they gave up +trying to express themselves. + +"The Spartans were better at this sort of thing," Bailly said at the +last as he clasped George's hand. + +"Every Hun I kill or capture, sir, I'll think of as your Hun." + +Without words, without tears, Mrs. Bailly kissed his lips. George tried +to laugh. + +Betty wouldn't say good-bye, wouldn't even shake hands. + +"I shan't think of killing," she said. "Just take care of yourselves, +and come back." + +George stared at her, alarmed. He had never seen her so white. Lambert +followed her from the room. The Baillys went out after them. Why did +Mrs. Planter linger? There she stood near the door, looking at George +without the slightest betrayal of feeling. He had an impression she was +going to say: + +"We've really quite enjoyed Upton." + +At least she held Sylvia a moment longer, Sylvia who had said nothing, +who had not met his eyes, who had seemed from the first anxious to +escape from this plank room littered with the paraphernalia of battle. +Mrs. Planter held out her hand, smiling. + +"Good-bye, Major. One doesn't need to wish you success. You inspire +confidence." + +He was surprised at the strength of her white hand, felt it draw him +closer, watched her bend her head, heard her speak in his ear so low +that Sylvia couldn't hear--a whisper intense, agonized, of a quality +that seemed like a white-hot iron in his brain: + +"Take care of my son. Bring him back to me." + +She straightened, releasing his hand. + +"Come, Sylvia," she said, pleasantly. + +Without looking back she went out. + +"Good luck, Major," Sylvia said, and prepared to follow. + +Quickly George reached out, caught her arm, and drew her away from the +door. + +"You're not going to say good-bye like this." + +In her effort to escape, in her flushed face, in her angry eyes, he read +her understanding that no other man she knew could have done just this, +that it was George Morton's way. Why not? He had no time for veneer now. +It was his moment, probably his last with her. + +With her free hand she reached behind her to steady herself against the +table. Her fingers touched the gas mask that lay there, then stiffened +and moved away. Some of the colour left her face. Her arm became passive +in his grasp. + +"Let me go. How do you want me to say good-bye?" + +He caught her other arm. + +"Give me something to take. Oh, God, Sylvia! Let me have my kiss." + + +VIII + +Never since he had walked out of the great gate with Sylvia's dog at his +heels to a wilful tutoring of his body and brain had George yielded to +such untrammelled emotion, to so unbounded a desire. This moment of +parting, in which he had felt himself helpless, had swept it all +away--the carefully applied manner, the solicitous schooling of an +impulsive brain, the minute effort to resemble the class of which he had +imagined himself a part. Temporarily he was back at the starting point, +the George Morton who had lifted Sylvia in his arms, blurting out +impossible words, staring at her lips with an abrupt and narrow +realization that sooner or later he would have to touch them. + +Sylvia's quick action brought some of it back, but he had no remorse, no +feeling of reversion, for the moment itself was naked, inimical to +masquerade. + +"Lambert!" she called. + +Her voice didn't suggest fright or too sharp a hurry. Looking at her +face he could understand how much her control had cost, for her +expression was that of the girl Sylvia, filled with antipathy, +abhorrence, an inability to believe. It appeared to tell him that if he +had ever advanced toward her at all, he had just now forced himself back +to his own side of the vast space dividing them. + +"Don't be a fool," he whispered. "I could take it, but you have to +give." + +Her lips were pressed tight as if in a defence against the possible +approach of his. They both heard a quick step outside. He let her arms +go, and turned to the door where Dalrymple stood, unquestionably good to +look upon in his uniform. He frowned at this picture which might have +suggested to him a real intimacy between George Morton and Sylvia +Planter. + +"Lambert's gone on with Betty and the others. What's up?" + +Sylvia's voice wasn't quite steady. + +"The Major can't leave the area. I want somebody to take me to Officers' +House." + +George nodded. He had quite recovered his control, and he knew he had +failed, that there was nothing more to be done. The thought of the +doubtful days ahead was like a great burden on his soul. + +"I've one more word for the Major," she said at the door, motioning +Dalrymple on. + +George went close to her. + +"It's only this," she said. "I'm sorry it had to come at the last +minute." + +He laughed shortly. + +"It was the last minute that made it. I'm not sorry." + +Her face twisted passionately, as if she were on the point of angry +tears. + +"I hope I shall never see you again. Do you understand that?" + +"Quite," he said, dryly. "To George on going to the wars!" + +"I didn't mean just that," she cried, angrily. + +"It's your only chance," he said, "and I can understand how you can wish +I shouldn't come back." + +"I didn't mean it," she repeated. + +"Don't count too heavily on it," he went on. "I can't imagine dying +before having had what I have always wanted, have always sooner or later +intended to get. If I come back I shall have it." + +Without another word she turned and left him. He watched her walk side +by side with Dalrymple out of the area. + + +IX + +There were moments on the voyage, in the training area in Flanders, even +at the front, when he was sorry he had tried to take something of Sylvia +with him to battle; for, as it was, he had of her nothing whatever +except a wish that she should never see him again. There was a deep +irony, consequently, in his official relations with her brother, for it +was Lambert who saluted him, who addressed him perpetually as "sir," who +wanted to know if the major would approve of this, that, or the other. +It was grotesque. He wanted to cry aloud against this necessary +servility of a man whose sister couldn't abide the inferiority of its +object. + +And he hated war, its waste, its bad management, its discomforts, its +dangers. Was it really true he had involved himself in this filth +because of Sylvia? Then that was funny. By gad, he would see her again! +But he watched his chances dwindle. + +While the battalion was in reserve in Lorraine Lambert and he ran into +Dalrymple at the officers' club beneath division headquarters in +Baccarat. George saw him first. + +"The intrepid warrior takes his ease," he muttered. + +Dalrymple left three staff men he was with and hurried across the room. + +"New York must be a lonesome place," he said. "Everybody here. Had a +letter from Sylvia, Lambert." + +Why should she write to him? Far from women's eyes he was back at it. +One of the staff men, in fact, wandered over and whispered to George. + +"Either you chaps from the trains? Somebody ought to take him to his +billet. General or chief-of-staff might drift through. Believe he'd slap +'em on the shoulder." + +"Not a bad idea," George said, contemptuously. + +Dalrymple didn't even try to be cordial to him, knowing George wasn't +likely to make trouble as long as they were in France. Lambert took care +of him, steered him home, and a few days later told George with +surprised laughter that the man had been transferred to a showy and +perfectly safe job at G.H.Q. + +"Papa, and mama, and Washington!" Lambert laughed. + +"Splendid thing for the war," George sneered. + +But he raved with Lambert when Goodhue was snatched away by a general +who chose his aides for their names and social attainments. + +"Spirit's all through the army," Goodhue complained, bitterly. "Why +doesn't it occur to them to get the right men for the right places?" + +He sighed. + +"Suppose we'll get through somehow, but there'll be too much mourning +sold at home." + +All along that had been in George's mind, and, in his small way, he did +what he could, studying minutely methods of accomplishing his missions +at the minimum cost to his battalion; but on the Vesle he grew +discouraged, seeing his men fall not to rise; or to be lifted to a +stretcher; or to scramble up and stagger back swathed with first-aid +rolls, dodging shells and machine-gun spirts; or, and in some ways that +was hardest of all to watch, to be led by some bandaged ones, blinded +and vomiting from gas. + +He had no consecutive sleep. He never got his clothes off. He snatched +food from a tin can. He suffered from the universal dysentery. He was +under constant fire. He lay in shallow funk holes, conferring with his +company and platoon commanders. At best he sat in the cellar of a +smashed house, poring, by the light of a candle, over maps and +complicated orders. Most of the time he wore a gas mask which had the +advantage, however, of shutting out the stifling odour of decay. He +never had time to find out if he was afraid. He reached a blessed state +of indifference where getting hit appeared an inevitable and restful +prospect. + +Driggs Wandel arrived surprisingly on the day the Germans were falling +back to the Aisne, at a moment when most of the artillery fire was +coming from the American side, when it was possible to sit on a sunny +bank outside the battalion dugout breathing only stale souvenirs of last +night's gas shells. + +"_Bon jour_, most powerful and disreputable of majors!" + +George held out his hand. + +"Bring any chocolate, Driggs? Sit down, you idiot. Jerry's never seen +such a nice new uniform." + +Suddenly he lost his temper. Why the devil couldn't he get some pleasure +out of this extraordinary reunion? Why did he have to greet Wandel as if +he had seen him daily since their parting more than three years ago on a +dusky pier in New York? He had heard that Wandel, with the declaration +of war, had left the ambulance for a commission in the field artillery. +He saw him now wearing the insignia of a general staff major. + +"Just attached to your corps headquarters," Wandel said. "Didn't want +the job, would rather have been a fighting man with my pretty guns. +Suppose some fool of a friend of the family brought the usual influence +without consulting me." + +"Glad to see you, Driggs," George muttered, "although I don't seem able +to tell you so. How did you get here?" + +"Guide from regimental headquarters. Wanted to see how the submerged +heroes live. Nasty, noisy, smelly spot to be heroic in." + +"A picnic to-day." + +"I've always suspected," Wandel said, "that picnics were unhealthy." + +"Better have come," George grinned, "any other day we've been here the +past few weeks." + +Wandel laughed. + +"Don't think I didn't pick my day. The general staff takes no +unnecessary risks. Tell me, my George, when did you shave last? When did +you wash your pretty face last? When did you take your swank clothes off +last?" + +"I think when I was a very little boy," George sighed. + +Wandel became abruptly serious, turned so, perhaps, by a large shell +fragment, still warm, which he had picked up. As he fingered it he +stared at George. + +"I know," George said, "that I point a moral, but even little boys would +be glad to be made clean if they got like this. Don't rub it in." + +"To the contrary," Wandel said, thoughtfully, "I'm going back over a lot +of years. I'm remembering how that most extraordinary man, Freshman +George Morton, looked. I'm thinking that I've always been right about +you." + +The warm sun, the diminution of racket, this sudden companionship, had +drawn George a little from his indifferent, half-dazed condition. He, +too, could look back, and without discomfort. On the Vesle it was only +death that counted. Birth didn't amount to a hill of beans, or money, or +education, except in that it made a man an officer. So George answered +frankly: + +"All along you've guessed a lot about me, Driggs." + +"Known, George." + +"Would you mind telling me how?" + +"It would be a pleasure to point out to you," Wandel drawled, "that a +lot of people aren't half as big fools as you've credited them with +being. You looked a little what you were at first. You've probably +forgotten that when you matriculated you put down a place of residence, +a record easily available for one who saw, as I did, means of using you. +Even a fool could have guessed something was up the night Betty was good +enough to make herself a part of the _beau monde_. I gathered a lot from +Lambert then." + +"Yet," George said, almost indifferently, "you went on being a friend." + +"Your political manager, George," Wandel corrected. "I'm not sure it +would have gone much further if it hadn't been for Dicky." + +George was thoroughly aroused at last. + +"Did Dicky know?" + +"Not mere facts," Wandel answered. "What difference did they make? But +he could see what you had started from, how great the climb you were +taking. That's why he liked and admired you, because of what you were, +not because of what you wanted people to think you were. That's really +what first attracted me to you, and it amused me to see you fancying you +were getting away with so much more than you really were." + +"Extraordinary!" George managed. "Then the heights are not so well +guarded?" + +"Ah, yes--guarded," Wandel said, "but not against great men." + +George kicked at the ground with his heel. + +"Funny how unimportant it all seems here," he muttered. + +It wasn't only the surroundings that made it seem unimportant; it was +his remembrance of Sylvia who had known more than Wandel, more than +anybody, yet had never opened the gate. + +"You've taken all my conceit away," he went on. "Once it might have made +me want to put myself out. Now I'm quite content to let Jerry do it." + +Wandel's voice warmed, was less affected than George had ever heard it. + +"What are you talking about? You've won a great victory. You should +carry laurels on your brow. You've climbed to the top. You've defined +for us all a possible socialism." + +George smiled. + +"A hell of a thing to talk about here! But tell that to Squibs, will +you, little man, when you get back? We've had some rare battles over +it." + +Wandel hurried on. + +"You've made yourself one of us, if it's any satisfaction. You're as +good as the best of us--of the inheritors." + +George folded his arms on his knees and bowed his head. Wandel's voice +was startled. + +"What's up?" + +"Maybe I'm crying," George mumbled. "Ought to be, because I'm so filthy +tired, and I know you're wrong, Driggs. I'm rotten inside. I haven't +even started to climb." + +But when he looked up there were no tears in his eyes, and his dirty +face had altered with its old whimsical smile. + +"Besides, it's enough to make me cry to know you wouldn't say all this +unless you were certain I'm going to be killed." + +"Hope not," Wandel laughed, "but picnics are full of germs. What's +this?" + +A grimy figure approached like a man fantastically imitating some +animal. His route was devious as if he were perpetually dodging +something that miraculously failed to materialize. He stopped, +straightened reluctantly, and saluted George. + +"Captain sent me on, sir. I've located Jerry opposite at----" + +He rattled off some coordinates. George looked him over. + +"How did you find that out?" he snapped. + +"Ran across Jerry----" + +The dirty young man recited jerkily and selflessly a story of fear and +risks overcome, of cunning stealth, of passionate and promiscuous +murder---- + +"Report back," George said. + +When he had gone George called for his adjutant and turned to Wandel. + +"Before anything happens to me," he said, "I'll recommend that dirty +young assassin for a citation." + +Wandel laughed in a satisfied way. + +"I'm always right about you, great man. Don't you see that? Never think +about your own citation----" + +George stared at him, uncomprehending. + +"Citation! A thousand citations for a bed!" + +He watched Wandel uneasily when, at the heels of a guide, he dodged down +the slope in search of Lambert, calling back: + +"Don't swallow any germs." + +"That's very fine, Driggs," he thought, "but why all that and not the +rest? I'd give a good deal to guess what you know about me and Sylvia +Planter." + + +X + +George hoped Wandel would find Lambert. Day by day he had dreaded bad +news. Other officers and men got hit every hour; why not himself or +Lambert? For he had never forgotten Mrs. Planter's unexpected and +revealing whisper. It had shown him that even beneath such exteriors +emotion lurks as raw, as desirous, as violent as a savage's. The rest, +then, was habit which people inherited, or acquired, or imitated with +varying success. It had made him admire her all the more, had forced on +him a wish to obey her, but what could he do? It was not in him to play +favourites. One man's life was as good as another's; but he watched +Lambert as he could, while in his tired brain lingered a feeling of fear +for that woman's son. + +During the peaceful days dividing the Aisne and the Argonne he looked at +Lambert and fingered his own clothing, stained and torn where death had +nearly reached, with a wondering doubt that they could both be whole, +that Mrs. Planter in her unemotional way could still welcome guests to +Oakmont. And he recalled that impression he had shared with Sylvia on +the bluff above Lake Champlain of being suspended, but he no longer felt +free. He seemed to hang, indeed, helplessly, in a resounding silence +which at any moment would commence giving forth unbearable, Gargantuan +noises; for, bathed and comfortable, eating in leisure from a mess-kit, +he never forgot that this was a respite, that to-morrow or the next day +or the day after the sounding board would reverberate again, holding him +a deafened victim. + +Wandel caught up with them one evening in the sylvan peace that preceded +the fatal forest uproar. The Argonne still slumbered; was nearly silent; +offered untouched trees under which to loaf after a palatable cold +supper. The brown figures of enlisted men also lounged near by, +reminiscing, wondering, doubtless, as these officers did, about New +York which had assumed the attributes of an unattainable paradise. + +George hadn't been particularly pleased to see Wandel. What Wandel knew +made more difference in this quiet place, and George had a vague, shamed +recollection of having accused himself of being rotten inside, of not +having even started to climb. + +"Must have had a touch of shell shock without knowing it," he mused as +he stared through the dusk at the precise, clean little man. + +Indifferently he listened to Lambert's good-natured raillery at the +general staff, then he focussed his attention, for Lambert's voice had +suddenly turned serious, his hand had indicated the lounging figures of +the enlisted men. + +"With all your ridiculous fuss and feathers at nice headquarters +châteaux, I don't suppose you ever get to know those fellows, Driggs." + +"I don't see why not," Wandel drawled. + +"Do you love them, everyone?" + +"Can't say that I do, but then my heart is only a small organ." + +"I do," Lambert said, warmly. "And you'll find George does. You can't +help it when you see them pulling through this thing. They're real men, +aren't they, George?" + +George yawned. + +"Are they any more so," he asked, dryly, "than they were when they lived +in the same little town with you? I mean, if all you say about them is +true why did you have to wait for war to introduce you to unveil their +admirable qualities?" + +Lambert straightened. + +"It's wrong," he said, defiantly, "that I should have waited. It's wrong +that I couldn't help myself." + +"And you once tried to take a horse whip to me," George whispered in his +ear. + +It was Lambert's absurd earnestness that worried him. Did Lambert, too, +have a touch of shell shock? Wandel was trying to smooth out his +doubts. + +"I think what you mean to say is that war, aside from military rank, is +a great leveller. We can leave that out altogether. You know the +professional officer's creed: 'Good Colonel, deliver us.' 'We beseech ye +to hear us, good General,' and so on up to the top man, who begs the +Secretary of War, who prays to the President, who, one ventures to hope, +gets a word to God. You mean, Lambert, that out here it never occurs to +you to ask these men who their fathers were, or what preps they went to, +or what clubs they're members of. It's the war spirit--aside from +military rank--this sham equality. Titled ladies dine with embarrassed +Tommies. Your own sister dances with doughboys who'd be a lot happier if +she'd leave them alone. It's in the air, beautiful, gorgeous, hysterical +war democracy which declares that all men are equal until they're +wounded; then they're superior; or until they're dead; then they're +forgotten." + +George grunted. + +"You're right, Driggs. It won't survive the war." + +"Paper work!" Wandel sneered. + +"It ought to last!" Lambert cried. "I hope it does." + +"Pray that it doesn't," Wandel said. "I fancy the real hell of war comes +after the war is over. We'll find that out, if we live. As for me, even +now when we're all beloved brothers, I'd give a good deal to be sitting +in a Fifth Avenue club looking out on lesser men." + +"I would, too," George said, fervently. + +Lambert spoke with abysmal seriousness. + +"I'd rather have some of the splendid lesser men sitting on the same +side of the window with me." + +George stared at him. What had happened to this aristocrat who had once +made a medieval gesture with a horse whip? Certainly he, the plebeian +victim of that attack, had no such wish. Put these men on the same side +of a club window, or a factory window, for that matter, and they'd drag +the whole business down to their level, to eternal smash fast enough. +Why, hang Lambert! It amounted to visualizing his sister as a slattern. +He smiled with a curious pride. Reddest revolution couldn't make her +that. She wouldn't come down off her high horse if a dozen bayonets +were at her throat. What the deuce was he thinking about? Why should he +be proud of that? For, if he lived, he was going to drag her off +himself, but he wouldn't make her a slattern. + +"You talk like Allen," he said, "and you haven't even his excuse." + +"I've seen the primeval for the first time," Lambert answered. + +"I'll admit it has qualities," Wandel yawned. "Anyway, I'm off." + +Mrs. Planter came back to George's mind, momentarily as primeval as a +man surrendered to the battle lust. What one saw, except in +self-destructive emergencies, he told himself, was all veneer. Ages, +epochs, generations, merely determined its depth. The hell after war! +Did Wandel mean there was danger then of an attempt to thin the veneer? +Was Lambert, of all people, going to assist the Allens to plane it away? + +"It would mean another dark ages," he mused. + +His own little self-imposed coat he saw now had gone on top of a far +thicker one without which he would have been as helpless as a bushman or +some anthropoidal creature escaped from an unexplored country. + +He laughed, but uncomfortably. Those two had made him uneasy, and +Squibs, naturally, was at Lambert's folly. There had been a letter a day +or two ago which he had scarcely had time to read because of the demands +of an extended movement and the confusion of receiving replacements and +re-equipping the men he had. He read it over now. "Understanding," +"Brotherhood." + +"You are helping to bring it about, because you are helping to win this +war." + +In a fit of irritation he tore the letter up. What the devil was he +fighting the war for? + +The question wouldn't let him asleep. Lambert, Wandel, and Squibs +between them had made him for the first time in his life thoroughly, +uncomfortably, abominably afraid--physically afraid--afraid of being +killed. For all at once there was more than Sylvia to make him want to +live. He didn't see how he could die without knowing what the deuce he +was fighting this man's war for, anyway. + + +XI + +He hadn't learned any more about it when Lambert and he were caught on +the same afternoon a week later. + +In the interminable, haggard thicket the attack had abruptly halted. +Word reached George that Lambert's company was falling back. To him that +was beyond belief if Lambert was still with his men. He hurried forward +before regimental headquarters had had a chance to open its distant +mouth. There were machine-gun nests ahead, foolish stragglers told him. +Of course. Those were what he had ordered Lambert to take. The company +was disorganized. Little groups slunk back, dragging their rifles as if +they were too heavy. Others squatted in the underbrush, waiting +apparently for some valuable advice. + +George found the senior lieutenant, crouched behind a fallen log, +getting the company in hand again through runners. + +"Where's Captain Planter?" + +The lieutenant nodded carelessly ahead. + +"Hundred yards or so out there. He ran the show too much himself," he +complained. "Bunch of Jerries jumped out of the thicket and threw potato +mashers, then crawled back to the guns. When the captain went down the +men near him broke. Sort of thing spreads like a pestilence." + +"Dead?" George asked. + +"Don't know. Potato mashers!" + +"Why haven't you found out?" George asked, irritably. + +The complaining note increased in the other's voice. + +"He's at the foot of that tree. Hear those guns? They're just zipping a +few while they wait for someone to get to him." + +"Pull your company together," George said with an absurd feeling that he +spoke to Mrs. Planter. "I'll go along and see that we get him and those +nests. They're spoiling the entire afternoon." + +The lieutenant glanced at him, startled. + +"I can do it----" + +"You haven't," George reminded him. + +He despatched runners to the flank companies and to regimental +headquarters announcing that he was moving ahead. When the battalion +advanced, like a lot of fairly clever Indians, he was in the van, making +straight for the tree. He had a queer idea that Mrs. Planter quietly +searched in the underbrush ahead of him. The machine guns, which had +been trickling, gushed. + +"You're hit, sir," the lieutenant said. + +George glanced at his right boot. There was a hole in the leather, but +he didn't feel any pain. He dismissed the lieutenant's suggestion of +stretcher bearers. He limped ahead. Why should he assume this risk for +Lambert? Sylvia wouldn't thank him for it. She wouldn't thank him for +anything, but her mother would. He had to get Lambert back and complete +his task, but he was afraid to examine the still form he saw at last at +the base of the tree, and he knew very well that that was only because +Lambert was his friend. He designated a man to guide the stretcher +bearers, and bent, his mind full of swift running and vicious tackles, +abrupt and brutal haltings of this figure that seemed to be asleep, that +would never run again. + +Lambert stirred. + +"Been expecting you, George," he said, sleepily. + +"Anything besides your leg?" George asked. + +"Guess not," Lambert answered. "What more do you want? Thanks for +coming." + +George left him to the stretcher bearers and hurried on full of envy; +for Lambert was going home, and George hadn't dared stop to urge him to +forget that dangerous nonsense he had talked the other night. Nonsense! +You had only to look at these brown figures trying to flank the spouting +guns. Why did they have to glance continually at him? Why had they +paused when he had paused to speak to Lambert? Same side of the window! +But a few of them stumbled and slept as they fell. + +He had just begun to worry about the blood in his right boot when +something snapped at the bone of his good leg, and he pitched forward +helplessly. + +"Some tackle!" he thought. + +Then through his brain, suddenly confused, flashed an overwhelming +gratitude. He couldn't walk. He couldn't go forward. He wouldn't have to +take any more risks beyond those shared with the stretcher bearers who +would carry him back. Like Lambert, he was through. He was going +home--home to Sylvia, to success, to the coveted knowledge of why he had +fought this war. + +The lieutenant, frightened, solicitous, crawled to him, summoning up the +stretcher bearers, for the advance had gone a little ahead, the German +range had shortened to meet it. + +"How bad, sir?" + +George indicated his legs. + +"Never learned how to walk on my hands." + +The lieutenant straightened, calling out cursing commands. George +managed to achieve a sitting posture. By gad! This leg hurt! It made him +a little giddy. Only once before, he thought vaguely, had he experienced +such pain. What was the trouble here? The advance had halted, probably +because the word had spread that he was down. + +What was it Lambert had said about putting the rank and file on the same +side of the window? The rank and file wanted an officer, and the higher +the officer the farther it would go. That was answer enough for Lambert, +Squibs, Allen----And he would point it out to them all, for the +stretcher bearers had come up, had lifted him to the stretcher, were +ready to start him back to decency, to safety---- + +Thank God there wasn't any multitude or an insane trainer here to order +him about. + +"They've stopped again," the lieutenant sobbed. "Some of them are coming +back." + +That sort of thing did spread like a pestilence, but there was nothing +George could do about it. He had done his job. Good job, too. Soft +billet now. Decency. Sylvia. No Green. No multitude---- + +"You make a touchdown!" + +And he became aware at last of the multitude--raving higher officers in +comfortable places; countless victims of invasion, waiting patiently to +go home; myriads in the cities, intoxicated with enthusiasm and wine, +tumbling happily from military play to patriotic bazaar; but most +eloquent of all in that innumerable company were the silent and cold +brown figures lying about him in the underbrush. + +His brain, a little delirious, was filled with the roaring from the +stands. The crowd was commanding him to get ahead somehow, to wipe out +those deadly nests, to let the regiment, the army, tired nations, sweep +on to peace and the end of an unbelievable madness. + +Once more he glanced through blurred eyes at his clothing and saw +livery, and this time he had put it on of his own free will. He seemed +to hear Squibs: + +"World lives by service." + +"I'm in the service," he thought. "Got to serve." + +It impressed him as quite pitiful that now he would never know just why. + +"Where you going?" he demanded of the stretcher bearers who had begun to +carry him back. + +They tried to explain, hurrying a little. He threatened them with his +revolver. + +"Turn around. Let's go--with the battalion." + +The lieutenant saw, the men saw, these frightened figures running with +loping steps, carrying a stretcher which they jerked and twitched so +that the figure lying on it with arm raised, holding a revolver, +suffered agonies and struggled not to be flung to the ground. And the +lieutenant and the men sprang to their feet, ran forward, shouted: + +"Follow the Major!" + +The German gunners, caught by surprise, hesitated, had trouble, +therefore, shortening their ranges; and as panic spreads so does the +sudden spirit of victory. + +"Same side of the window!" George grumbled as the bearers set him down +behind the captured guns. + +"Just the same," he rambled, "fine fellows. Who said they weren't fine +fellows?" + +He wanted to argue it angrily with a wounded German propped against a +shattered tree, but the lieutenant interrupted him, bringing up a +medical orderly, asking him if he had any instructions. George answered +very pleasantly: + +"Not past me, Mr. Planter! Rank and file myself!" + +The lieutenant glanced significantly at the medical orderly. He looked +sharply at George's hair and suddenly pointed. + +"They nicked him in the head, too." + +The orderly knelt and examined the place the lieutenant had indicated. + +"Oh, no, sir. That's quite an old scar." + + +XII + +"Lost a leg or two?" Allen asked. + +"Not yet. Don't think I shall. Planter's not so lucky, but he'll get +home sooner." + +Allen brought George his one relief from the deadly monotony of the base +hospital. He had sent for him because he wanted his opinion as to the +possibility of an armistice. Blodgett, however, hadn't waited for the +result of the conference. The day Allen arrived a letter came from him, +telling George not to worry. + +"King Ferdy along about the last of September whispered I'd better begin +to unload. It's a killing, George." + +With his mind clear of that George could be amused by Allen. The friend +of the people wore some striking clothes from London tailors and +haberdashers. He carried a cunning little cane. He had managed something +extremely neat in moustaches. He spoke with a perceptible West End +accent. But in reply to George's sneering humour he made this +astonishing remark: + +"It isn't nearly as much fun being a top-hole person as I thought it was +going to be." + +"You're lucky to have found it out," George said, "for your job's about +over. Of course I could get you something in Wall Street." + +"Doubt if I should want it," Allen said. "I've always got my old job." + +George whistled. + +"You mean you'd go back to long hair, cheap clothes, and violent words?" + +"Why not? I only took your offer, Morton, because I was inclined to +agree with you that in the outside world's anxiety to look at what was +going on over the fence people'd stop thinking. Russia didn't stop +thinking, and after the armistice you watch America begin to use its +brain." + +"You mean the downtrodden," George sneered. + +"That's the greater part of any country," Allen said, his acquired +accent forgotten, his perfectly clean hands commencing to gesture. + +But George wouldn't listen to him, got rid of him, turned to the wall +with an ugly feeling that he had gone out of his way to nurture one of +the makers of the hell after war. + + + + +PART V + +THE NEW WORLD + + +I + +George crushed his uneasy thoughts, trying to dwell instead on the idea +that he was going back to the normal, but all at once he experienced a +dread of the normal, perhaps, because he was no longer normal himself. +Could he limp before Sylvia with his old assurance? Would people pity +him, or would he irritate them because he had a disability? And snatches +of his talks at the front with Wandel etched themselves sharply against +his chaotic recollections of those days. Was Wandel fair? Was it, +indeed, the original George Morton people had always liked? Here, apart +from the turmoil, he didn't believe it, didn't dare believe it. Those +people wouldn't have cared for him except for his assumption of +qualities which he had chosen as from a counter display. Yet was it the +real George Morton that made him in superlative moments break the traces +of his acquired judgments, as he had done at New Haven, in the Argonne, +to dash selflessly into the service of others? Rotten inside, indeed! +Even in the hospital he set out to crush that impulsive, dangerous part +of him. + +But the nearer he drew to home the more he suffered from a depression +that he could only define as homesickness--homesickness for the old +ways, the old habits, the old thoughts; and the memory of his temerity +with Sylvia at the moment of their parting was like a great cloud +threatening the future with destructive storm. + +Lambert, wearing a contrivance the doctors had given him in place of +what the country had taken away, accompanied by Betty and the Baillys, +met the transport. Betty and Mrs. Bailly cried, and George shook his +heavy stick at them. + +"See here! I'm not going to limp like this always." + +Bailly encircled him with his thin arms. + +"You're too old to play football, anyway, George." + +George found himself wanting Betty's arms, their forgetfulness, their +understanding, their tenderness. + +"When are you two going to be married?" he forced himself to ask. + +Betty looked away, her white cheeks flushing, but Lambert hurried an +answer. + +"As soon as you're able to get to Princeton. You're to be best man." + +"Honoured." + +So Lambert's crippling hadn't made any difference to Betty, but how did +Sylvia take it? He wanted to ask Lambert where she was, if anything had +happened to her, any other mad affair, now that the war was over, like +the one with Blodgett; but he couldn't ask, and no one volunteered to +tell him, and it wasn't until his visit to Oakmont, on his first leave +from the hospital, that he learned anything whatever about her, and that +was only what his eyes in a moment told him. + +Lambert drove over and got George, explaining that his mother wanted to +see him. + +"She'd have come to the dock," he said, "but Father these days is rather +hard to leave." + +George went reluctantly, belligerently, for since his landing his +feeling of homesickness had increased with the realization that his +victorious country was more radically altered than he had fancied. The +ride, however, had the advantage of an uninterrupted talk with Lambert +which developed gossip that Blodgett, stuffed with business, hadn't yet +given him. + +Goodhue and Wandel, for instance, were still abroad, holding down showy +jobs at the peace conference. Dalrymple, on the other hand, had been +home for months. + +"Most successful war," Lambert told George. "Scarcely smelled fire, but +got a couple foreign decorations, and a promotion--my poor old leg +wasn't worth it, or yours, George, but what odds now? And as soon as the +show stopped at Sedan he was trotting back. Can't help admiring him, +for that sort of thing spells success, and he's steady as a church. Try +to realize that, and take a new start with him, for he's really likeable +when he keeps to the straight and narrow. Prohibition's going to fit in +very well, although I believe he's got himself in hand." + +George stared at the ugly, familiar landscape, trying not to listen, +particularly to the rest. Why should the Planters have taken Dalrymple +into the marble temple? + +"A small start," Lambert was saying, "but if he makes the grade there's +a big future for him there. I fancy he's anxious to meet you halfway. +How about you, George?" + +"I'll make no promises," George said. "It depends entirely on +Dalrymple." + +Lambert didn't warn him, so he didn't expect to find Dalrymple enjoying +the early spring graces of Oakmont. He managed the moment of meeting, +however, without disclosing anything. Dalrymple, for the time, was quite +unimportant. It was Sylvia he was anxious about, Sylvia who undoubtedly +nursed a sort of horror of what he had ventured to do and say at Upton. +Everyone else was outside, as if making a special effort to welcome him. +Where was she? + +He resented the worshipful attentions of the servants. + +"I'm quite capable of managing myself," he said, as he motioned them +aside and lowered himself from the automobile. + +He disliked old Planter's heartiness, although he could see the physical +effort it cost, for the once-threatening eyes were nearly dark; and the +big shoulders stooped forward as if in a constant effort to escape a +pursuing pain; and the voice, which talked about heroes and the +country's debt and the Planters' debt, quavered and once or twice broke +altogether, then groped doubtfully ahead in an effort to recover the +propelling thought. + +Mrs. Planter, at least, spared him any sentimental gratitude. She was +rather grayer and had in her face some unremembered lines, but those +were the only changes George could detect. As far as her manner went +this greeting might have followed the farewell at Upton after only a day +or so. + +"I hope your wound isn't very painful." + +"My limping," he answered, "is simply bad habit. I'm overcoming it." + +"That's nice. Then you'll be able to play polo again!" + +"I should hope so, as long as ponies have four good legs." + +He wished other people could be like her, so unobtrusively, unannoyingly +primeval. + +As he entered the hall he saw Sylvia without warning, and he caught his +breath and watched her as she came slowly down the stairs. He tried to +realize that this was that coveted moment he had so frequently fancied +the war would deny him--the moment that brought him face to face with +Sylvia again, to witness her enmity, to desire to break it down, to want +her more than he had ever done. + +She came straight to him, but even in the presence of the others she +didn't offer her hand, and all she said was: + +"I was quite sure you would come back." + +"You knew I had to," he laughed. + +Then he sharpened his ears, for she was telling her brother something +about Betty's having telephoned she was driving over to take Lambert, +Dalrymple, and herself to Princeton. + +No. The war had changed her less than any one George had seen. She was +as beautiful, as unforgiving, as intolerant; and he guessed that it was +she and not Betty who had made the arrangement which would take her away +from him. + +"George will come, too," Lambert began. + +"Afraid I'm not up to it," George refused, dryly. + +At Betty's wedding, however, she would have to be with him, for it +developed during this nervous chatter that they would share the honours +of the bridal party. + +So, helplessly, he had to watch her go, and for a moment he felt as if +he had had a strong tonic, for she alone had been able to give him an +impression that the world hadn't altered much, after all. + +The reaction came in the quiet hours following. He was at first +resentful that Mrs. Planter should accompany him on the painful walk the +doctors had ordered him, like Old Planter, to take daily. He had wanted +to go back to the little house, highest barrier of all which Sylvia +would never let him climb. Then, glancing at the quiet woman, he squared +his shoulders. Suppose Wandel had been right! Here was a test. At any +rate, the war was a pretty large and black background for so tiny a high +light. Purposefully, therefore, he carried out his original purpose. By +the side of Mrs. Planter he limped toward the little house. They didn't +say much. It wasn't easy for him to talk while he exercised, and perhaps +she understood that. + +Even before the clean white building shone in the sun through the trees +he heard a sound that made him wince. It was like a distant drum, badly +played. Then he understood what it was, and his boyhood, and the day of +awakening and revolt, submerged him in a hot wave of shame. He could see +his mother rising and bending rhythmically over fine linen which emerged +from dirty water, making her arms look too red and swollen. He glanced +quickly at Mrs. Planter to whose serenity had gone the upward effort of +many generations. Just how appalling, now that war had mocked life so +dreadfully, now that a pitiless hand had a moment ago stripped all +pretence from the world, was the difference between them? + +It was the woman at the tub, curiously enough, who seemed trying to tell +him, trying to warn him to keep his mouth shut. Then the house was +visible through the trees. He raised his stick. + +"I wanted to see it again," he said, defiantly, "because I was born +there. I lived there." + +She paused and stared with him, without saying anything, without any +change of expression. After a time she turned. + +"Have you looked enough? Shall we go back, George?" + +He nodded, glancing at her wonderingly. After all, he had had very +little love in his life. Mrs. Bailly, Betty---- + +He had never dreamed of such gratitude as this. Lambert, home with his +war madness fresh upon him, must have told her, as an example of what a +man might do. But was her action all gratitude? Rather wasn't it a +signpost at the parting of two ages? + +If that were so, he told himself, the world had left Sylvia hopelessly +behind. + + +II + +The memory of that unguarded moment remained in his mind uncomfortably. +He carried it finally from the hospital to his musty apartment, where he +stripped off his uniform and looked in the glass, for the first time in +nearly two years his own master, no man's servant. + +Was he his own master as long as he could commit such sentimental +follies, as long as he could suspect that he had told Wandel the truth +on the Vesle? This nostalgia must be the rebound from the war, of which +he had heard so much, which made men weak, or lazy, or indifferent. + +He continued to stare in the glass, angry, amazed. He had to overcome +this homesick feeling. He had to prepare himself for harder battles than +he had ever fought. He had had plenty of warning of the selfishness that +was creeping over the world like a black pestilence. Where was his own +self-will that had carried him so far? + +He locked himself, as it were, in his apartment. He sat down and called +on his will. With a systematic brutality he got himself in hand. He +reviewed his aims: to make more money, to get Sylvia. He emerged at +last, hard and uncompromising, ready for the selfish ones, and went down +town. Blodgett greeted him with a cheer. + +"Miracles! For the first time since you got back you look yourself +again." + +"I am," George answered, "all but the limp. That will go some day +maybe." + +He wanted it to go. He desired enormously to rid himself of the last +reminder of his service. + +Lambert was definitely caught by the marble temple, but Goodhue and he +would stay together, more or less tied to Blodgett, to accept the +opportunities George foresaw for dragging money by sharp reasoning from +the reconstruction period. He applied himself to exchange. From their +position they could run wild in the stock market at little risk, but +there were big things to be made out of exchange, about which the +cleverest men didn't seem to know anything worth a penny in any +currency. + +Everyone noticed his recovery, and everyone congratulated him except +Bailly. When George went down to Betty's wedding the long tutor met him +at the station, crying out querulously: + +"What's happened to you?" + +George laughed. + +"Got over the war reaction, I guess." + +"What the deuce did you go to war for at all then?" Bailly asked. + +"Haven't found that out myself yet," George answered, "but I know I +wouldn't go to another, even if they'd have me." + +He grimaced at his injured foot. + +"And they're going to give you some kind of a medal!" Bailly cried. + +"I didn't ask for it," George said, "but I daresay a lot of people, you +among them, went down to Washington and did." + +Bailly was a trifle uncomfortable. + +"See here," George said. "I don't want your old medal, and I don't +intend to be scolded about it. I suppose I've got to rush right out to +the Alstons." + +"Let's stop at the club," Bailly proposed. "People want to see you. +We'll fight the war over with the veterans." + +"Damn the war!" George said. + +Mrs. Bailly, when he paused for a moment at the house in Dickinson +Street, attacked him, and quite innocently, from a different direction. + +"It was the wish of my life, George, that you should have Betty, and you +might have had. I can't help feeling that." + +"You're prejudiced," George laughed. + +He went to the Alstons, nevertheless, almost unwillingly, and he delayed +his arrival until the last minute. The intimate party had gathered for a +dinner and a rehearsal that night. The wedding was set for the next +evening. + +The Tudor house had an unfamiliar air, as though Betty already had taken +from it every feature that had given it distinction in George's mind. +And Betty herself was caught by all those detailed considerations that +surround a girl, at this vital moment of her life, with an atmosphere +regal, mysterious, a little sacred. So George didn't see her until just +before dinner, or Sylvia, who was upstairs with her. Lambert and +Blodgett were about, however, and so was Dalrymple. George was glad +Lambert had asked Blodgett to usher; he owed it to him, but he was +annoyed that Dalrymple should have been included in the party, for it +was another mark, on top of his presence in the marble temple, of a +tightening bond of intimacy between him and the Planters. George +examined the man, therefore, with an eager curiosity. He looked well +enough, but George remained unconvinced by his apparent reformation, +suspecting its real purpose was to impress a willing public, for he had +studied Dalrymple during many years without uncovering any real +strength, or any disposition not to answer gladly to every appeal of the +senses. At least he was restless, rising from his chair too often to +wander about the room, but George conceded with a smile that his own +arrival might be responsible for that. The matter of the notes hadn't +been mentioned, but they existed undoubtedly even in Dalrymple's +careless mind, which must have forecasted an uncomfortable day of +payment. + +Lambert seemed sure enough of his friend. + +"Dolly's sticking to the job like a leech," he said to George when they +went upstairs to dress. + +"I've no faith in him," George answered, shortly. + +"You're an unforgiving brute," Lambert said. + +George hastened away from the subject. + +"I'm not chameleon, at least," he admitted with a smile, "which reminds +me. I don't see any of your dearly beloved brothers of the ranks in your +bridal party. Have you put private Oscar Liporowski up for any of your +clubs yet?" + +"Unforgiving and unforgetting!" Lambert laughed. + +"Then you acknowledge that talk in the Argonne was war madness?" + +"By no means," Lambert answered, suddenly serious. "Let me get married, +will you? I can't bother with anything else now. Sylvia, whose mind +isn't filled with romance, threatens to become the socialist of the +family." + +George stared at him. + +"What are you talking about?" + +"About what Sylvia's talking about," Lambert answered. + +"Now I know you're mad," George said. + +Lambert shook his head. + +"But I don't take her very seriously. It's a nice game to seek beauties +in Bolshevism. It's played in some of the best houses. You must have +observed it--how wonderfully it helps get through a tea or a dinner." + + +III + +George went to his own room, amused and curious. Could Sylvia talk +communism, even parrot-like, and deny him the rights of a brother? He +became more anxious than before to see her. He shrank, on the other +hand, from facing Betty who was about to take this enormous step +permanently away from him. Out of his window he could see the tree +beneath which he had made his confession in an effort to kill Betty's +kindness. If he had followed her to the castle then Lambert wouldn't be +limping about exposing a happiness that made George envious and +discontented. It was a reminder with a vengeance that his friends were +mating. Was he, like Blodgett, doomed to a revolting celibacy? + +Blodgett, as far as that went, seemed quite to have recovered from the +blow Sylvia had given his pride and heart. With his increasing fortune +his girth had increased, his cheeks grown fuller, his eyes smaller. + +He was chatting, when George came down, with Old Planter, who sat +slouched in an easy chair in the library, and Mr. Alston. It was evident +that the occasion was not a joyous one for Betty's father. + +"I've half a mind to sell out here," George heard him say, "and take a +share in a coöperative apartment in town. Without Betty the house will +be like a world without a sun." + +Blodgett, George guessed, was tottering on the threshold of expansive +sympathy. He drew back, beckoning George. + +"Here's your purchaser, Alston. I never knew a half back stay single so +long. And now he's a hero. He's bound to need a nest soon." + +Mr. Alston smiled at him. + +"Is there anything in that, George?" + +George wanted to tell Blodgett to mind his own business. How could the +man, after his recent experience, make cumbersome jokes of that colour? + +"There was a time," Mr. Alston went on, "when I fancied you were going +to ask me for Betty. The thought of refusing used to worry me." + +George laughed uncomfortably. + +"So you would have refused?" + +"Naturally. I don't think I could have said yes to Lambert if it hadn't +been for the war. If you ever have a daughter--just one--you'll know +what I mean." + +From the three men George received an impression of imminence, shared it +himself. They talked merely to cover their suspense. They were like +people in a throne room, attentive for the entrance of a figure, +exalted, powerful, nearly legendary. Betty, he reflected, had become +that because she was about to marry. He found himself fascinated, too, +looking at the door, waiting with a choked feeling for that girl who had +unconsciously tempted him from their first meeting. Her arrival, indeed, +had about it something of the processional. Mrs. Planter entered the +doorway first, nodding absent-mindedly to the men. Betty's mother +followed, as imperial as ever, more so, if anything, George thought, and +quite unaffected by the deeper elements that gave to this quiet wedding +in a country house a breath of tragedy. Betty Alston Planter! That +evolution clearly meant happiness for her. She tried to express it +through vivacious gestures and cheerful, uncompleted sentences. Betty +next--after a tiny interval, entering not without hesitation exposed in +her walk, in her tall and graceful figure, in her face which was +unaccustomedly colourful, in her eyes which turned from one to another, +doubtful, apprehensive, groping. George didn't want to look at her; her +appearance placed him too much in concord with her reluctant father; too +much in the position of a man making a hurtful and unasked oblation. + +Momentarily Betty, the portion of his past shared with her, its +undeveloped possibilities, were swept from his brain. Last of all, +fitting and brilliant close for the procession, came Sylvia between two +bridesmaids. George scarcely saw the others. Sylvia filled his eyes, his +heart, slowly crowded the dissatisfaction from his mind, centred again +his thoughts and his ambitions. Nearly automatically he took Betty's +hands, spoke to her a few formalities, yielded her to her father, and +went on to Sylvia. For nearly two years he hadn't seen her in an evening +gown. What secret did she possess that kept her constant? Already she +was past the age at which most girls of her station marry, yet to him +her beauty had only increased without quite maturing. And why had she +calmly avoided during all these years the nets thrown perpetually by +men? Only Blodgett had threatened to entangle her, and one day had found +her fled. And she wasn't such a fool she didn't know the years were +slipping by. More poignantly than ever he responded to a feeling of +danger, imminent, unavoidable, fatal. + +"My companion in the ceremonies," he said. + +"I understood that was the arrangement," she answered, without looking +at him. + +"I'm glad," he said, "to draw even a reflection from the happiness of +others." + +"I often wonder," she remarked, "why people are so selfish." + +"Do you mean me," he laughed, "or the leading man and lady?" + +She spoke softly to avoid the possibility of anyone else hearing. + +"I'm not sure, but I fancy you are the most selfish person I have ever +met." + +"That's a stupendous indictment these days," he said with a smile, but +he didn't take her seriously at all, didn't apply her charge to his +soul. + +"I'm so glad you're here," he went on, "that we're to be together. I've +wanted it for a long time. You must know that." + +She gave him an uncomfortable sense of being captive, of seeking blindly +any course to freedom. + +"I no longer know anything about you. I don't care to know." + +Lambert and Dalrymple strolled in. Dalrymple opened the cage. George +moved away, aching to prevent such interference by any means he could. +His emotion made him uneasy. To what resolution were his relations with +Dalrymple drifting? How far was he capable of going to keep the other in +his place? + +He stood by the mantel, speaking only when it was necessary and then +without consciousness, his whole interest caught by the picture +Dalrymple and Sylvia made, close together by the centre table in the +soft light of a reading lamp. + +A servant entered with cocktails. George's interest sharpened. Betty +took hers with the others. Only Sylvia and Dalrymple shook their heads. +Clearly it was an understanding between them--a little denial of hers to +make his infinitely greater one less difficult. She smiled up at him, +indeed, comprehendingly; but George's glance didn't waver from +Dalrymple, and it caught an increase in the other's restlessness, a +following nearly hypnotic, by thoughtful eyes, of the tray with the +little glasses as it passed around the room. George relaxed. He was +conscious enough of Blodgett's bellow: + +"Here's to the blushing bride!" + +What lack of taste! But how much greater the lack of taste that restless +inheritor exposed! Couldn't even join a formal toast, didn't dare +probably, or was it that he only dared not risk it in public, in front +of Sylvia? And she pandered to his weakness, smiled upon it as if it +were an epic strength. He was sufficiently glad now that Dalrymple had +got into him for so much money. + + +IV + +For George dinner was chiefly a sea of meaningless chatter continually +ruffled by the storm of Blodgett's voice. + +"Your brother tells me," he said to Sylvia, "that you're irritating +yourself with socialism." + +She looked at him with a little interest then. + +"I've been reading. It's quite extraordinary. Odd I should have lived so +long without really knowing anything about such things." + +"Not odd at all," George contradicted her. "I should call it odd that +you find any interest in them now. Why do you?" + +"One has to occupy one's mind," she answered. + +He glanced at her. Why did she have to occupy herself with matter she +couldn't possibly understand, that she would interpret always in a wrong +or unsafe manner? She, too, was restless. + +That was the only possible explanation. From Blodgett she had sprung to +war-time fads. From those she had leaped at this convenient one which +tempted people to make sparkling and meaningless phrases. + +"It doesn't strike you as at all amusing," he asked, "that you should be +red, that I should be conservative?" + +She didn't answer. Blodgett swept them out to sea again. + +Later in the evening, however, George repeated his question, and +demanded an answer. They had accomplished the farce of a rehearsal, +source of cumbersome jokes for Blodgett and the clergyman; of doubts and +dreary prospects for Mr. Alston, who had done his share as if submitting +to an undreamed-of punishment. + +There was the key-ring joke. It must be a part of the curriculum of all +the theological seminaries. George acted up to it, promising to tie a +string around his finger, or to pin the circlet to his waistcoat. + +"Or," Blodgett roared, "at a pinch you might use the ring of the wedding +bells." + +George stared at him. How could the man, Sylvia within handgrasp, grin +and feed such a mood? It suddenly occurred to him that once more he was +reading Blodgett wrong, that the man was admirable, far more so than he +could be under an equal trial. Would he, a little later, be asked to +face such an ordeal? + +With the departure of the clergyman a cloud of reaction descended upon +the party. Some yawns were scarcely stifled. Sporadic attempts to dance +to a victrola faded into dialogues carried on indifferently, lazily, +where the dancers had chanced to stop with the music. Mr. Alston had +relinquished Sylvia to George at the moment the record had stuttered +out. They were left at a distance from any other couple. George pointed +out a convenient chair, and she sat down and glanced about the room +indifferently. + +"At dinner," George said, "I asked you if it didn't impress you as +strange that our social views should be what they are, and opposite." + +She didn't answer. + +"I mean," he went on, "that I should benefit by your alteration." + +"How?" she asked, idly fingering a flower, not looking at him. + +"I fancy," he said, "that you'll admit your chief objection to me has +always been my origin, my ridiculous position trotting watchfully behind +the most unsocial Miss Planter. Am I not right?" + +"You are entirely wrong," she said, wearily. "That has never had +anything to do with my--my dislike. I think I shall go----" + +"Wait," he said. "You are not telling me the truth. If you are +consistent you will turn your enmity to friendship at least. You will +decide there was nothing unusual in my asking you to marry me. You will +even find in that a reason for my anxiety at Upton. You will understand +that it is quite inevitable I should ask you to marry me again." + +She sprang up and hurried away from him. + +"Put on another record, Dolly----" + +And almost before he had realized it Betty had taken her away, and the +evening's opportunities had closed. + + +V + +For him the house became like a room at night out of which the only lamp +has been carried. + +The others drifted away. George tried to read in the library. His +uneasiness, his anger, held him from bed. When at last he went upstairs +he fancied everyone was asleep, but moving in the hall outside his room +he saw a figure in a dressing gown. It paused as if it didn't care to be +detected going in the direction of the stairs. George caught the +figure's embarrassed hesitation, fancied a movement of retreat. + +"Dalrymple!" he called, softly. + +The other waited sullenly. + +"What you up to?" George asked. + +"Thought I'd explore downstairs for a book. Couldn't sleep. Nothing in +my room worth bothering with." + +George smiled, the memory of Blodgett's admirable behaviour crowding his +mind. What better time than now to let his anger dictate to him, as it +had done that day in his office? + +"Come in for a minute," he proposed to Dalrymple, and opened his door. + +Dalrymple shook his head, but George took his arm and led him, guessing +that Dalrymple feared the subject of the notes. + +"Bad humour!" George said. "You seem to be the only one up. I don't mind +chatting with you before turning in. Fact is, these wedding parties are +stupid, don't you think?" + +Possibly George's manner was reassuring to Dalrymple. At any rate, he +yielded. George took off his coat, sat in an easy chair, and pressed the +call button. + +"What's that for?" Dalrymple asked, uneasily. + +"Sit down," George said. "Stupid and dry, these things! I'm going to try +to raise a servant. I want to gossip over a drink before I go to bed. +You'll join me?" + +Dalrymple sat down. He moistened his lips. + +"On the wagon," he muttered. "A long time on the wagon. Place to be, +too, and all that." + +George didn't believe the other. If Dalrymple cared to prove him right +that was his own business. + +"Before prohibition offers the steps?" he laughed. + +"Nothing to do with it," Dalrymple muttered. "Got my reasons--good +enough ones, too." + +"Right!" George said. "Only don't leave me to myself until I've wet my +whistle." + +And when the sleepy servant had come George asked him for some whiskey +and soda water. He talked of the Alstons, of the war, of anything to +tide the wait for the caraffe and the bottles and glasses; and during +that period Dalrymple's restlessness increased. Just what had he been +sneaking downstairs for in the middle of the night? George watched the +other's eyes drawn by the tray when the servant had set it down. + +"Why did he bring two glasses?" Dalrymple asked, irritably. + +"Oh," George said, carelessly, "I suppose he thought--naturally----Have +a biscuit, anyway." + +George poured a drink and supped contentedly. + +"Dry rations--biscuits," Dalrymple complained. + +He fingered the caraffe. + +"I've an idea--wedding--special occasion, and all that. Change my +mind--up here--one friendly drop----" + +George watched the friendly drop expand to half a tumbler full, and he +observed that the hand that poured was not quite steady. It wouldn't be +long now before he would know whether or not Dalrymple's reformation was +merely a pose in public, a pose for Sylvia. + +Dalrymple sighed, sat down, and talked quite pleasantly about the +horrors of Chaumont. After a time he refilled his glass, and repeated +the performance a number of times with diminishing intervals. George +smiled. A child could tell the other was breaking no extended +abstinence. He drifted from war to New York and his apparent success +with the house of Planter. + +"Slavery, this office stuff!" he rattled on, "but good fun to get things +done, to climb up on shoulders of men--oh, no idea how many, +Morton--who're only good to push a pen or pound a typewriter. Of course, +you know, though. Done plenty of climbing yourself." + +His enunciation suffered and his assurance strengthened as the caraffe +emptied. No extended abstinence, George reflected, but almost certainly +a very painful one of a few days. + +"Am making money, Morton--a little, not much," he said, confidentially, +and with condescension. "Not enough by long shot to pay those beastly +notes I owe you. Know they're over due. Don't think I'd ever forget +that. Want to do right thing, Morton. You used hard words when I +borrowed that money, but forget, and all that. White of you to let me +have it, and I'll do right thing." + +A sickly look of content overspread his face. He expanded. His assurance +seemed to crowd the room. + +"Wouldn't worry for a minute 'bout those notes if I were you." + +He suddenly switched, shaking his finger at the caraffe. + +"Very pleasant, little drop like this--night cap on the quiet. But not +often." + +His content sought expression in a smile. + +"Dolly's off the hootch." + +George lighted a cigarette. He noticed that his fingers were quite +steady, yet he was perfectly conscious of each beat of his heart. + +"May I ask," he said, "what possible connection there can be between my +not worrying about your notes and your keeping off the hootch, as you +call it?" + +Dalrymple arose, finished the caraffe, and tapped George's shoulder. + +"Every connection," he answered. "Expect you have a right to know. Don't +you worry, old Shylock Morton. You're goin' to get your pound ah flesh." + +"I fancy I am," George laughed. "What's your idea of it?" + +Dalrymple waved his glass. + +"Lady of my heart--surrender after long siege, but only brave deserve +fair. Good thing college education. Congratulate me, Morton. But secret +for you, 'cause you old Shylock. Wouldn't say anything to Sylvia till +she lets it loose." + +As George walked quietly to the door, which the servant a long time ago +had left a trifle open, he heard Dalrymple mouthing disconnected words: +"Model husband." "Can't be too soon for Dolly." + +Then, as he closed the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket, +he heard Dalrymple say aloud, sharply: + +"What the devil you doing, Morton?" + +George turned. Ammunition against Dalrymple! He had been collecting it. +Now, clearly, was the time to use it. In his mind the locked room held +precariously all of Sylvia's happiness and his. + +He didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the table. Dalrymple had +slumped down in his chair, the content and triumph of his inflamed eyes +replaced by a sullen fear. + + +VI + +"What's the idea?" Dalrymple asked, uncertainly, watching George, +grasping the arms of his chair preparatory to rising. + +"Sit still, and I'll tell you," George answered. + +"Why you lock the door?" + +From Dalrymple's palpable fear George watched escape a reluctant and +fascinated curiosity. + +"No more of that strong-arm stuff with me----" + +"I locked the door," George answered, "so that I could point out to you, +quite undisturbed, just why you are going to leave Sylvia Planter +alone." + +Dalrymple relaxed. He commenced incredulously and nervously to laugh, +but in his eyes, which followed George, the fear and the curiosity +increased. + +"What the devil are you talking about? Have you gone out of your head?" + +George smiled confidently. + +"It's an invariable rule, unless you have the strength to handle them, +to give insane people their way. So you'll be nice and quiet; and I +might remind you if you started a rumpus, the first questions the +aroused house would ask would be, 'Why did Dolly fall off the wagon, and +where did he get the edge?'" + +He drew a chair close to Dalrymple and sat down. The other lay back, +continuing to stare at him, quite unable to project the impression he +undoubtedly sought of contemptuous amusement. + +"We've waited a long time for this little chat," George said, quietly. +"Sometimes I've hoped it wouldn't be necessary. Of course, sooner or +later, it had to be." + +His manner disclosed little of his anxiety, nothing whatever of his +determination, through Dalrymple's weakness, to save Sylvia and himself, +but his will had never been stronger. + +"You may as well understand," he said, "that you shan't leave this room +until you've agreed to give up any idea of this preposterous marriage +you pretend to have arranged. Perhaps you have. That makes no +difference. I'm quite satisfied its disarranging will break no hearts." + +Dalrymple had a little controlled himself. George's brusque campaign had +steadied him, had hastened a reaction that gave to his eyes an unhealthy +and furtive look. He tried to grin. + +"You must think you're God Almighty----" + +"Let's get to business," George interrupted. "I once told you that what +you borrow you have to pay back in one way or another. This is where we +settle, and I've outlined the terms." + +Dalrymple whistled. + +"You complete rotter! You mean to blackmail--because you know I haven't +got your filthy money, and can't raise it in a minute." + +"Never mind that," George snapped. "Your opinion of what I'm doing +doesn't interest me. I've thought it out. I know quite thoroughly what +I'm about." + +He did, and he was not without distaste for his methods, nor without +realization that they might hurt him most of all with the very person +they were designed to serve; yet he couldn't hesitate, because no other +way offered. + +"You're going to pay my notes, but not with money." + +Dalrymple's grin exploded into a harsh sound resembling laughter. + +"Are you--jealous? Do you fancy Sylvia would be affected by anything +you'd do or say? See here! Good God! Are you mad enough to look at her? +That's funny! That's a scream!" + +There was, however, no conviction behind the pretended amazement and +contempt; and George suspected that Dalrymple had all along sounded his +chief ambition; had, in fact, made his secretive announcement just now, +because, his judgment drugged, he had desired to call a rival's +attention to his triumphant posture on the steps of attainment. + +"I've no intention of discussing causes," George answered, evenly, "but +I do imagine the entire family would be noticeably affected by my +story." + +"Which you couldn't tell," Dalrymple cried. "Which you couldn't possibly +tell." + +"Which I don't think I shall have to tell," George said with a smile. +"Look at your position, Dalrymple. If you borrow money on the strength +of this approaching marriage you announce its chief purpose quite +distinctly. I fancy Old Planter, ill as he is, would want to take a club +to you. You've always wished, haven't you, to keep your borrowings from +Lambert? You can't do it if you persist in involving the Planters in +your extravagances. And remember you gave me a pretty thorough list of +your debtors--not reading for women, but Lambert would understand, and +make its meaning clear. Then let us go back to that afternoon in my +office, when you tried to say unspeakable things----" + +Impulsively Dalrymple bared his teeth. + +"Got you there, Morton! I told Lambert it was you who had been +impertinent----" + +All at once George felt better and cleaner. He whistled. + +"When I let you off then I never dreamed you'd try to back that lie up." + +"Will they believe me," the other asked, "or you, who come from God +knows what; God knows where?" + +"Fortunately," George said, "Lambert and his sister share that supernal +knowledge. They'll believe me." + +He stood up. + +"That's all. You know what to expect. Just one thing more." + +He spoke softly, without any apparent passion, but he displayed before +the man in the chair his two hands. + +"If necessary I'd stop you marrying Sylvia Planter with those." + +Dalrymple got to his feet, struggled to assume a cloak of bravado. + +"Won't put up with such threats. Actionable----" + +"Give me your decision," George said, harshly. "Will you keep away from +her? If there is really an understanding, will you so arrange things +that she can destroy it immediately? Come. Yes or no?" + +"Give me that key." + +George shrugged his shoulders. + +"I needn't trouble you." + +He walked swiftly to the door, unlocked it, and drew it invitingly wide; +but now that the way was clear Dalrymple hesitated. Again George +shrugged his shoulders and stepped to the hall. Dalrymple, abruptly +active, ran after him, grasping at his arm. + +"Where you going?" he whispered. + +"To Lambert's room." + +"Not to-night," the other begged. "I don't admit you could make any real +trouble, but I want to spare Sylvia any possible unpleasantness. Well! +Don't you, too? You lost your temper. Maybe I did mine. Give us both a +chance to think it over. Now see here, Morton, I won't ask you another +favour, and I'll do nothing in the meantime. I couldn't very well. I +mean, status quo, and all that----" + +"Lambert, to-morrow," George said, "is going away for more than a +month." + +"But you could always get hold of him, at a pinch," Dalrymple urged. +"Heaven knows I'm not likely to talk to Sylvia about what you've said. +Let us both think it over until Lambert comes back." + +George sighed, experiencing a glow of victory. The other's eagerness +confessed at last an accurate measure of the power of his ammunition; +and George didn't want to go to the Planters on such an errand as long +as any other means existed. The more Dalrymple thought, the more +thoroughly he must realize George had him. From the first George had +manoeuvred to avoid the necessity of shocking habits of thought and +action that were inborn in the Planters, so he gladly agreed. + +"Meantime, you'll keep away from her?" + +"Just as far as possible," Dalrymple answered. "You'll be able to see +that for yourself." + +"Then," George said, "you arrange to get yourself out of the way as soon +as Lambert and Betty return. Meantime, if you go back on your word, I'll +get hold of Lambert." + +Dalrymple leant against the wall, morosely angry, restless, discouraged. + +"I'll admit you could make some unpleasantness all around," he said, +moistening his lips. "I wish I'd never touched your dirty money----" + +George stepped into his room and closed the door. + + +VII + +The awakening of the house to its most momentous day aroused George +early, hurried him from his bed, sent him downstairs in a depressed, +self-censorious mood, as if he and not Dalrymple had finished the +caraffe. That necessary battle behind a locked door continued to fill +his mind like the memory of a vivid and revolting nightmare. He fled +from the increasing turmoil of an exceptional agitation, but he could +not escape his own evil temper. Even the flowering lanes where Goodhue +and he had run so frequently during their undergraduate days mocked his +limping steps, his heavy cane; seemed asking him what there was in +common between that eager youth and the man who had come back to share a +definite farewell with Betty; to stand, stripped of his veneer, against +a wall to avoid a more difficult parting from Sylvia. There was one +thing: the determination of the boy lived in the man, become greater, +more headstrong, more relentless. + +He paused and, chin in hand, rested against a gate. What about Wandel, +who had admired the original George Morton? Would he approve of his +threats to Dalrymple, of his probable course with the Planters? If he +were consistent he would have to; yet people were so seldom consistent. +It was even likely that George's repetition of Dalrymple's shocking +insults would be frowned upon more blackly than the original, +unforgiveable wrong. George straightened and walked back toward the +house. It made no difference what people thought. He was George Morton. +Even at the cost of his own future he would keep Sylvia from joining her +life to Dalrymple's, and certainly Lambert could be made to understand +why that had to be. + +The warm sun cheered him a little. Dalrymple was scared. He wouldn't +make George take any further steps. It was going to be all right. But +why didn't women see through Dalrymple, or rather why didn't he more +thoroughly give himself away to them? Because, George decided, guarded +women from their little windows failed to see the real world. + +Dalrymple obsessed him even when, after luncheon, he sat with Lambert +upstairs, discussing business chiefly. He wanted to burst out with: + +"Why don't you wake up? How can you approve of this intimacy between +your sister and a man like that?" + +He didn't believe the other knew that intimacy had progressed; and when +Lambert spoke of Dalrymple, calling attention again to his apparent +reformation, George cleansed his mind a trifle, placing, as it were, the +foundation for a possible announcement of a more active enmity. + +"Don't see why you admire anything he does, Lambert. It isn't +particularly pleasant for me to have you, for I've been watching him, +and I've quite made up my mind. You asked me when I first got home if I +wouldn't meet him halfway. I don't fancy he'd ever start in my +direction, but if he did I wouldn't meet him. Sorry. That's definite. I +must use my own judgment even where it clashes with your admirations." + +Lambert stared at him. + +"You'll never cease being headstrong," he said. "It's rather safer to +have any man for a friend." + +George had an uncomfortable sense of having received a warning, but +Blodgett blundered in just then with news from the feminine side of the +house. + +"Some people downstairs already, and I've just had word--from one of +those little angels that talk like the devil--that Betty's got all her +war-paint on." + +"You have the ring?" Lambert asked George. + +George laughed. + +"Yes, I have the ring, and I shan't lose it, or drop it; and I'll keep +you out of people's way, and tell you what to answer, and see generally +you don't make an idiot of yourself. Josiah, if he faints, help me pick +him up." + +Blodgett's gardenia bobbed. + +"Weddings make Josiah feel old. Say, George, you're no spring chicken +yourself. I know lots of little girls who cry their eyes out for you." + +"Shut up," George said. "How about a reconnaissance, Lambert?" + +But they were summoned then, and crept down a side staircase, and heard +music, and found themselves involved in Betty's great moment. + +At first George could only think of Betty as she had stood long ago in +the doorway of Bailly's study, and it was difficult to find in this +white-clothed, veiled, and stately woman the girl he had seen first of +all that night. This, after a fashion, was his last glimpse of her. She +appeared to share that conception, for she carried to the improvised +altar in the drawing-room an air of facing far places, divided by +boundaries she couldn't possibly define from all that she had ever +known. After the ceremony she smiled wonderingly at George while she +absorbed the vapid and pattered remarks of, perhaps, a hundred old +friends of the family. George, who knew most of them, resented their +sympathy and curiosity. + +"If they don't stop asking me about the war," he whispered to Blodgett +during a lull, "I'm going to call for help." + +Some, however, managed to interest him with remarks about the rebirth of +football. Green had been at Princeton all along, Stringham was coming +back in the fall, and there were brilliant team prospects. Would George +be able to help with the coaching? He indicated his injured leg. He +hadn't the time, anyway. He was going to stick closer than ever to Wall +Street. He fancied that Sylvia, who stood near him, resented the lively +interest of these people. She spoke to him only when she couldn't +possibly avoid it, glancing, George noticed, at Dalrymple who rather +pointedly kept away from her. So far so good. Then Dalrymple did realize +George would have his way. George looked at Sylvia, thinking +whimsically: + +"I shan't let anybody put you where you wouldn't bother to hate me any +more." + +He spoke to her aloud. + +"I believe we're to have a bite to eat." + +She followed him reluctantly, and during the supper yielded of herself +nothing whatever to him, chatting by preference with any one convenient, +even with Blodgett whom she had treated so shabbily. Very early she left +the room with Betty and Mrs. Alston, and George experienced a strong +desire to escape also, to flee anywhere away from this house and the +bitter dissatisfactions he had found within its familiar walls. He saw +Mrs. Bailly and took her hand. + +"I want to go home with you and Squibs to-night." + +Mrs. Bailly smiled her gratitude, but as he was about to move away she +stopped him with a curiosity he had not expected from her. + +"Isn't Sylvia Planter beautiful? Why do you suppose she doesn't marry?" + +George laughed shortly, shook his head, and hurried upstairs to +Lambert's room; yet Mrs. Bailly had increased his uneasiness. Perhaps it +was the too-frequent repetition of that question that had made Sylvia +turn temporarily to Blodgett; that was, possibly, focussing her eyes on +Dalrymple now; yet why, from such a field, did she choose these men? +What was one to make of her mind and its unexpected reactions? The +matter of marriage was, not unnaturally, in the air here. Lambert faced +him with it. + +"Josiah's right. When are you going to make a home, Apollo Morton?" + +George turned on him angrily, not bothering to choose his words. + +"Such a question from you is ridiculous. You've not forgotten the dark +ages either." + +Lambert looked at him for a moment affectionately, not without sympathy. + +"Don't be an ass, George." + +George's laughter was impatient. + +"Don't forget, Lambert, your old friends, Corporal Sol Roseberg, and +Bugler Ignatius Chronos. No men better! Chairs at the club! Legs under +the table at Oakmont----" + +Lambert put his hands on George's shoulders. + +"It isn't that at all. You know it very well." + +"What is it then?" George asked, sharply. + +"Don't pretend ignorance," Lambert answered, "and it must be your own +fault. Whose else could it possibly be? And I'm sorry, have been for +years." + +"It isn't my fault," George said. "The situation exists. I'm glad you +recognize it. You'll understand it's a subject I can't let you joke +about." + +"All right," Lambert said, "but I wonder why you're always asking for +trouble." + + +VIII + +Betty had plenty of colour to-night. As she passed George, her head bent +against the confetti, he managed to touch her hand, felt a quick +responsive pressure, heard her say: + +"Good-bye, George." + +The whispered farewell was like a curtain, too heavy ever to be lifted +again, abruptly let down between two fond people. + + +IX + +Unexpectedly the companionships of the little house in Dickinson Street +failed to lighten George's discontented humour. Mrs. Bailly's question +lingered in his mind, coupling itself there with her disappointment that +he, instead of Lambert, hadn't married Betty; and, when she retired, the +tutor went back to his unwelcome demands of the day before. Hadn't +George made anything of his great experience? Was it possible it had +left him quite unchanged? What were his immediate plans, anyway? + +"You may as well understand, sir," George broke in, impatiently, "that I +am going to stay right in Wall Street and make as much money and get as +much power as I can." + +"Why? In the name of heaven, why?" Bailly asked, irritably. "You are +already a very rich man. You've dug for treasure and found it, but can +you tell me you've kept your hands clean? Money is merely a +conception--a false one. Capitalism will pass from the world." + +George grunted. + +"With the last two surviving human beings." + +"Mockery won't keep you blind always," Bailly said, "to the strivings of +men in the mines and the factories----" + +"And in the Senate and the House," George jeered, "and in Russia and +Germany, and in little, ambitious corners. If you're against the League +of Nations it's because, like all those people, you're willing Rome +should burn as long as personal causes can be fostered and selfish +schemes forwarded. No agitator, naturally, wants the suffering world +given a sedative----" + +Bailly smiled. + +"Even if you're wrong-headed, I'm glad to hear you talk that way. At +last you're thinking of humanity." + +"I'm thinking of myself," George snapped. + +Bailly shook his head. + +"I believe you're talking from your heart." + +"I'm talking from a smashed leg," George cried, "and I'm sleepy and +tired and cross, and I guess I'd better go to bed." + +"It all runs back to the beginning," Bailly said in a discouraged voice. +"I'm afraid you'll never learn the meaning of service." + +George sprang up, wincing. Bailly's wrinkled face softened; his young +eyes filled with sympathy. + +"Does that wound still bother you, George?" + +"Yes, sir," George answered, softly. "I guess it bothers as much as it +ever did." + + +X + +One virtue of the restlessness of which Bailly had reminded him was its +power to swing George's mind for a time from his unpleasant +understanding with Dalrymple. It had got even into Blodgett's blood. + +"About the honestest man I can think of these days," he complained to +George one morning, "is the operator of a crooked racing stable. All the +cards are marked. All the dice are loaded. If they didn't have to let us +in on some of the tricks, we'd go bust, George, my boy." + +"You mean we're crooked, too?" George asked. + +"Only by infection," Blodgett defended himself, "but honest, George, I'd +sell out if I could. I'm disgusted." + +George couldn't hide a smile. + +"In the old days when you were coming up, you never did anything the +least bit out of line yourself?" + +Blodgett mopped his face with one of his brilliant handkerchiefs. His +eyes twinkled. + +"I've been shrewd at times, George, but isn't that legitimate? I may +have made some crowds pretty sick by cutting under them, but that's +business. I won't say I haven't played some cute little tricks with +stocks, but that's finesse, and the other fellow had the same chance. +I'm not aware that I ever busted a bank, or held a loaded gun to a man's +head and asked him to hand over his clothes as well as his cash. That's +the spirit we're up against now. That's why Papa Blodgett advises +selling out those mill stocks we kept big blocks of at the time of the +armistice." + +"They're making money," George said. + +Blodgett tapped a file of reports. + +"Have you read the opinions of the directors?" + +"Yes," George answered, "and at a pinch they might have to go into +coöperation, but they'd still pay some dividends." + +Blodgett puffed out his cheeks. + +"You're sure the unions would want a share in the business?" + +"Why not?" George asked. "Isn't that practical communism?" + +"Hay! Here's a fellow believes there's something practical in the world +nowadays! Sell out, son." + +"Then who would run our mills?" + +"Maybe some philanthropist with more money than brains." + +"You mean," George asked, "that our products, unless conditions improve, +will disappear from the world, because no one will be able to afford to +manufacture them?" + +Blodgett pursed his lips. George stared from the window at the forest of +buildings which impressed him, indeed, as giant tree trunks from which +all the foliage had been stripped. Had there been awakened in the world +an illiberal individuality with the power to fell them every one, and to +turn up the system out of which they had sprung as from a rich soil? Was +that what he had helped fight the war for? + +"You're talking about the dark ages," he said, feeling the necessity of +faith and stability. "Sell your stocks if you want, I choose to keep +mine." + +Blodgett yawned. + +"We'll go down together, George. I won't jump from a sinking ship as +long as you cling to the bridge." + +"The ship isn't sinking," George cried. "It's too buoyant." + + +XI + +Wandel and Goodhue came home, suffering from this universal +restlessness. + +"Ah, _mon_ brave!" Wandel greeted George. "_Mon vieux Georges, grand et +incomparable!_ So the country's dry! Jewels are cheaper than beefsteaks! +Congress is building spite fences! None the less, I'm glad to be home." + +"Glad enough to have you," George said. "I'm not sure we won't go back +to our bargain pretty soon. I'm about ready for a pet politician." + +"Let me get clean," Wandel laughed. "You must have a lot of money." + +"I can control enough," George said, confidently. + +"_Bon!_ But don't send me to Washington at first. I don't want to put on +skirts, use snuff, or practise gossiping." + +For a time he refused to apply himself to anything that didn't lead to +pleasure. Goodhue went at once to Rhode Island for a visit with his +father and mother, while Wandel flitted from place to place, from house +to house, as if driven by his restlessness to the play he had abandoned +during five years. Once or twice George caught him with Rogers in town, +and bluntly asked him why. + +"An eye to the future, my dear George. Are you the most forgetful of +class presidents? Perfect henchman type. When one goes into politics one +must have henchmen." + +But George had an unwelcome feeling that Rogers, eyes always open, was +taking advantage, in his small way, of the world's unsettled condition. +People were inclined to laugh at him, but they treated him well for +Wandel's sake. + +"Still in the bond business," he explained to George. "It isn't what it +was befo' de war. I'm thinking of taking up oil stocks and corners in +heaven, although I doubt if there are as many suckers as fell for P. T. +B. Trouble nowadays is that the simplest of them are too busy trying to +find somebody just a little simpler to sting. Darned if they don't +usually hook one. Still bum securities are a great weakness with most +people. Promise a man a hundred per cent. and he'll complain it isn't a +hundred and fifty." + +George reflected that Rogers was bound for disillusionment, then he +wasn't so sure, for America seemed more than ever friendly to that +brisk, insincere, back-bending type. Out of the sea of money formed by +the war examples sprang up on nearly every side, scarcely troubled by +racial, religious, or educational handicaps; loudly convinced that they +could buy with money all at once every object of matter or spirit the +centuries had painstakingly evolved. One night in the crowds of the +theatre district, when with Wandel he had watched the hysterical +competition for tickets, cabs, and tables in restaurants where the +prices of indigestion had soared nearly beyond belief, he burst out +angrily: + +"The world is mad, Driggs. I wouldn't be surprised to hear these people +cry for golden gondolas to float them home on rivers of money. Stark, +raving mad, Driggs! The world's out of its head!" + +Wandel smiled, twirling his cane. + +"Just found it out, great man? Always has been; always will be--chronic! +This happens to be a violent stage." + + +XII + +It was Wandel, indeed, who drew George from his preoccupation, and +reminded him that another world existed as yet scarcely more than +threatened by the driving universal invaders. George had looked in at +his apartment one night when Wandel was just back from a northern +week-end. + +"Saw Sylvia. You know, George, she's turning back the years and prancing +like a débutante." + +George sat down, uneasy, wondering what the other's unprepared +announcement was designed to convey. + +"I'll lay you what you want," Wandel went on, lighting a cigar, "that +she forgets the Blodgett fiasco, and marries before snow falls." + +Had it been designed as a warning? George studied Wandel, trying to read +his expression, but the light was restricted by heavy, valuable, and +smothering shades; and Wandel sat at some distance from the nearest, +close to a window to catch what breezes stole through. Confound the man! +What was he after? He hadn't mentioned Sylvia that self-revealing day in +France; but George had guessed then that he must have known of his +persistent ambition, and had wondered why his unexpected +communicativeness hadn't included it. At least a lack of curiosity now +was valueless, so George said: + +"Who's the man?" + +"I don't suggest a name," Wandel drawled. "I merely call attention to a +possibility. Perhaps discussing the charming lady at all we're a trifle +out of bounds; but we've known the Planters many years; years enough to +wonder why Sylvia hasn't been caught before, why Blodgett failed at the +last minute." + +George stirred impatiently. + +"It was inevitable he should. I once disliked Josiah, but that was +because I was too young to see quite straight. Just the same, he wasn't +up to her. Most of all, he was too old." + +"I daresay. I daresay," Wandel said. "So much for jolly Josiah. But the +others? It isn't exaggeration to suggest that she might have had about +any man in this country or England. She hasn't had. She's still the +loveliest thing about, and how many years since she was +introduced--many, many, isn't it, George?" + +"What odds?" George muttered. "She's still young." + +He felt self-conscious and warm. Was Wandel trying to make him say too +much? + +"Why do you ask me?" + +Wandel yawned. + +"Gossiping, George. Poking about in the dark. Thought you might have +some light." + +"How should I have?" George demanded. + +"Because," Wandel drawled, "you're the greatest and most penetrating of +men." + +George's discomfort grew. He tried to turn Wandel's attack. + +"How does it happen you've never entered the ring?" + +Wandel laughed quietly. + +"I did, during my school days. She was quite splendid about it. I mean, +she said very splendidly that she couldn't abide little men; but any +time since I'd have fallen cheerfully at her feet if I'd ever become a +big man, a great man, like you." + +Before he had weighed those words, unquestionably pointed and +significant, George had let slip an impulsive question. + +"Can you picture her fancying a figure like Dalrymple?" + +He was sorry as soon as it was out. Anxiously he watched Wandel through +the dusk of the room. The little man spoke with a troubled hesitation, +as if for once he wasn't quite sure what he ought to reply. + +"You acknowledged a moment ago that you had failed to see Josiah +straight. Hasn't your view of Dolly always been from a prejudiced +angle?" + +"I've always disliked him," George said, frankly. "He's given me reasons +enough. You know some of them." + +"I know," Wandel drawled, "that he isn't what even Sylvia would call a +little man, and he has the faculty of making himself exceptionally +pleasant to the ladies." + +"Yet he couldn't marry any one of mine," George said under his breath. +"If I had a sister, I mean, I'd somehow stop him." + +Wandel laughed on a sharp note, caught himself, went on with an amused +tone: + +"Forgive me, George. Somewhere in your pockets you carry the Pilgrim +Fathers. Most men are shaggy birds of evil habit, while most young women +are delicately feathered nestlings, and quite helpless; yet the two must +mate. Dolly, by the way, drains a pitcher of water every time he sees a +violation of prohibition." + +"He drinks in sly places," George said. + +"After all," Wandel said, slowly, "why do we cling to the suggestion of +Dolly? Although I fancy he does figure--somewhere in the odds." + +For a time George said nothing. He was quite convinced that Wandel had +meant to warn him, and he had received that warning, straight and hard +and painfully. During several weeks he hadn't seen Dalrymple, had been +lulled into a sense of security, perhaps through the turmoil down town; +and Lambert and Betty had lingered beyond their announced month. Clearly +Wandel had sounded George's chief aim, as he had once satisfied himself +of his origin; and just now had meant to say that since his return he +had witnessed enough to be convinced that Dalrymple was still after +Sylvia, and with a chance of success. To George that meant that +Dalrymple had broken the bargain. He felt himself drawn irresistibly +back to his narrow, absorbing pursuit. + +"You're becoming a hermit," Wandel was saying. + +"You've become a butterfly," George countered. + +"Ah," Wandel answered, "but the butterfly can touch with its wings the +beautiful Sylvia Planter, and out of its eyes can watch her débutante +frivolities. Why not come away with me Friday?" + +"Whither?" + +"To the Sinclairs." + +George got up and wandered to the door. + +"By by, Driggs. I think I might slip off Friday. I've a mind to renounce +the veil." + + +XIII + +George fulfilled his resolution thoroughly. With the migratory bachelors +he ran from house to house, found Sylvia or not, and so thought the +effort worth while or not. The first time he saw her, indeed, he +appreciated Wandel's wisdom, for she stood with Dalrymple at the edge of +a high lawn that looked out over the sea. Her hair in the breeze was a +little astray, her cheeks were flushed, and she bent if anything toward +her companion who talked earnestly and with nervous gestures. George +crushed his quick impulse to go down, to step between them, to have it +out with Dalrymple then and there, even in Sylvia's presence; but they +strolled back to the house almost immediately, and Sylvia lost her +apparent good humour, and Dalrymple descended from satisfaction to a +fidgety apprehension. Sylvia met George's hand briefly. + +"You'll be here long?" + +The question expressed a wish. + +"Only until Monday. I wish it might be longer, for I'm glad to find +you--and you, Dalrymple." + +"Nobody said you were expected," Dalrymple grumbled. "Everybody said you +were working like a horse." + +George glanced at Sylvia, smiling blandly. + +"Every horse goes to grass occasionally." + +He turned back to Dalrymple. + +"I daresay you know Lambert and Betty are due back the first of the +week?" + +Sylvia nodded carelessly, and started along the verandah. Dalrymple, +reddening, prepared to heel, but George beckoned him back. + +"I'd like a word with you." + +Sylvia glanced around, probably surprised at the sharp, authoritative +tone. + +"Just a minute, Sylvia," Dalrymple apologized uneasily. "Little +business. Hard to catch Morton. Must grasp opportunity, and all that." + +And when they were alone he went close to George eagerly. + +"No need to wait for Betty and Lambert, Morton. It's done. Dolly's got +himself thrown over----" + +"I don't believe you," George said. + +"Why not?" + +"What are you doing here?" George asked. "It was understood you should +avoid her." + +Dalrymple's grin was sickly. + +"Way she's tearing around now I'd have exactly no place to go." + +"You seemed rather too friendly," George pointed out, "for parties to a +broken engagement." + +George fancied there was something of anger in the other's face. + +"Must say I'm not flattered by that. Guess you were right. One heart's +not smashed, anyway." + +George turned on his heel. Dalrymple caught him. + +"What about those notes?" + +"I don't trust you, Dalrymple. I'll keep my eye on you yet awhile." + +"Ask Sylvia if you want," Dalrymple cried. + +George smiled. + +"I wonder if I could." + +He went to his room, trying to believe Dalrymple. Was that romance +really in the same class as the one with Blodgett? If so, why did she +involve herself in restive affairs with less obvious men? As best he +could he tried to find out that night when she was a little off guard +because of some unquiet statements she had just made of Russian +rumours. + +"You don't mean those things," he said, "or else you've no idea what +they mean." + +Through her quick resentment she let herself be caught in a corner, as +it were. Everyone was preparing to leave the house for a dance in +benefit of some local charity. Momentarily they were left alone. He +indicated the over-luxurious and rather tasteless room. + +"You're asking for the confiscation of all this, and your own Oakmont, +and every delightful setting to which you've been accustomed all your +life. You're asking for rationed food; for a shakedown, maybe, in a +garret. You're asking for a task in a kitchen or a field. Why not a +negro's kitchen; a Chinaman's field?" + +He looked at her, asking gravely: + +"Do you quite understand the principles of communism as they affect +women?" + +He fancied a heightening of her colour. + +"You of all men," she said, "ought to understand the strivings of the +people." + +He shook his head vehemently. + +"I'm for the palace," he laughed, "and I fancy it means more to me than +it could to a man who's never used his brain. Let those stay in the +hovel who haven't the courage to climb out." + +"And you're one of the people!" she murmured. "One of the people!" + +"You don't say that," he answered, quickly, "to tell me it makes me +admirable in your eyes. You say it to hurt, as you used to call me, +'groom'. It doesn't inflict the least pain." + +There was no question about her flush now. + +"Tell me," he urged, "why you permit your brain such inconsistencies, +why you accept such a patent fad, why you need fads at all?" + +"Why won't you leave me alone?" she asked, harshly. + +"You're always asking that," he smiled, "and you see I never do. Why are +you unlike these other women? Why did you turn to Blodgett? Why have you +made a fool of Dalrymple?" + +She stared at him. + +"What are you saying?" + +"I'm saying, why don't you come to me?" + +He watched the angry challenge in her eyes, the deliberate stiffening of +her entire body as if to a defensive attitude. He held out his hand to +her. + +"Sylvia! We are growing old." + +Yet in her radiant presence it was preposterous to speak of age. She +drew away with a sort of shudder. + +"You wouldn't dare touch me again----" + +He captured her glance. He felt that from his own eyes he failed to keep +the unsatisfied desire of years. + +"I haven't forgotten Upton, either. When will you give me what I want, +Sylvia?" + +Her glance eluded him. Swiftly she receded. Through the open door +drifted a growing medley of voices. She hurried to the door, but he +followed her, and purposefully climbed into the automobile she had +entered, but they were no longer alone. Only once, when he made her +dance with him in a huge, over-decorated tent, did he manage a whisper. + +"No more nonsense with Dalrymple or anybody. Please stop making +unhappiness." + + +XIV + +George returned to New York with an uneasy spirit, filled with doubt as +to Dalrymple's statement of renunciation, and of his own course in +saying what he had of Dalrymple to Sylvia. Mightn't that very expression +of disapproval, indeed, tend to swing her back to the man? When Lambert +walked in a day or two later George looked at the happy, bronzed face, +recalling his assurance that Betty wasn't one to give by halves. Through +eyes clouded by such happiness Lambert couldn't be expected to see very +far into the dangerous and avaricious discontent of the majority. How +much less time, then, would he have for George's personal worries? +George, nevertheless, guided the conversation to Dalrymple. + +"He's running down to Oakmont with me to-night," Lambert said, +carelessly. "You know Betty's there with the family for a few days." + +George hid his temper. There was no possible chance about this. Would +Dalrymple go to Oakmont after the breaking off of even a secret +engagement; or, defeated in his main purpose, was he hanging about for +what crumbs might yet fall from the Planters' table. Nearly without +reflection he burst out with: + +"It's inconceivable you should permit that man about your sister." + +Probably Lambert's great content forbade an answer equally angry. + +"Still at it! See here. Sylvia doesn't care for you." + +"I'm not talking of myself," George said. "I'm talking of Dalrymple." + +With an air of kindness, undoubtedly borrowed from Betty, Lambert said +easily: + +"Stop worrying about him, then. Giving a friend encouragement doesn't +mean asking him into the family. That idea seems to obsess you. What +difference does it make to you, anyway, what man Sylvia marries? I'll +say this, if you wish: Since I've had Betty I see things a bit clearer. +I really shouldn't care to have Dolly the man. I don't think there's a +chance of it." + +"You mean," George asked, eagerly, "if there were you'd stop it?" + +"I shouldn't like it," Lambert answered. "Naturally, I'd express +myself." + +"See here. Dalrymple isn't to be trusted. You've been too occupied. You +haven't watched your sister. How can you tell what's in her mind? You +didn't forecast the affair with Josiah, eh? There's only one way I can +play my game--the thorough way. If it came to a real engagement I should +have to say things, Lambert--things I'd hate myself for; things that +would hurt me, perhaps, more than any one else. If necessary I shall say +them. Will you tell me, if--if----" + +Lambert smiled uneasily. + +"You're shying at phantoms, but you've always played every game to that +point, and perhaps you're justified. I'll come to you if circumstances +ever promise to prove you right." + +"Thanks," George said, infinitely relieved; yet he had an unpleasant +feeling that Lambert had held his temper and had agreed because he was +aware of the existence of a great debt, one that he could never quite +pay. + + +XV + +This creation of a check on Dalrymple and the assurance that Lambert +would warn him of danger came at a useful time for George, since the +market-place more and more demanded an undisturbed mind. He conceded +that Blodgett's earlier pessimism bade fair to be justified. He watched +a succession of industrial upheavals, seeking a safe course among +innumerable and perilous shoals that seemed to defy charting; conquering +whatever instinct he might have had to sympathize with the men, since he +judged their methods as hysterical, grabbing, and wasteful. + +"But I don't believe," he told Blodgett, "these strikes have been +ordered from the Kremlin; still, other colours may quite easily combine +to form red." + +"God help the employers. God help the employees," Blodgett grumbled. + +"And most of all, may God help the great public," George suggested. + +But Blodgett was preoccupied these days with an Oakmont stripped of +passion. George knew that Old Planter had sent for him, and he found +something quite pitiful in that final surrender of the great man who was +now worse off than the youngest, grimiest groveller in the furnaces; so +he was not surprised when it was announced that Blodgett would shortly +move over to the marble temple, a partner at last with individuality and +initiative, one, in fact, who would control everything for Old Planter +and his heirs until Lambert should be older. Lambert was sufficiently +unhappy over the change, because it painted so clearly the inevitable +end. The Fifth Avenue house was opened early that fall as if the old +man desired to get as close as possible to the centre of turbulent +events, hoping that so his waning sight might serve. + +Consequently George had more opportunities of meeting Sylvia; did meet +her from time to time in the evenings, and watched her gaiety which +frequently impressed him as a too noticeably moulded posture. It served, +nevertheless, admirably with the men of all ages who flocked about her +as if, indeed, she were a débutante once more. + +In these groups George was glad not to see Dalrymple often, but he +noticed that Goodhue was near rather more than he had been formerly, and +he experienced a sharp uneasiness, an instinct to go to Goodhue and say: + +"Don't. Keep away. She's caused enough unhappiness." + +Still you couldn't tell about Goodhue. The very fact that he fluttered +near Sylvia might indicate that his real interest lay carefully +concealed, some distance away. He had, moreover, always stood singularly +aside from the pursuit of the feminine. + +George's first meeting with Betty since her return was coloured by a +frank acceptance on her part of new conditions that revived his sense of +a sombre and helpless nostalgia. All was well with Betty. If there had +ever been any doubt in her Lambert had swept it away. Whatever emotion +she experienced for George was, in fact, that of a fond sister for a +brother; and George, studying her and Lambert, longed as he had never +done to find some such eager and confident content. The propulsion of +pure ambition slipped from his desire for Sylvia. With a growing wonder +he found himself craving through her just the satisfied simplicity so +clearly experienced by Lambert and Betty. Could anything make her +brilliancy less hard, less headstrong, less cruel? + +George cast about for the means. Lambert was on watch. There was still +time--plenty of time. + +He hadn't spoken again to Lambert about Dalrymple. There hadn't seemed +any point, for Lambert was entirely trustworthy, and, since Betty and he +lived for the present in the Fifth Avenue house, he saw Sylvia +constantly. Their conversation instead when they met for luncheon, as +they did frequently, revolved about threats which a few years back they +hadn't dreamed would ever face them. Blodgett, George noticed, didn't +point the finger of scorn at him for holding on to the mill stocks. +George wouldn't have minded if he had. They had originally cost him +little, their total loss would not materially affect his fortune, and he +was glad through them to have a personal share in the irritating and +absorbing evolution in the mills. He heard of Allen frequently as a +fiery and fairly successful organizer of trouble, and he sent for him +when he thought the situation warranted it. Allen came readily enough, +walking into the office, shorn of his London frills, but evidently +retentive of the habit of keeping neat and clean. The eyes, too, had +altered, but not obviously, letting through, perhaps, a certain +disillusionment. + +"What are you doing to my mills?" George wanted to know. + +Allen, surprisingly, didn't once lose his temper, listening to George's +complaints without change of expression while he wandered about, his +eyes taking in each detail of the richly furnished office. + +"The directors report that the men have refused to enter into a fair and +above-board coöperative arrangement, and we've figured all along it was +turning the business over to them; taking money out of our own pockets. +It's a form of communism, and they throw it down. Why, Allen? I want +this straight." + +Allen paused in his walk, and looked closely at George. There was no +change in his face even when he commenced to speak. + +"A share in a business," he said, softly, "carries uncomfortable +responsibilities. You can't go to yourself, for instance, and say: 'Give +me more wages--more than the traffic will bear; then you sweat about it +in your office, but don't bother me in my cottage.'" + +"You acknowledge it!" George cried. + +Allen's face at last became a trifle animated. + +"Why not--to you? Everybody's out to get it--the butcher, the baker, the +candlestick maker. The capitalist most of all. Why not the man that +turns the wheels?" + +George whistled. + +"You'd crush essential industries off the face of the earth! You'd go +back to the stone age!" + +"Not," Allen answered, slowly, "as long as the profits of the past can +be got out of somebody's pockets." + +"You'd grab capital!" + +"Like a flash; and what are you going to do about it?" + +"I'll tell you what I am going to do," George answered, "and I fancy a +lot of others will follow my example. I am going to get rid of those +stocks if I have to throw them out of the window, then you'll have no +gun to hold at my head." + +"Throw too much away," Allen warned, "and you'll throw it all." + +"The beautiful, pure social revolution!" George sneered. "You're less +honest than you were when you dropped everything to go to London for me. +What's the matter with you, Allen?" + +Allen appraised again the comfortable room. Even now his expression +didn't alter materially. + +"Nothing. I don't know. Unless the universal spirit of grab has got in +my own veins." + +"Then, my friend," George said, pleasantly, "there's the door." + + +XVI + +George found himself thinking and talking of Allen's views quite enough +to please even Bailly. Blodgett, on the other hand, perhaps because of +the heavy, settled atmosphere of the marble temple, had changed his +tune. + +"Things are bound to come right in the end." + +As far as George was concerned he might as well have said: + +"This marble surrounding me is so many feet thick. Who do you think is +going to interfere with that?" + +Something of quite a different nature bothered Lambert, and for a few +days George thought it a not unnatural resentment at seeing Blodgett in +his father's office, but Lambert took pains to awaken him to the truth, +walking in one afternoon a few weeks after the Planters' move to town. +He had an uncertain and discontented appearance. + +"By the way, George," he said not without difficulty, "Dolly's about a +good deal." + +It was quite certain Lambert hadn't come to announce only that, so +George shrank from his next words, confident that something definite +must have happened. He controlled his anxiety with the thought that +Lambert had, indeed, come to him, and that Dalrymple couldn't permit the +announcement of an engagement without meeting the fulfilment of George's +penalties. + +"It's been on my mind for the past week," Lambert went on. "I mean, he +hasn't been seeing her much in public, but he's been hanging around the +house, and last night I spoke to Sylvia about it, told her I didn't +think father would want him any more than I did, pointed out his +financial record, and said I had gathered he owed you no small sum----" + +"You blind idiot!" George cried. "Why did you have to say that? How did +you even guess it? I've never opened my mouth." + +"He'd milked everybody else dry," Lambert answered, "and Driggs +mentioned a long time ago you'd had a curiously generous notion you'd +like to help Dolly if he ever needed it." + +"It wasn't generosity," George said, dryly. "Go ahead. Did you make any +more blunders?" + +"You're scarcely one to accuse," Lambert answered. "You put me up to it +in the first place, although I'll admit now, I'd have spoken anyway. I +don't want Sylvia marrying him. I don't want him down town as more than +a salaried man, unless he changes more than he has. I didn't feel even +last night that Sylvia really loved him, but I made her furious, and +you're right. I shouldn't have said that. I daresay she guessed, too, it +wasn't all generosity that had led you to pay Dolly's debts. Anyway, she +wouldn't talk reasonably, said she'd marry any one she pleased--oh, +quite the young lady who sent me after you with a horse whip, and I +daresay she'd have been glad to do it again last night. I spoke to +Mother. She said Sylvia hadn't said anything to her, but she added, if +Sylvia wanted him, she wouldn't oppose her. Naturally she wouldn't, +seeing only Dolly's good points, which are regularly displayed for the +benefit of the ladies. Anyway, I agreed to tell you, and you promised, +if it came to the point, you'd have some things to say to me----" + +George nodded shortly. + +"Yes, but I blame you for forcing me to say them. You've thrown them +together----" + +"I've always wanted to help Dolly as you would any old friend who had +wandered a little to the side, and was anxious to get back on the path. +I can't figure every man that comes about the place as a suitor for +Sylvia. Let's forget all that. What are these important and unpleasant +things you have to tell me? I daresay you know where the money you +loaned Dolly went." + +George pressed his lips tight. He frowned. Even now he hesitated to soil +his hands, to divide himself, perhaps, permanently from Sylvia at the +very moment of saving her; and he wasn't quite sure, in view of her +pride and her quick temper, that his very effort wouldn't defeat its own +purpose. If only Lambert hadn't made that worst of all possible +blunders. He wondered how a man felt on the rack. He bent swiftly and +picked up the telephone. + +"I shall talk with Dalrymple first," he said. "I'm going to ask him to +come over here at once. I think he'll come." + +But Lambert shook his head, stopped him before he could take the +receiver from the hook. + +"Isn't in the office. Hasn't been back since luncheon. Left no word +then." + +"Perhaps since you've come away----" George hazarded. + +He telephoned, while Lambert wandered about the room, or paused to slip +through his fingers the tape that emerged like a long and listless +serpent from the now silent ticker. After a question or two George +replaced the receiver and glanced at Lambert. + +"You're right. Sticks to the job, doesn't he?" + +"He isn't exactly an ordinary clerk," Lambert offered. + +George walked to a window. For a long time he gazed over the lower city, +turned singularly unreal by the early dusk, while it outlined itself +little by little in yellow points of light which gave to the clouds and +the circling columns of steam a mauve quality as if the world, instead +of night, faced the birth of a dawn, new, abnormal, frightening. + +He had to make one more effort with Dalrymple before sending Lambert to +Sylvia with his reasons why she shouldn't marry the man. In the +singular, unreal light he glanced at his hands. He had to see Dalrymple +once more first---- + +He turned and snapped on the lights. + +"What are you going to do?" Lambert asked. "There's no likely way to +catch him down town." + +A clerk tip-toed in. George swung sharply. + +"What is it, Carson?" + +"Mr. Dalrymple's outside, sir. It's so late I hesitated to bother you, +but he said it was very important he should see you, sir." + +George sighed. + +"Wait outside, Carson. I'll call you in a moment." + +And when the door was closed he turned to Lambert. + +"I'm going to see him here--alone." + +"Why?" Lambert asked, uneasily. "I don't quite see what you're up to. No +more battles of the ink pots!" + +"Please get out, Lambert; but maybe you'd better hang about the office. +I think Dicky's gone for the night. Wait in his room." + +"All right," Lambert agreed. + +George opened the door, and, as Lambert went through reluctantly, +beckoned the clerk. + +"Send Mr. Dalrymple in, Carson." + +He stood behind his desk, facing the open door. Almost immediately the +doorway was blocked by Dalrymple. George stared, trying to value the +alteration in the man. The weak, rather handsome face was bold and +contemptuous. Clearly he had come here for blows of his own choosing, +and had just now borrowed courage from some illicit bar, but he had +taken only enough, George gathered, to make him assured and not too +calculating. He was clothed as if he had returned from an affair, with a +flower in his buttonhole, and a top hat held in the hand with his stick +and gloves. + +"Come in!" + +Dalrymple closed the door and advanced, smiling. + +Not for a moment did George's glance leave the other. He felt taut, hard +to the point of brittleness. + +"It's fortunate you've come," he said, quietly. "I've just been trying +to get hold of you." + +"Oh! Then Lambert's been here!" Dalrymple answered, jauntily. + +George nodded. + +"You've been crooked, Dalrymple. Now we'll have an accounting." + +Dalrymple laughed. + +"It's what I've come for; but first I advise you to hold your temper. +It's late, but there are plenty of people still outside. Any more rough +stuff and you'll spend the night in a cell, or under bail." + +"If you lived nine lives," George commented, "you'd never be able to +intimidate me." + +Yet the other's manner troubled, and George's doubtful curiosity grew as +he watched Dalrymple commence to draw the strings of the mask. + +Dalrymple put down his hat and cane, bent swiftly, placed the palms of +his hands on the desk, stared at George, his face inflamed, his eyes +choked with malicious exultation. + +"Your blackmail," he cried, "is knocked into a cocked hat. I married +Sylvia half an hour ago." + +Before George's response he lost some of his colour, drew back warily; +but George had no thought of attacking him; it was too late now. That +was why he experienced a dreadful realization of defeat, for a moment +let through a flickering impression of the need for violence, but--and +Dalrymple couldn't be expected to understand that--violence against +George Morton who had let this situation materialize, who experienced, +tumbling about his head, the magnificent but incomplete efforts of many +years. That sensation of boundless, imponderable wreckage crushing upon +him sent him back to his chair where for a moment he sat, sunk down, +stripped of his power and his will. + +And Dalrymple laughed, enjoying it. + +In George's overwhelmed brain that laughter started an awakening +clamour. + +"What difference does the money make now?" Dalrymple jibed. "And she'll +believe nothing else you may tell her, and violence would only make a +laughing stock of you. It's done." + +"How was it done?" George whispered. + +"No objections to amusing you," Dalrymple mocked. "Lambert interfered +last night, and spoiled his own game by dragging you in. By gad, she has +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." + +Lambert took her hand and led her to the door. + +"Go to Betty," he said. + +"But make him understand," she pled. + +"Why did you marry him if you didn't love him?" Lambert asked. + +She turned and glanced at Dalrymple. + +"I was fond of him. I didn't quite realize. There's a difference--he +must see that I've done an impossible thing, and I won't go on with it." + +They were at the door. Lambert led her through, returning immediately. +George watched her go, blaming himself for her suffering. He had, +indeed, dragged her from her high horse, but he had not realized he +would bring her at once and starkly face to face with facts she had all +along refused to recognize; yet, he was convinced from his long +knowledge of her, she would not alter her decision, and he was happy, +knowing that he had accomplished, after a fashion, what he had come here +to do. + +"You're married," Lambert was saying dryly to Dalrymple. "The problem +seems to be how to get you unmarried." + +"You shan't do that," Dalrymple cried, hotly. "You'll talk her around +instead." + +"Scarcely a chance," Lambert answered, "and really I don't see why I +should try. You've played a slippery trick. You may have had an +understanding with Sylvia, but I am perfectly convinced that she +wouldn't have let anything come of it if you hadn't caught her at a +moment when she couldn't judge reasonably. So it's entirely up to her." + +"We'll see about it," Dalrymple said. "I have my side. You turn nasty. I +turn nasty. You Planters want an annulment proceeding, or a public +divorce with this rotter as co-respondent?" + +"Dolly! You don't know what you're saying." + +"I'll fight for my rights," Dalrymple persisted, sullenly. + +"See here," George put in, "I stayed to say one thing. Sylvia had +nothing to do with what you saw. She couldn't help herself. Your +crookedness, Dalrymple, made me forget everything except that----Never +mind. Lambert understands. Maybe I was out of my head. Anyway, I didn't +give her a chance. She had to suffer it. Is that quite clear?" + +Lambert smiled incredulously. + +"That'll sound well in court, too," Dalrymple threatened. + +"Drop that!" Lambert cried. "Think who you are; who Sylvia is." + +"My wife," Dalrymple came back. "I'll have her or I'll go to court." + +George started for the door. + +"Don't fret, Lambert," he advised. "Money will go a long way with him. +If I might, I'd like to know what the two of you settle. I mean, if you +want to keep it away from your father and mother, my money's available. +I haven't much use for it any more----" + +He broke off. What had he just meant to say: that since he had held +Sylvia in his arms all that had marked the progress of his ambition had +become without value? He would have to find that out. Now he waited at +the door, interested only in Dalrymple's response to his bald proposal. +Dalrymple thrust his hands in his pockets, commenced to pace the room, +but all he said was: + +"Teach you all not to make a fool of Dolly." + +"Remember," George said. "What she wants. And undesired scandals can be +paid for in various ways." + +He glanced at Lambert. Evidently Sylvia's brother on that ground would +meet him as an ally. So he left the house and walked slowly through the +eastern fringe of the park, wishing to avoid even the few people +scattered along the pavements of the avenue, for the touch of Sylvia's +lips was still warm on his mouth. He felt himself apart. He wanted to +remain apart as long as possible with that absorbing memory. + +Her angry responses in the past to his few daring gestures were +submerged in the great, scarcely comprehensible fact that she had not +rebuked him when he had tumbled over every barrier to take her in his +arms; nor had she, when cornered by Dalrymple and Lambert, assumed her +logical defence. Had that meant an awakening of a sort? + +He smiled a little, thinking of her lips. + +Their touch had sent to his brain flashes of pure illumination in which +his once great fondness for Betty had stood stripped of the capacity for +any such avid, confused emotions as Sylvia had compelled; flashes that +had exposed also his apparent hatred of the girl Sylvia as an obstinate +love, which, unable to express itself according to a common-place +pattern, had shifted its violent desires to conceptions of wrongs and +penalties. Blinded by that great light, he asked himself if his +ambition, his strength, and his will had merely been expressions of his +necessity for her. + +Of her words and actions immediately afterward he didn't pretend to +understand anything beyond their assurance that Dalrymple's romance was +at an end. Not a doubt crept into his strange and passionate exaltation. + +He was surprised to find himself at his destination. When he reached his +apartment he got out the old photograph and the broken riding crop, and +with them in his hands sat before the fire, dreaming of the long road +over which they had consistently aided him. He compared Sylvia as he had +just seen her with the girlish and intolerant Sylvia of the photograph, +and he found he could still imagine the curved lips moving to form the +words: + +"You'll not forget." + +He lowered his hands, and took a deep breath like one who has completed +a journey. To-night, in a sense, he had reached the heights most +carefully guarded of all. + + +XVIII + +He heard the ringing of the door bell. His servant slipped in. + +"Mr. Lambert Planter, sir." + +George started, placed the crop and the photograph in a drawer, and +looked at the man with an air of surprise. + +"Of course, I should like to see him. And bring me something on a tray, +here in front of the fire." + +Lambert walked in. + +"Don't mind my coming this way, George?" + +"I'm glad I'm no longer 'Morton'," George said, dryly. "Sit down. I'm +going to have a bite to eat." + +He glanced at his watch. + +"Good Lord! It's after ten o'clock." + +"Yes," Lambert said, choosing a chair, "there was a lot to talk about." + +Little of the trouble had left Lambert's face, but George fancied +Sylvia's brother looked at him with curiosity, with a form of respect. + +"I'm glad you've come," George said, "but I don't intend to apologize +for what I did this evening. I think we all, no matter what our +inheritance, fight without thought of affectations for our happiness. +That's what I did. I love your sister, Lambert. Never dreamed how much +until to-night. Not a great deal to say, but it's enormous beyond +definition to think. You have Betty, so perhaps you can understand." + +Lambert smiled in a superior fashion. + +"I'm a little confused," he said. "She's led me to believe all along +she's disliked you; has kept you away from Oakmont; has made it +difficult from the start. Then I find her, whether willingly or not--at +least not crying out for help--in your arms." + +"I had to open her eyes to what she had done," George answered. "I +wasn't exactly accountable, but I honestly believe I took the only +possible means. I don't know whether I succeeded." + +"I fancy you succeeded," Lambert muttered. + +George stretched out his hand, looked at Lambert appealingly. + +"She didn't say so--she----" + +Lambert shook his head. + +"She wouldn't talk about you at all." + +He waited while the servant entered and arranged George's tray. + +"Of course you've dined?" + +"After a fashion," Lambert answered. "Not hungry. You might give me a +drink." + +"I feel apologetic about eating," George said when they were alone +again. "Don't see why I should have an appetite." + +Lambert fingered his glass. + +"Do you know why she didn't have you drawn and quartered?" + +"No. Don't try to create happiness, Lambert, where there mayn't be any." + +"I'm creating nothing. I'm asking a question, in an effort to +understand why she won't, as I say, mention your name; why she can't +bear to have it mentioned." + +"If you were right, if things could be straightened out," George said, +"you--you could put up with it?" + +"Easily," Lambert answered, "and I'll confess I couldn't if it were +Corporal John Smith. I've been fond of you for a long time, George, and +I owe you a great deal, but that doesn't figure. You're worthy even of +Sylvia; but I don't say I'm right. You can't count on Sylvia. And even +if I were, I don't see any way to straighten things out." + +George returned to his meal. + +"If you had taken the proper attitude," he scolded, "you could have +handled Dalrymple. He's weak, avaricious, cowardly." + +"Oh, Dalrymple! I can handle him. It's Sylvia," Lambert said. "In the +long run Dolly agreed to about everything. Of course he wanted money, +and he'll have to have it; but heaven knows there's plenty of money. +Trouble is, the wedding can't be hushed up. That's plain. It will be in +every paper to-morrow. We arranged that Dolly was to live in the house +for a time. They would have been together in public, and Dolly agreed +eventually to let her go and get a quiet divorce--at a price. It sounds +revolting, but to me it seemed the only way." + +George became aware of an ugly and distorted intruder upon his +happiness, yet Lambert was clearly right. Sylvia and Dalrymple, +impulsively joined together, were nothing to each other, couldn't even +resume their long friendship. + +"Well?" George asked. + +"Mother, Betty, and I talked it over with Sylvia," Lambert answered. +"You see, we've kept Father in ignorance so far. He's scarcely up to +such a row. Mother will make him wise very gently only when it becomes +necessary." + +"But what did Sylvia say?" George demanded, bending toward Lambert, his +meal forgotten. + +"Sylvia," Lambert replied, spreading his hands helplessly, "would agree +to nothing. In the first place, she wouldn't consent to Dolly's staying +in the house even to save appearances. I don't know what's the matter +with her. She worried us all. She wasn't hysterical exactly, but she +cried a good deal, which is quite unusual for her, and she +seemed--frightened. She wouldn't let any one go near her--even Mother. I +couldn't understand that." + +George stared at the fire, his hands clasped. When at last he spoke he +scarcely heard his own voice: + +"She will get a divorce--as soon as possible?" + +Lambert emptied his glass and set it down. + +"That's just it," he answered, gloomily. "She won't listen to anything +of the sort." + +George glanced up. + +"What is there left for her to do?" + +Lambert frowned. + +"Something seems to have changed her wholly. She declares she'll never +see Dolly again, and in the same breath talks about the church and a +horror of divorce, and the necessity of her suffering for her mistake; +and she wants to pay her debt to Dolly by giving him, instead of +herself, all of her money--a few such pleasant inconsistencies. See +here. Why didn't you run wild yesterday, or the day before?" + +"Do you think," George asked, softly, "it would have been quite the same +thing, would have had quite the same effect?" + +"I wonder," Lambert mused. + +George arose and stood with his back to the fire. + +"And of course," he said, thoughtfully, "you or I can't tell just what +the effect has been. See here, Lambert. I have to find that out. I must +see her once, if only for five minutes." + +He watched Lambert, who didn't answer at first. + +"I'll not run wild again," he promised. "If she'd only agree--just five +minutes' talk." + +"I told you," Lambert said at last, "she wouldn't mention your name or +let any one else; but, on the theory that you are really responsible for +what's happened, I'd like you to see her. You might persuade her that a +divorce is absolutely necessary, the only way out. You might get her to +understand that she can't go through life tied to a man she'll never +see, while people will talk many times more than if she took a train +quietly west." + +"If she'll see me," George said, "I'll try to make it plain to her." + +"Betty has a scheme----" Lambert began, and wouldn't grow more explicit +beyond saying, "Betty'll probably let you hear from her in the morning. +That's the reason I wanted you to know how things stand. I'm hurrying +back now to our confused house." + +George followed him to the door. + +"Dalrymple--where is he?" he asked. + +"Gone to his parents. He'll try to play the game for the present." + +"At a price," George said. + +Lambert nodded. + +"Rather well-earned, too, on the whole," he answered, ironically. + + + +XIX + +George slept little that night. The fact that Lambert believed him +responsible for the transformation in Sylvia was sufficiently exciting. +In Sylvia's manner her brother must have read something he had not quite +expressed to George. And why wouldn't she mention him? Why couldn't she +bear to have the others mention him? With his head bowed on his hands he +sat before the desk, staring at the diminishing fire, and in this +posture he fell at last asleep to be startled by Wandel who had not +troubled to have himself announced. The fire was quite dead. In the +bright daylight streaming into the room George saw that the little man +held a newspaper in his hand. + +"Is it a habit of great men not to go to bed?" + +George stood up and stretched. He indicated the newspaper. + +"You've come with the evil tidings?" + +"About Sylvia and Dolly," Wandel began. + +George yawned. + +"I must bathe and become presentable, for this is another day." + +"You've already seen it?" Wandel asked, a trifle puzzled. + +"No, but what else should there be in the paper?" + +Wandel stared for a moment, then carefully folded the paper and tossed +it in the fireplace. + +"Nothing much," he answered, lighting a cigarette, "except hold-ups, +murders, new strikes, fresh battles among our brethren of the Near +East--nothing of the slightest consequence. By by. Make yourself, great +man, fresh and beautiful for the new day." + + +XX + +George wondered why Wandel should have come at all, or, having come, why +he should have left in that manner; and he was sorry he had answered as +he had, for Wandel invariably knew a great deal, more than most people. +In this case he had probably come only to help, but in George's brain +nothing could survive for long beyond hazards as to what the morning +might develop. Betty was going to communicate with him, and she would +naturally expect to find him at his office, so he hurried down town and +waited, forcing himself to the necessary details of his work. For the +first time the mechanics of making money seemed dreary and unprofitable. + +Goodhue came in with a clearly designed lack of curiosity. Had his +partner all along suspected the truth, or had Wandel been talking? For +that matter, did Goodhue himself experience a sense of loss? + +"Not so surprising, George. Dolly's always been after her--even back in +the Princeton days, and she's played around with him since they were +children; yet I was a little shocked. I never thought it would quite +come off." + +It was torture for George to listen, and he couldn't possibly talk about +it, so he led Goodhue quite easily to the day's demands; but Blodgett +appeared not long after with a drooping countenance. Why did they all +have to come to him to discuss the unannounced wedding of Sylvia +Planter? + +"She ought to have done better," Blodgett disapproved funereally. + +He fingered a gaudy handkerchief. He thrust it in his pocket, drew it +forth again, folded it carefully with his pudgy hands. + +"Don't think I've ever ceased to regret----" he started rather +pitifully. + +After a moment's absorbed scrutiny of George he went on. + +"If she had picked somebody like you I wouldn't have minded. Papa +Blodgett would have given you both his blessing." + +So they had all guessed something! George questioned uneasily if +Blodgett's suspicions had lived during the course of his own unfortunate +romance, and he was sorrier than ever he had had to help destroy that. +He got rid of Blodgett and refused to see any one else, but he had to +answer the telephone, for that would almost certainly be Betty's means +of communication. Each time the pleasant bell tinkled he seized the +receiver, and each time cut short whatever masculine worries reached +him. The uneven pounding of the ticker punctuated his suspense. It was a +feverish morning in the market, but not once did he rise to glance at +the tape which streamed neglected into the basket. + +It was after one o'clock when he snatched the receiver from the hook +again with a hopeless premonition of another disappointment. Then he +heard Betty's voice, scarcely more than an anxious whisper "George!" + +"Yes, yes, Betty." + +"My car will be somewhere between Altman's and Tiffany's at two o'clock, +as near the corner of Thirty-fifth Street as they'll let me get. Lambert +knows. It's all right." + +"But, Betty----" + +"Just be there," she said, and must have hung up. + +He glanced at his watch. He could start now. He hurried from the +building, but there was no point in haste. He had plenty of time, too +much time; and Betty hadn't said he would see Sylvia; hadn't given him +time to ask; but she must have arranged an interview, else why should +she care to see him at all, why her manner of a conspirator? + +He reached the rendezvous well ahead of time, but he recognized Betty's +car just beyond the corner, and saw her wave to him anxiously. He +stepped in and sat at her side. She laughed nervously. + +"I guessed you would be a little ahead," she said as the car commenced +to crawl north. + +"Am I to see Sylvia?" + +Betty nodded. + +"Just once. This noon, before I telephoned, she acknowledged that she +wanted to see you--to talk to you for the last time. That's the way she +put it." + +Betty smiled sceptically. + +"You know I don't believe anything of the sort." + +"What do you think can be done?" George asked. + +She didn't suggest anything, merely repeating her faith, going on while +she looked at George curiously. + +"So all the time, George--and I didn't really guess, but I might have +known you would. I can remember now that day at Princeton when I asked +you about her dog, and your anxiety one night at Josiah's when you +wanted to know if she was going to be married--oh, plenty of hints now. +George! Why did you let it go so far?" + +"Couldn't help myself, Betty." + +She looked at him helplessly. + +"And what have you done to her?" + +"If you can't guess----" George said. + +Betty smiled reminiscently. + +"Perhaps I can guess. You would do just that, George, when there was +nothing else." + +"You don't blame me?" he asked. "You don't ask, as Lambert did, why I +waited so long?" + +She shook her head. + +"I'm sure," she said, "when you came last night you saw a Sylvia none of +us had ever met before. Don't you think it had come upon her all at once +that she was no longer Sylvia Planter, that in defeating you she had +destroyed herself? If that is so, she has every bit of sympathy I'm +capable of, and we must think first of all of her. The pride's still +there, but quite a different thing. She's never known fear before, +George, and now she's afraid, terribly afraid, most of all, I think, of +herself." + +George counted the corners, was relieved when beyond Fiftieth Street the +traffic thinned and they went faster. He took Betty's hand, and found +that the touch steadied and encouraged, because at last her fingers +seemed to reach his mind again. + +"Betty! Do you think she cares at all?" + +"I'm prejudiced," Betty laughed, "but I think the harder she'd been the +more she's cared; but she wouldn't talk about you except to say she +would see you for a minute this once. Lambert's lunching with Dolly." + +"We are conspirators," George said, "and I don't like it, but I must see +her once." + +They drew up at the curb, got out, and entered the hall. The house was +peculiarly without sound. George glanced at the entrance to the room +where he had found Sylvia last night. + +"I think she's in Mr. Planter's study," Betty said. "He hasn't come +downstairs yet." + +She led him through the library to a small, square room--a quiet and +comfortable book-lined retreat where Old Planter had been accustomed to +supplement his work down town. George looked eagerly around, but the +light wasn't very good, and he didn't at first see Sylvia. + +"Sylvia!" Betty called softly. "I've brought George." + + +XXI + +Almost before George realized it Betty was gone and the door was closed. + +"Sylvia!" + +Her low voice reached him from a large chair opposite the single, +leaded, opaque window. + +"I'm over here----" + +Yes, there was fear in her enunciation, as if she groped through shadowy +and hazardous places. It cautioned him. With a choked feeling, a racking +effort after repression, he walked quietly around and stared down at +her. + +She looked up once quickly, then glanced away. He was grateful for her +colour, but the fear was in her face, too, and the pride, as Betty had +said, but a transformed pride that he couldn't quite understand. She lay +back in the large chair, her head to one side resting against the +protruding arm. Her eyes were bright with tears she had shed or wanted +to shed. + +"Please sit down." + +The ring of exasperated contempt and challenge had gone from her voice. +He hadn't known it could stir him so. He drew up a chair and sat close +to her. + +"You are not angry about what I did last night?" he whispered. + +She shook her head. + +"I am grateful. I wanted to see you to tell you that, and how sorry I +am--so beastly sorry, George." + +Her voice drifted away. It made him want his arms about her, made him +want her lips again. The room became a black and restless background for +this shadowy, desired, and forbidden figure. + +Impulsively he slipped to his knees and placed his head against the side +of her chair. Across his hair he fancied a fugitive brushing of fingers. +She burst out with something of her former impetuous manner. + +"I used to want that! Now you shan't!" + +He arose, and she stooped swiftly forward, as if propelled objectively, +and, before he realized what she was doing, touched the back of his hand +with her lips. + +She sprang upright and faced him from the mantel, more afraid than ever, +staring at him, her cheeks wet with tears. + +"That's all," she whispered. "It's what I wanted to tell you. Please go. +We mustn't see each other again." + +In the room he was aware only of her, but he knew, in spite of his own +blind instinct, that between them was a wall as of transparent and heavy +glass against which he would only break his strength. + +"Sylvia," he whispered in spite of that knowledge, "I want to touch your +lips." + +"They've never been anybody else's," she cried in a sudden outburst. +"Never could have been. I see that now. That's why I've hated you----" + +"Yet you love me now. You do love me, Sylvia?" + +"I love you, George," she said, wearily. "I think I always have." + +"Then why--why----" + +She turned on him, nearly angry. + +"How can you ask that? You haven't forgotten that first day, either, +have you? You took something of me then, and I couldn't forget it. That +was what hurt and humiliated; I couldn't forget, couldn't get out of my +mind what you--one of the--the stablemen--had taken of me, Sylvia +Planter. And I thought you could never give it back, but last night you +did, and I----Everything went to pieces----And it had to be last night, +after I'd lost my temper. I see that. That's the tragedy of it." + +"I don't quite understand, Sylvia." + +She smiled a little through her tears. + +"Betty would. Any woman would. You must go now--please." + +"When will I see you again?" he asked. + +"This way? Never." + +"What nonsense! You'll get a divorce. You must." + +She straightened. Her head went back. + +"I won't lie that way." + +"I'll hit on some means," he boasted. "You belong to me." + +"And I've found it out too late," she said, "and I don't believe I could +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 début, 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 +mused. + +"He hasn't," Lambert said, impatiently. "Since I talked with him that +hectic night I've admitted that Dolly's never had the capacity to love +any one except himself. So he's probably happy in his own unpleasant +way." + +A thought came to George. He smiled a little. + +"I've been wondering if Sylvia is going in harder than ever on the side +of the downtrodden." + +Lambert laughed. + +"As far as I know, hasn't mentioned a cossack since that night; and I +have to confess, hard-headed reactionary, the ranks are making me see +too many bad qualities among the good." + +"Perhaps," George suggested, "the ranks are saying something of the sort +about us. Besides, I don't see why you call me reactionary." + +"Would you have minded it a while back?" Lambert asked. + +"Just the same," George answered, "I'd like to get their point of view." + +What would Squibs say to that from him? Squibs, undoubtedly, would be +pleased. After Lambert had gone he sat for a long time thinking. He was +glad Lambert had come, for the other had suggested that in endeavouring +to capture such a point of view, in pleasing Squibs, he might at last +find a real interest, and one of use to somebody besides himself. If the +men on the heights didn't get at it pretty soon, a different kind of +climber would appear, with black hands, inflamed eyes, and a mind +stripped, by passion, of all logic. Gladly he found it possible to bring +to this new task the energy with which he had attacked the narrower +puzzles of the university and Wall Street. + +Sylvia had called him the most selfish person she had ever met, and, as +he tried to strip from the facts of the world's disease the perpetual, +clinging propaganda, he applied her charge to his soul. From the first +he had been infected, yet his selfishness had been neither inefficient +nor dangerous. This increasing pestilence was. Lambert guessed what he +was at, and George jeered at him for his war madness, but Lambert had +found again an absorbing interest. Because of his missing leg it was +rather pitiful to watch his enthusiasm for a reawakened activity. + +"You've got to see Harvard swallow your old Tiger, George," he said one +Friday. "After all, why not? You don't need to come out to the Alstons, +although I'm not sure there would be any harm in that. Talk's about +done, I fancy." + +George flushed. + +"Do you know I'd love to spill you again, Lambert? I'd like to bring you +down so hard the seismographs would make a record." + +"Too bad we can't try to kill each other," Lambert said, regretfully. +"Why not watch younger brutes?" + +"I've wanted it for days," George acknowledged. "I'll wire Squibs." + +George was perfectly sure that Squibs knew nothing, for he wasn't +socially curious, and Betty would have hesitated to talk about what had +happened even to Mrs. Squibs, yet he was conscious, after the first +moment of meeting, of a continued scrutiny from Squibs, of a hesitancy +of manner, of an unusually careful choice of words. + +He had small opportunity to test this impression, for it was noon when +he reached the house in Dickinson Street, and there were many of the +tutor's products in the dining-room, snatching a cold bite while they +roared confused pessimism about the game. + +"You're going to the side-lines," Squibs said when they had climbed the +ramp to their section of the stadium. + +"I'd be in the way," George objected. + +Bailly stared at him. + +"George Morton on a football field could only be in the way of Harvard +and Yale." + +George experienced a quick, ardent wish for thick turf underfoot, for a +seat on the bench among players exhaling a thick atmosphere of eager and +absorbed excitement. So he let the tutor lead him down the steps. Squibs +called to Green, who was distrait. + +"What is it, Mr. Bailly?" + +"I've got Morton." + +Green sprang to life. + +"Mr. Stringham! An omen! An omen!" + +He met George at the gate and threw his arms around him. Stringham +hurried up. Green crowed. + +"I believe we'll lick these fellows or come mighty close to it." + +"Of course you'll lick them, Green. Hello, Stringham! May I sit down?" + +"The stadium's yours," Stringham said, simply. + +As he walked along the line of eager players, smothered in blankets or +sweaters, George caught snatches of the curiosity of youth, because of +nervousness, too audibly expressed. + +"Who's the big fellow?" + +"That? Longest kicker, fastest man for his weight ever played the game. +George Morton--the great Morton." + +"He never played with that leg! What's the matter with his leg? +Football?" + +George caught no answer. He sat down among the respectful youths, +thinking whimsically: + +"The war's so soon over, but thank God they can't forget football!" + + +XXV + +At the very end of the first half, when the Princeton sections +experienced the unforeseen glow of a possible victory, George caught a +glimpse of Lambert and Wandel close to the barrier, as if they had left +their places to catch someone with the calling of time. Just then the +horn scrunched its anxious message. George called. + +"Lambert Planter!" + +Stringham paused, grinning. + +"Come over here, you biting bulldog." + +Lambert made his way through the barrier and grasped Stringham's hand. + +"Come along to the dressing-room," Stringham suggested, cordially. "Nice +bulldog, although once I loved to see Morton chew you up." + +Lambert glanced down. + +"Thanks. I'd better stay here. One of my runners is off, Stringham." + +"Then sit with the boys next half," Stringham said. "Coming, Morton?" + +George shook his head, and urged the anxious coach away, for Wandel had +caught his eye. + +"Tell them to keep their heads," George called after Stringham. "If they +keep their heads they've got Harvard beaten." + +He glanced inquiringly at Wandel. + +"Why not cease," Wandel said, "imagining yourself a giddy, heroic cub? +Come up and sit with mature people the last half." + +The invitation startled George. Then Sylvia wasn't there? + +"Is Sylvia all right?" he asked Lambert under his breath. + +Lambert was a trifle ill at ease. + +"Oh, quite. Betty asked us to get you. Wants to see you. Have my place. +I'm going to accept Stringham's fine invitation, and sit here with the +young--a possible Yale scout on the Princeton side-lines." + +"Stringham's no fool," George laughed. "Anyway, he has you fellows +beaten right now." + +Lambert thrust his hand in his pocket. + +"How much you got?" + +Wandel grasped George's arm. + +"Come with me before you get in a college brawl." + +"Plenty when we're not chaperoned, Lambert," George called, and followed +Wandel through the restless crowd and up the concrete steps. + +Was Sylvia really there? Was he going to see her? The idea of finding +him had sprung from Betty, and Lambert had been ill at ease. + +He saw Betty and her father and mother, then beyond them, a vacant place +between, Sylvia to whom the open air and its chill had given back all +her dark, flushed brilliancy. Wandel slid through first, and made +himself comfortable at Sylvia's farther side. George followed, stopping +to speak to the Alstons, to accept Betty's approving glance. + +"Conspirator!" he whispered, and went on, and sat down close to Sylvia, +and yielded himself to the delight of her proximity. She glanced at him, +her colour deepening. + +"Betty said it was all right, and I must. So many people----" + +The air was sharp enough to make rugs comfortable. He couldn't see her +hands because they were beneath the rug across her knees, a covering she +shared with Wandel and him. + +As he drew the rug up one of his hands touched hers, and his fingers, +beyond his control, groped for her fingers. He detected a quick, nervous +movement away; then it was stopped, and their hands met, clasped, and +clung together. + +For a moment they looked at each other, and knew they mustn't, since +there were so many people; but the content of their clasped hands +continued because it couldn't be observed. + +The supreme football player sat there staring at a blur of autumn colour +between the lake and the generous mouth of the stadium; and, when the +second half commenced, saw, as if from an immeasurable distance, pygmy +figures booting a football, or carrying it here and there, or throwing +each other about; and he didn't know which were Harvard's men or which +were Princeton's, and he didn't seem to care---- + +Vaguely he heard people suffering. A voice cut through a throaty and +grieving murmur. + +"Somebody's lost his head!" + +"What's the matter?" he asked Sylvia. + +"George! You're destroying my hand." + +Momentarily he remembered, and relaxed his grasp, while she added +quickly: + +"But I don't mind at all, dear." + + +XXVI + +Lambert stood in front of them, glancing down doubtfully. Evidently the +game was over, for people were leaving, talking universally and +discontentedly. + +"Betty and I," Lambert said, dryly, "fancied we'd invented and patented +that rug trick." + +Sylvia stood up. + +"Don't scold, Lambert." + +She turned to George, trying to smile. + +"I shall be happy as long as my hand hurts. Good-bye, George." + +"You'd better go," Betty whispered as he lingered helplessly. + +So he drifted aimlessly through the crowd, hearing only a confused +murmur, seeing nothing beyond the backs directly in front of him, until +he found the Baillys waiting at the ramp opening. + +"If you'd only been there, George! Although this morning we'd have been +glad enough to think of a tie score." + +He submitted then to Bailly's wonder at each miracle; to his grief for +each mistake; and little by little, as the complaining voice hurried on, +the world assumed its familiar proportions and movements. He caught a +glimpse of Allen walking slowly ahead. The angular man was alone, and +projected even to George an air of profound dissatisfaction. Bailly +caught his arm and shook hands with him. + +"Whither away?" George asked. + +"To the specials." + +He fell in beside George, and for a time kept pace with him. + +"What's bothering you, Allen?" + +With a haggard air Allen turned his head from side to side, gazing at +the hastening people. + +"Lords of the land!" he muttered. "Lords of the land!" + +"Why?" George asked. "Because they have an education? Well, so have +you." + +Allen nodded toward the emptying stadium. + +"Lords of the land!" he repeated. "I've been sitting up there with them, +but all alone. I wish I hadn't liked being with them. I wish I hadn't +been sorry for myself because I was alone." + +Allen's words, his manner of expressing them, defined a good deal for +George, urged him to form a quick resolution. + +"Catch your special," he said, "but come to my office Tuesday morning. I +may have work for you that you can do with a clear conscience. If you +must get, get something worth while." + +Allen glanced at him quickly. + +"Morton, you've changed," he said. "I'll come." + + +XXVII + +Very slowly the excitement of the game cleared from Squibs' brain. That +night he could talk of nothing else, begging George for an opinion of +each player and his probable value against Yale the following Saturday. +George, to cover his confusion, generalized. + +"We'll beat Yale," he said, "as we ought to have beaten Harvard, because +this team isn't afraid of colours and symbols. Most of these youngsters +have been in the bigger game, so final football matches no longer appeal +to them as matters of life and death and even of one's chances in the +hereafter." + +Bailly looked slightly sheepish. + +"I'm afraid, George, I'm going to New Haven to look at a struggle of +life and death, but then I was only in the Y. M. C. A. I'd feel many +times better if you were sound and available." + +"You might speak to the dean about me," George laughed. + +By the next evening, however, the crowd had departed, and with +Princeton's return to normal Squibs for the time overcame his anxieties. +That night George and he sat in a corner of the lounge of the Nassau +Club, waiting for Lambert and Wandel to drive in from the Alstons. +George grew a trifle uncomfortable, because he suspected Squibs was +staring at him with yesterday's curious scrutiny. Abruptly the tutor +asked: + +"What did you say to Allen after the game?" + +"Offered him another job," George answered, shortly. + +Bailly frowned. + +"See here, George. What are you up to? Is that fair and decent? Allen is +struggling--for the right." + +"Allen," George answered, "has put some of his views to the test, and +the results have made him discouraged and uneasy. He's been tainted by +the very men he's tried to help. I've no idea of debauching him. Quite +the reverse. Please listen." + +And he entered upon a sort of penitence, speaking, while the tutor's +wrinkled face flushed with pleasure, of his recent efforts to understand +the industrial situation and its probable effects on society. + +"I have to acknowledge," he said, softly, "that pure material success +has completely altered its meaning for me. I'd like to use my share of +it, and what small brains I have, to help set things straight; but I'm +not so sure this generation won't have too sticky feet to drag itself +out of the swamp of its own making." + +Lambert and Wandel arrived just then, talking cheerfully about football. + +"What do you mean to do?" Bailly asked George as the others sat down. + +George smiled at Wandel. + +"I'm not sure, Driggs, that the hour hasn't struck for you." + +Wandel raised his hands. + +"You mean politics!" + +"I used to fancy," George said, "that I'd need you for my selfish +interests. Now my idea is quite different." + +He turned to Squibs. + +"See here, sir. You've got to admit that the soul of the whole thing is +education. I don't mean education in the narrow sense that we know it +here or in any other university. I mean the opening of eyes to real +communal efficiency; the comprehension of the necessity of building +instead of tearing down; the birth of the desire to climb one's self +rather than to try to make stronger men descend." + +Bailly's eyes sparkled. + +"I don't say you're not right, George. You may be right." + +A fire blazed comfortably in front of them. The chairs were deep. +Through a window the Holder tower, for all its evening lack of +definition, seemed an indestructible pointer of George's thoughts. For a +long time he talked earnestly. + +"I climbed," he ended. "So others can, and less selfishly and more +usefully, if they're only told how; if they'll only really try." + +"You're always right, great man," Wandel drawled, "but we mustn't forget +you climbed from fundamentals. That's education--the teaching of the +fundamentals." + +"It means an equal chance for everybody," George said, "and then, by +gad, we won't have the world held back by those who refuse to take their +chance. We won't permit the congenitally unsound to set the pace for the +healthy. We'll take care of the congenitally unsound." + +He turned to Bailly. + +"And you and your excitable socialists have got to realize that you +can't make the world sane through makeshifts, or all at once, but with +foresight it can be done. You've raised the devil with me ever since I +was a sub-Freshman about service and the unsound and the virtue of +soiled clothing. Now raise the devil with somebody else about the virtue +of sound service and clean clothes. This education must start in the +schools. We may be able to force it into public schools through the +legislatures; but in Princeton and the other great universities it has +to come from within, and that's hard; that, in a way, is up to you and +other gentle sectarians like you. And your clubs have got to stand in +some form--everywhere, if only as objectives of physical and +intellectual content. Nothing good torn from the world! Only the +evil----" + +He tapped Wandel's arm. + +"Driggs! If you want to go among the time-servers, to stand alone for +the people; perhaps for people yet unborn----" + +"For a long time," Wandel said, "I've been looking for something I could +really want to do. I rather fancy you've found it for me, George. I want +to climb, too, always have--not to the heights we once talked about at +your unhealthy picnic, but to the furtherest heights of all, which are +guarded by selfishness, servility, sin--past which people have to be +led." + +Squibs cried out enthusiastically. + +"And from which you can look down with a clear conscience on the +climbers to whom you will have pointed out the path." + +"I see now," Lambert put in, "that that is the only way in which one +with self-respect can look down on lesser men." + +George laughed aloud. + +"An ally that can't escape! Driggs is a witness. We'll hold that fine +democracy of the Argonne over your head forever." + +"You see," Wandel drawled, "that was bound to fail, because it was based +on the ridiculous assumption that every man that fought was good and +great." + +"I fancy," George said, "we're commencing to find out why we went to +war--To appreciate the world's and our own astigmatism." + +As they walked back to the little house in Dickinson Street, Bailly +tried to express something. + +"I guess," he managed, "that I'll have to call it square, George." + +"I'm glad," George said, quickly, "but you must give some of the credit +to Lambert Planter's sister." + +He smiled happily, wistfully. + +"You know she's the most useful socialist of you all." + +After a time he said under his breath: + +"There are some things I never dreamed of being able to repay you, sir. +For instance this--this feeling that one is walking home." + +"That debt," Bailly said, brightly, "cancels itself." + +His mood changed. He spoke with a stern personal regret. + +"You young men! You young men! How much farther you see! How much more +you can do!" + + +XXVIII + +George returned to New York happy in his memory of his intimate hour on +a crowded stand with Sylvia. Dalrymple had given him that, too. It +amazed him that so much beauty could spring from so ugly a source. + +He heard that Dalrymple was back from Canada, then that he had wandered +away, pockets full, on another journey, pandering to his twisted +conception of pleasure. One day George took his notes from the +safe-deposit box and gave them to Lambert. + +"Get them back to him," he said. + +And Lambert must have understood that George would never let the +Planters' money redeem them. + +"It's pretty decent, George." + +"It's nothing of the kind. They make my hands feel dirty, and I've lots +of money, and I'm making more every day; yet I wonder if it's going to +be enough, even with Driggs' and Blodgett's and yours, old Argonne +democrat." + +For he had spoken of his plans to Blodgett, and had been a little +surprised to learn how much thought Blodgett had given the puzzle +himself, although most of his searching had been for makeshifts, for +anything to tide over immediate emergencies. + +"I don't know," Blodgett roared, "whether this cleaning out the sore and +getting to the bottom of it will work or not; but I'm inclined to look +to the future with you for a permanent cure. Anyway, I'd help you +finance a scheme to make the ocean dry, because you usually get what +you're after. So we'll send Wandel and Allen and some more as a little +leaven to Albany and to that quilting party in Washington. I don't envy +them, though." + +George realized that his content could be traced to this new interest, +as that went back to Sylvia. He had at last consciously set out to +explore the road of service. For the first time in his life, with his +eyes open, he was working for others, yet he never got rid of the sense +of a great personal need unfulfilled; always in his heart vibrated the +cry for Sylvia, but he knew he mustn't try to see her, for Betty would +have let him know, and Betty hadn't sent for him again. + +After the holidays, at the urging of Wandel and Lambert, he showed +himself here and there, received at first curious glances, fancied some +people slightly self-conscious, then all at once found himself welcomed +on the old frank and pleasant basis. Yes, the talk had pretty well died, +and men and women were inclined to like Sylvia Planter and George Morton +better than they did Dalrymple. + +He saw Dalrymple in the club one stormy January evening. He hadn't heard +he was in town, and examined him curiously as he sat alone in a corner, +making a pretence of reading a newspaper, but really looking across the +room at the fire with restless eyes. George, prepared as he had been, +was surprised by the haggard, flushed countenance, and the neurotic +symptoms, nearly uncontrollable. + +Beyond question Dalrymple saw him, and pretended that he didn't. +Heartily glad of that, George joined a group about the fireplace, and +after a few minutes saw Dalrymple rise and wander unevenly from the +room. + +George met him several times afterward under similar circumstances, and +always Dalrymple shortly disappeared, because, George thought, of his +arrival; but other people tactfully put him straight. Dalrymple, it +seemed, remained in no public place for long, as if there was something +evilly secretive to call him perpetually away. + +Wandel told him toward the end of the month that Dalrymple was about to +make a trip to Havana for the remainder of the winter. + +"Where there's horse-racing, gambling, and unlimited alcohol--where one +may sin in public. Why talk about it? Although he doesn't mean to, +George, he's in a fair way of doing you a favour." + +But George didn't dream how close Dalrymple's offering was. His first +thought, indeed, was for Sylvia when the influenza epidemic of January +and February promised for a time to equal its previous ugly record. +Lambert tried to laugh his worry away. + +"She's going south with father and mother very soon. Anyway, she hasn't +the habit of catching things." + +And it was Lambert a day or two later who brought him the first +indication of the only way out, and he tried to tell himself he mustn't +want it. Even though he had always despised Dalrymple and his weakness, +even though Dalrymple stood between him and his only possible happiness, +he experienced a disagreeable and reluctant sense of danger in such a +solution. + +"All his life," Lambert was saying, "Dolly's done everything he could to +make himself a victim." + +"Where is he?" George asked. + +"At his home. It's fortunate he hadn't started south." + +"Or," George said, "he should have started sooner." + +"I've an uncomfortable feeling," Lambert mused, "that he was planning to +run away from this very chance. Put it off a little too long. Seems he +went to bed four days ago. I didn't know until to-day because you see +he's been a little outcast since that scene in the club. He sent for me +this afternoon, and, curiously enough, asked for you. Will you go up? I +really think you'd better." + +But George shrank from the thought. + +"I don't want to be scolded by a man who is possibly dying." + +"Let's hope not," Lambert said. "You'll go. Around five o'clock." + +George hesitated. + +"Did he ask for Sylvia?" + +"He didn't ask me, but I telephoned her." + +"Why?" George asked, sharply. + +"Every card on the table now, George!" Lambert warned. "We have to think +of the future, in case----" + +"Of course, you're right," George answered. "I'm sorry, and I'll go." + +When he entered the Dalrymple house at five o'clock he came face to face +with Sylvia in the hall. He had never seen her so controlled, and her +quiet tensity frightened him. + +"Lambert told me," she whispered, "you were coming now. Dolly hasn't +asked for me, but I'd feel so much better--if things should turn out +badly, for I'm thinking with all my heart of the boy I used to be so +fond of, and it's, perhaps, my fault----" + +"It is not your fault," George cried. "He's always asked for it. Lambert +will tell you that." + +George relaxed. Dalrymple's mother came down the stairs with the doctor, +and George experienced a quick sympathy for the retiring, elderly woman +he had scarcely seen before. She gave Sylvia her hand, while George +stepped out with the physician. In reply to George's questions the quiet +man shook his head and frowned. + +"If it were any one else of the same age--I've attended in this house +many years, Mr. Morton, and I've watched him since he was a child. I've +marvelled how he's got so far." + +He added brutally: + +"Scarcely a chance with the turn its taking." + +"If there's anything," George muttered, "any great specialist +anywhere----Understand money doesn't figure----" + +"Everything possible is being done, Mr. Morton. I'm truly sorry, but I +can tell you it's quite his own fault." + +So even this cold-blooded practitioner had heard the talk, and +sympathized, and not with Dalrymple. A trifle dazed George reëntered the +house. + +"It's good of you to come, Mr. Morton," Mrs. Dalrymple said. "Shall we +go upstairs now?" + +There was no bitterness in her voice, and she had taken Sylvia's hand, +yet undoubtedly she knew everything. Abruptly George felt sorrier for +Dalrymple than he had ever done. + +"Please wait, Sylvia," she said. + +He followed Mrs. Dalrymple upstairs and into the sick-room. + +"It's Mr. Morton, dear." + +She beckoned to the nurse, and George remained in the room alone with +the feverish man in the bed. He walked over and took the hot hand. + +"Morton!" came Dalrymple's hoarse voice, "I believe you're sorry for +me!" + +"I am sorry," George said, quietly, "and you must get well." + +Dalrymple shook his head. + +"I know all the dope, and I guess I'm off in a few days. Not so bad now +I can't talk a little and sorta clean one or two things up. No silly +deathbed repentance. I'm jealous of you, Morton; always have been, +because you were getting things I couldn't, and I figured from the first +you were an outsider." + +The dry lips smiled a little. + +"When you get like this it makes a lot of difference, doesn't it, how +you came into the world? I'll be the real outsider in a few days----" + +"Don't talk that way." + +A quick temper distorted Dalrymple's face. + +"They oughtn't to bring a man into the world as I was brought, without +money." + +George couldn't think of anything to say, but Dalrymple hurried on: + +"I wanted to thank you for the notes. Don't have to leave those to my +family, anyway. And I'm not sure hadn't better apologize all 'round. I +don't forget I've had raw deal--lots of ways; but no point not saying +Sylvia had pretty raw one from Dolly. Lucky escape for her--mean Dolly's +not domestic animal, and all that." + +George was aware of a slight shiver as Dalrymple's hoarse voice slipped +into its old, not quite controlled mannerisms. + +"Mean," Dalrymple rambled on, "Dolly won't haunt anybody. Blessings 'n' +sort of thing. Best thing, too. Sorry all 'round. That's all. Thanks +coming, George." + +And all George could say was: + +"You have to get well, Dolly." + +But Dalrymple turned his head away. After a moment George proposed +tentatively: + +"Sylvia's downstairs. She wants very much to see you." + +Dalrymple shook his head. + +"Catching." + +"For her sake," George urged. + +Dalrymple thought. + +"All right," he said at last. "Long enough for me to tell her all right. +But not near. Nurse in the room. Catching, and all that." + +George clasped the hot hand. + +"Thanks, Dolly. You've done a decent thing, and you're going to get +well." + +But as he left the room George felt that the physician had been right. + +He spoke to the nurse, who sat in the upper hall, then he told Sylvia. +She went up, and he waited for her. He felt he had to wait. He hoped +Mrs. Dalrymple wouldn't appear again. + +Sylvia wasn't long. She came down dry-eyed. She didn't speak even when +George followed her to her automobile, even when he climbed in beside +her; nor did he try to break a silence that he felt was curative. In the +light and surrounded by a crowd they could clasp hands; in this obscure +solitude there was nothing they could do or say. Only on the steps of +her home she spoke. + +"Good-night, George, and thank you." + +"Good-night, dear Sylvia," he said, and returned to the automobile, and +told the man to drive him to his apartment. + + +XXIX + +George didn't hear from Dalrymple again, nor did he expect to, but he +was quite aware five days later of Goodhue's absence from the office and +of his black clothing when he came in during the late afternoon. He +didn't need Goodhue's few words. + +"It's hard not to feel sorry, to believe, on the whole, it's rather +better. Still, when any familiar object is unexpectedly snatched away +from one----" + +"We had a talk the other evening," George began. + +Goodhue's face lighted. + +"I'm glad, George." + +He sighed. + +"I've got to try to catch up. Mundy says rails have taken a queer turn." + +"When you think for a minute not so queer," George commenced to explain. + +A few days later Lambert told him that Sylvia had gone to Florida. + +"They'll probably stay until late in the spring. It agrees with Father." + +"How did Sylvia seem?" George asked, anxiously. + +"Wait awhile," Lambert advised, "but I don't think there are going to be +any spectres." + +He smiled engagingly. + +"If there shouldn't be," he went on, "a few matters will have to be +arranged, because Sylvia and I share alike. Josiah and I had a long, +careful talk with Father last night about what we'd do with Sylvia's +husband if she married. He left it to my judgment, advising that we +might take him in if he were worth his salt. Josiah wanted to know with +his bull voice what Father would think if it should turn out to be you. +Very seriously, George, Father was pleased. He pointed out that you were +a man who made things go, but that you would end by running us all, and +he added that if we wanted that we would be lucky to get you as long as +it made Sylvia happy. You know we want you, George." + +George felt as he had that day on the Vesle when Wandel had praised him. +No longer could Lambert charge him with having fulfilled his boasts, in +a way; yet he hadn't consciously wanted this, nor was he quite sure that +he did now. + +"At least," George said, "you know what my policy would be to make +Planter and Company something more than a money making machine." + +Lambert imitated Blodgett's voice and manner. + +"George, if you wanted to grow hair on a bald man's head I'd say go to +it." + +"And there must be room for Dicky," George went on. + +"We've played together too long to break apart now; but why talk about +it? It depends on Sylvia." + +That was entirely true. For the present there was nothing whatever to be +done. Constantly George conquered the impulse to write to Sylvia, but +she didn't write or give any sign, unless Lambert's frequent quotations +from her letters could be accepted as thoughtful messages. + +He visited the Baillys frequently now, for it was stimulating to talk +with Squibs, and he liked to sit quietly with Mrs. Bailly. She had an +unstudied habit, nevertheless, of turning his thoughts to his mother. +Sylvia had seen her. She knew all about her. After all, his mother had +given him the life with which he had accomplished something. He couldn't +bear that their continued separation should prove him inconsistent; so +early in the spring he went west. + +His mother was more than ever ill at ease before his success; more than +ever appreciative of the comforts he had given her; even more than at +Oakmont appalled at the prospect of change. She wouldn't go east. She +couldn't very well, she explained; and, looking at her tired figure in +the great chair before the fire which she seldom left, he had an impulse +to shower upon her extravagant and fantastic gifts, because before long +it would be too late to give her anything at all. The picture made him +realize how quickly the generations pass away, drifting one into the +other with the rapidity of our brief and colourful seasons. He nodded, +satisfied, reflecting that the cure for everything lies in the future, +although one must seek it in the diseased present. + +He left her, promising to come back, but he carried away a sensation +that he had intruded on a secluded content that couldn't possibly +survive the presence of the one who had created it. + +Lambert had no news for him on his return. It was late spring, in fact, +before he told George the family had come north, pausing at a number of +resorts on the way up. + +"When am I to see Sylvia, Lambert?" + +"How should I know?" + +It was apparent that he really didn't, and George waited, with a growing +doubt and fear, but on the following Friday he received a note from +Betty, dated from Princeton. All it said was: + +"Spring's at its best here. You'd better come to-morrow--Friday." + +He hurried over to the marble temple. + +"You didn't tell me Betty was in Princeton," he accused Lambert. + +"Must I account to you for the movements of my wife?" + +"Then Sylvia----" George began. + +Lambert smiled. + +"Maybe you'd better run down to Princeton with me this afternoon." + +George glanced at his watch. + +"First train's at four o'clock. Let Wall Street crash. I shan't wait +another minute." + + +XXX + +Betty had been right. Spring was fairly vibrant in Princeton, and for +George, through its warm and languid power, it rolled back the years; +choked him with a sensation of youth he had scarcely experienced since +he had walked defiantly out of the gate of Sylvia's home to commence his +journey. + +Sylvia wasn't at the station. Neither was Betty. Abruptly uneasy, he +drove with Lambert swiftly to the Alstons through riotous, youthful +foliage out of which white towers rose with that reassuring illusion of +a serene and unchangeable gesture. Undergraduates, surrendered to the +new economic eccentricity of overalls, loafed past them, calling to each +other contented and lazy greetings; but George glanced at them +indifferently; he only wanted to hurry to his journey's end. + +At the Tudor house Betty ran out to meet them, and Lambert grinned at +George and kissed her, but evidently it was George that Betty thought of +now, for she pointed, as if she had heard the question that repeated +itself in his mind, to the house; and he entered, and breathlessly +crossed the hall to the library, and saw Sylvia--the old Sylvia, it +occurred to him--colourful, imperious, and without patience. + +She stood in the centre of the room in an eager, arrested attitude, +having, perhaps, restrained herself from impetuously following Betty. +George paused, staring at her, suddenly hesitant before the culmination +of his great desire. + +"It's been so long," she whispered. "George, I'm not afraid to have you +touch me----You mean I must come to you----" + +He shook off his lassitude, but the wonder grew. + +As in a dream he went to her, and her curved lips moved beneath his, but +he pressed them closer so that she couldn't speak; for he felt +encircling them in a breathless embrace, as his arms held her, something +thrilling and rudimentary that neither of them had experienced before; +something quite beyond the comprehension of Sylvia Planter and George +Morton, that belonged wholly to the perplexing and abundant future. + +THE END + + + + +BOOKS BY WADSWORTH CAMP + + THE ABANDONED ROOM + THE GRAY MASK + THE GUARDED HEIGHTS + THE HOUSE OF FEAR + SINISTER ISLAND + WAR'S DARK FRAME + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Guarded Heights, by Wadsworth Camp + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GUARDED HEIGHTS *** + +***** This file should be named 33733-8.txt or 33733-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/7/3/33733/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Guarded Heights + +Author: Wadsworth Camp + +Release Date: September 15, 2010 [EBook #33733] +[Last updated: July 22, 2011] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GUARDED HEIGHTS *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + +<h1>THE GUARDED HEIGHTS</h1> + +<h2>BY WADSWORTH CAMP</h2> + + +<h3>FRONTISPIECE<br /> +BY C. D. MITCHELL</h3> + +<h3>GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO<br /> +DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY<br /> +1921</h3> + +<h3>COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY<br /> +DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.</h3> + +<h3>ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION +INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN</h3> + +<h3>COPYRIGHT 1920, BY P. F. COLLIER & SON COMPANY</h3> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/front.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<h3>"GEORGE WATCHED SYLVIA LIFT HER RIDING CROP, HER FACE DISCLOSING A TEMPER TO MATCH HIS OWN"</h3> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p> +<a href="#PART_I">PART I <span class="smcap">Oakmont</span></a><br /> +<a href="#PART_II">PART II <span class="smcap">Princeton</span></a><br /> +<a href="#PART_III">PART III <span class="smcap">The Market-Place</span></a><br /> +<a href="#PART_IV">PART IV <span class="smcap">The Forest</span></a><br /> +<a href="#PART_V">PART V <span class="smcap">The New World</span></a><br /><br /> +<a href="#BOOKS_BY_WADSWORTH_CAMP">Books by Wadsworth Camp</a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>THE GUARDED HEIGHTS</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="PART_I" id="PART_I"></a>PART I</h2> + +<h3>OAKMONT</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>George Morton never could be certain when he first conceived the +preposterous idea that Sylvia Planter ought to belong to him. The full +realization, at any rate, came all at once, unexpectedly, destroying his +dreary outlook, urging him to fantastic heights, and, for that matter, +to rather curious depths.</p> + +<p>It was, altogether, a year of violent change. After a precarious +survival of a rural education he had done his best to save his father's +livery business which cheap automobiles had persistently undermined. He +liked that, for he had spent his vacations, all his spare hours, indeed, +at the stable or on the road, so that by the time the crash came he knew +more of horses and rode better than any hunting, polo-playing gentleman +he had ever seen about that rich countryside. Nor was there any one near +his own age who could stand up to him in a rough-and-tumble argument. +Yet he wondered why he was restless, not appreciating that he craved +broader worlds to conquer. Then the failure came, and his close relation +with the vast Planter estate of Oakmont, and the arrival of Sylvia, who +disclosed such worlds and heralded the revolution.</p> + +<p>That spring of his twentieth year the stable and all its stock went to +the creditors, and old Planter bought the small frame house just outside +the village, on the edge of his estate, and drew his boundary around it. +He was willing that the Mortons should remain for the present in their +old home at a nominal rent, and after a fashion they might struggle +along, for George's mother was exceptionally clever at cleansing fine +laces and linens; the estate would have work for his father from time to +time; as for himself, Planter's superintendent suggested, there were new +and difficult horses at Oakmont and a scarcity of trustworthy grooms. +George shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Sure, I want a job," he admitted, "but not as old Planter's servant, or +anybody else's. I want to be my own boss."</p> + +<p>George hadn't guessed that his reputation as a horseman had travelled as +far as the big house. The superintendent explained that it had, and +that, living at home, merely helping out for the summer, he would be +quite apart from the ordinary men around the stables. His parents sensed +a threat. They begged him to accept.</p> + +<p>"We've got to do as Old Planter wants at the start or he'll put us out, +and we're too old to make another home."</p> + +<p>So George went with his head up, telling himself he was doing Planter a +favour; but he didn't like it, and almost at once commenced to plan to +get away, if he could, without hurting his parents. Then Sylvia, just +home from her last year at school, came into the stable toward the end +of his day's work. Her overpowering father was with her, and her +brother, Lambert, who was about George's age. She examined interestedly +the horse reserved for her, and one or two others of which she was +envious.</p> + +<p>George wanted to stare at her. He had only glimpsed her casually and at +a distance in summers gone by. Now she was close, and he knew he had +never seen anything to match her slender, adolescent figure, or her +finely balanced face with its intolerant eyes and its frame of black +hair.</p> + +<p>"But," he heard her say to her father in a flexible contralto voice, "I +don't care to bother you or Lambert every time I want to ride."</p> + +<p>An argument, unintelligible to George, flowed for a moment. Then Old +Planter's tones, bass and authoritative, filled the stable.</p> + +<p>"Come here, young Morton!"</p> + +<p>George advanced, not touching his cap, to remind the big man that there +was a difference between him and the other stable men, and that he +didn't like that tone.</p> + +<p>"You are a very dependable horseman," the great millionaire said. "I can +trust you. When Miss Sylvia wants to ride alone you will go with her and +see that she has no accidents. During your hours here you will be +entirely at her disposal."</p> + +<p>Instead of arousing George's anger that command slightly thrilled him.</p> + +<p>"So you're Morton," Sylvia said, indifferently. "I shall expect you +always to be convenient."</p> + +<p>He ventured to look at last, pulling off his cap.</p> + +<p>"You can depend on it," he said, a trifle dazed by her beauty.</p> + +<p>She went out. Her father and her brother followed, like servitors of a +sort themselves. George had no sense of having allowed his position +there to be compromised. He only realized that he was going to see that +lovely creature every day, would be responsible for her safety, would +have a chance to know her.</p> + +<p>"A peach!" a groom whispered. "You're lucky, Georgie boy."</p> + +<p>George shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Maybe so."</p> + +<p>Yet he agreed. She was a peach, and he took no pains to conceal his +appraisal from his parents that evening.</p> + +<p>"Seen Old Planter's daughter yet?"</p> + +<p>His father, a drooping, tired figure in the dusk of the little porch, +nodded.</p> + +<p>"I haven't," his mother called from the kitchen. "Is she as pretty as +she was last summer?"</p> + +<p>"Pretty!" he scoffed. "Who was the prettiest woman in the world?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," came the interested voice from the house. "Maybe the +Queen of Sheba."</p> + +<p>"Then," George said, "she'd have cried her eyes out if she had seen Old +Planter's girl."</p> + +<p>The elder Morton took his pipe from his mouth.</p> + +<p>"Young men like you," he said, slowly, "haven't any business looking at +girls like Old Planter's daughter."</p> + +<p>George laughed carelessly.</p> + +<p>"Even a cat can look at a queen."</p> + +<p>And during the weeks that followed he did look, too persistently, never +dreaming where his enthusiasm was leading him. Occasionally he would +bring her brother's horse around with hers or her father's. At such +times he would watch them ride away with a keen disappointment, as if he +had been excluded from a pleasure that had become his right. Lambert, +however, was away a good deal, and Old Planter that summer fought +rheumatic attacks, which he called gout, so that Sylvia, for the most +part, rode alone through remote bridle-paths with George at her heels +like a well-trained animal.</p> + +<p>He knew he could not alter that all at once; she would have it no other +way. She only spoke to him, really, about the condition of the horses, +or the weather—never a word conceivably personal; and every day he +looked at her more personally, let his imagination, without knowing it, +stray too far. At first he merely enjoyed being with her; then he +appreciated that a sense of intimacy had grown upon him, and he was +troubled that she did not reciprocate, that their extended companionship +had not diminished at all the appalling distance dividing them. There +was something, moreover, beyond her beauty to stimulate his interest. +She appeared not to know fear, and once or twice he ventured to reprove +her, enjoying her angry reactions. She even came to the stables, urging +him to let her ride horses that he knew were not safe.</p> + +<p>"But you ride them," she would persist.</p> + +<p>"When I find a horse I can't ride, Miss Sylvia, I guess I'll have to +take up a new line. If your father would come and say it's all +right——"</p> + +<p>Even then he failed to grasp the fact that he guarded her for his own +sake rather more than for her father's.</p> + +<p>He nearly interfered when he heard her cry to her brother as they +started off one morning:</p> + +<p>"I'm going to ride harder from now on, Lambert. I've got to get fit for +next winter. Coming out will take a lot of doing."</p> + +<p>"If she rides any harder," he muttered, "she'll break her silly neck."</p> + +<p>It angered him that she never spoke to him in that voice, with that easy +manner. Perhaps his eagerness to be near her had led her to undervalue +him. Somehow he would change all that, and he wanted her to stop calling +him "Morton," as if he had been an ordinary groom, or an animal, but he +would have to go slowly. Although he didn't realize the great fact then, +he did know that he shrank from attempting anything that would take her +away from him.</p> + +<p>It was her harder riding, indeed, that opened his eyes, that ushered in +the revolution.</p> + +<p>It happened toward the close of a mid-July afternoon. Mud whirled from +her horse's hoofs, plentifully sprinkling her humble guardian.</p> + +<p>"Now what the devil's she up to?" he thought with a sharp fear.</p> + +<p>She turned and rode at a gallop for a hedge, an uneven, thorny barrier +that separated two low meadows. He put spurs to his horse, shouting:</p> + +<p>"Hold up, Miss Sylvia! That's a rotten take-off."</p> + +<p>Flushed and laughing, she glanced over her shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Got to try it to prove it, Morton."</p> + +<p>He realized afterward that it was as near intimacy as she had ever come.</p> + +<p>He saw her horse refuse, straightening his knees and sliding in the +marshy ground. He watched Sylvia, with an ease and grace nearly +unbelievable, somersault across the hedge and out of sight in the meadow +beyond.</p> + +<p>"Miss Sylvia! Are you hurt?"</p> + +<p>No answer. He sprang from his horse, leaving it free to graze with hers. +He stormed through the hedge, his heart choking him. She lay on her +side, quite motionless, the high colour fled from her cheeks, her hair +half down. Although the soft ground should have reassured him he was +obsessed by the thought that she might never get up again.</p> + +<p>In the warmth of his fear barriers were consumed. Within his horizon +survived just two people, himself and this silent object of an extended, +if unconscious, adoration.</p> + +<p>He shrank from learning the truth, yet it was impossible to hesitate. He +had to do what he could.</p> + +<p>He approached on tip-toe, knelt, and lifted her until she rested against +him. The contact was galvanic. He became aware of his trembling hands. +Some man, it occurred to him, would touch those curved, slightly parted +lips. Not if he knew it, unless it were himself! He wanted to hear those +lips speak to him as if he were a human being, and not just—Morton. How +could he dream of such things now? He fumbled for her pulse, failed at +first to find it, and became panic-stricken. He shook her, more than +ever alone, facing an irretrievable loss.</p> + +<p>"Open your eyes," he begged wildly. "What's the matter with you? Oh, my +God, Miss Sylvia, I can't ever get along without you now."</p> + +<p>He glanced haggardly around for water, any means to snatch her back; +then she stirred in his arms, and with his relief came a sickening +return to a peopled and ordered world. He understood he had sprung +headlong with his eyes shut; that his anxiety had dictated phrases he +had had no business to form, that he would not have uttered if she had +been able to hear. Or, good Lord! Had she heard? For she drew herself +convulsively away, the colour rushing back, her eyes opening, and they +held a sort of horror.</p> + +<p>"Are you hurt?" he said, trying to read her eyes.</p> + +<p>She got to her knees, swaying a trifle.</p> + +<p>"I remember. A bit of a fall. Stunned me. That's all. But you said +something, Morton! Will you please repeat that?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes, and her voice, which had a new, frightening quality, stung his +quick temper. What he had suffered a moment ago was a little sacred. He +couldn't afford to let her cheapen it one cent's worth.</p> + +<p>"I guess I don't need to repeat it," he said. "It was scared out of me, +Miss Sylvia, because I thought—I know it was silly—but I thought you +were dead. I never dreamed you could hear. I'll try to forget it."</p> + +<p>He saw her grope in the wet grass at her knees. Scarcely understanding, +he watched her rise, lifting her riding crop, her face disclosing a +temper to match his own.</p> + +<p>"You're an impertinent servant," she said. "Well, you'll not forget."</p> + +<p>She struck at his face with the crop. He got his hand up just in time, +and caught her wrist.</p> + +<p>"Don't you touch me," she whispered.</p> + +<p>His jaw went out.</p> + +<p>"You'll learn not to be afraid of my touch, and I'm not a servant. You +get that straight."</p> + +<p>She struggled, but he held her wrist firmly. The sight of the crop, the +memory of her epithet, thickened his voice, lashed his anger.</p> + +<p>"Have it your own way. You say I shan't forget, and I won't. I'm going +after you, and I usually get what I go after. You'll find I'm a human +being, and I'd like to see anybody hit me in the face and get away with +it."</p> + +<p>"Let me go! Let me go!"</p> + +<p>He released her wrist, dragging the crop from her grasp. He snapped it +in two and flung the pieces aside. The slight noise steadied him. It +seemed symbolic of the snapping of his intended fate. She drew slowly +back, chafing the wrist he had held. Her face let escape the desire to +hurt, to hurt hard.</p> + +<p>"Someone else will have the strength," she whispered. "You'll be +punished, you—you—stable boy."</p> + +<p>She forced her way blindly through the hedge. Responding to his custom +he started automatically after her to hold her stirrup. She faced him, +raising her hands.</p> + +<p>"Keep away from me, you beast!"</p> + +<p>Unaided, she sprang into her saddle and started home at a hard gallop.</p> + +<p>George glanced around thoughtfully. He was quite calm now. The familiar +landscape appeared strangely distorted. Was that his temper, or a +reflection from his altered destiny? He didn't know how the deuce he +could do it, but he was going to justify himself. Maybe the real +situation had never been explained to her, and, as the price of her +companionship, he had, perhaps, let her hold him too cheaply; but now he +was going to show her that he was, indeed, instead of a servant, a human +being, capable of making his boasts good.</p> + +<p>He picked up the two pieces of her riding crop and thrust them into his +pocket. They impressed him as a necessary souvenir of his humiliation, a +reminder of what he had to do. She had hurt. Oh, Lord! How she had hurt! +He experienced a hot desire to hurt back. The scar could only be healed, +he told himself, if some day he could strike at her beautiful, +contemptuous body as hard as she had just now struck at him.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>He mounted and pressed his horse, but he had only one or two glimpses of +Sylvia, far ahead, using her spurs, from time to time raising her hand +as if she had forgotten that her crop had been torn from her, broken, +and thrown aside.</p> + +<p>Such frantic haste was urged by more than the necessity of escape. What +then, if not to hasten his punishment, to tell her father, her mother, +and Lambert? She had threatened that someone else would have the +strength to give him a thrashing. Probably Lambert. Aside from that how +could they punish a man who had only committed the crime of letting a +girl know that he loved her? All at once he guessed, and he laughed +aloud. They could kick him out. He wanted, above everything else, to be +kicked out of a job where he was treated like a lackey, although he was +told he was nothing of the kind. Expert with horses, doing Old Planter a +favour for the summer! Hadn't she just called him a servant, a stable +boy? He wanted to put himself forever beyond the possibility of being +humiliated in just that way again.</p> + +<p>In the stable he found a groom leading Sylvia's horse to a stall.</p> + +<p>"Take mine, too, and rub him down, will you?"</p> + +<p>The groom turned, staring.</p> + +<p>"The nerve! What's up, George?"</p> + +<p>"Only," George said, deliberately, "that I've touched my last horse for +money."</p> + +<p>"Say! What goes on here? The young missus rides in like a cyclone, and +looking as if she'd been crying. I always said you'd get in trouble with +the boss's daughter. You're too good looking for the ladies, +Georgie——"</p> + +<p>"That's enough of that," George snapped. "Scrape him down, and I'll be +much obliged."</p> + +<p>He went out, knowing that the other would obey, for as a rule people did +what George wanted. He took a path through the park toward home, walking +slowly, commencing to appreciate the difficulties he had brought upon +himself. His predicament might easily involve his parents. The afternoon +was about done, they would both be there, unsuspecting. It was his duty +to prepare them. He experienced a bitter regret as he crossed the line +that a few months ago had divided their property, their castle, from +Oakmont. Now Old Planter could cross that line and drive them out.</p> + +<p>Before George came in sight of the house he heard a rubbing, slapping +noise, and with a new distaste pictured his mother bending over a +washtub, suggesting a different barrier to be leaped. As he entered the +open space back of the house he wanted to kick the tub over, wanted to +see sprawling in the dirt the delicate, intimate linen sent down weekly +from the great house because his mother was exceptionally clever with +such things. To the uncouth music of her labour her broad back rose and +bent rhythmically. His father, wearing soiled clothing, sat on the porch +steps, an old briar pipe in his mouth.</p> + +<p>Abruptly his mother's drudgery ceased. She stared. His father rose +stiffly.</p> + +<p>"You've got yourself in trouble," he said.</p> + +<p>George had not fancied the revolution had unfurled banners so easily +discernible. He became self-conscious. His parents' apprehension made +matters more difficult for him. They, at least, were too old to revolt.</p> + +<p>"I suppose I have," he acknowledged shortly.</p> + +<p>His father used the tone of one announcing an unspeakable catastrophe.</p> + +<p>"You mean you've had trouble with Miss Sylvia."</p> + +<p>"George!" his mother cried, aghast. "You've never been impertinent with +Miss Sylvia!"</p> + +<p>"She thinks I have," George said, "so it amounts to the same thing."</p> + +<p>His father's face twitched.</p> + +<p>"And you know Old Planter can put us out of here without a minute's +notice, and where do you think we'd go? How do you think we'd get bread +and butter? You talk up, young man. You tell us what happened."</p> + +<p>"I can't," George said, sullenly. "I can't talk about it. You'll hear +soon enough."</p> + +<p>"I always said," his mother lamented, "that Georgie wasn't one to know +his place up there."</p> + +<p>"Depends," George muttered, "on what my place is. I've got to find that +out. Look! You'll hear now."</p> + +<p>A bald-headed figure in livery, one of the house servants, glided toward +them through the shrubbery, over that vanished boundary line, with +nervous haste. George squared his shoulders. The messenger, however, +went straight to the older man.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Planter's on his ear, and wants to see you right off in the +library. What you been up to, young Morton?"</p> + +<p>George resented the curiosity in the pallid, unintelligent eyes, the +fellow's obvious pleasure in the presence of disaster. It would have +appeased him to grasp those sloping shoulders, to force the grinning +face from his sight. A queer question disturbed him. Had Sylvia felt +something of the sort about him?</p> + +<p>"Come on," the elder Morton said. "It's pretty hard at my age. You'll +pay for this, George."</p> + +<p>"Old Planter would never be that unfair," George encouraged him.</p> + +<p>"Georgie! Georgie!" his mother said when the others were out of sight, +"what have you been up to?"</p> + +<p>He walked closer and placed his arm around her shoulders.</p> + +<p>"I've been getting my eyes opened," he answered. "I never ought to have +listened to them. I never ought to have gone up there. I did say +something to Miss Sylvia I had no business to. If I'd been one of her +own kind, instead of the son of a livery stable keeper, I'd have got +polite regrets or something. It's made me realize how low I am."</p> + +<p>"No," she said with quick maternal passion. "You're not low. Maybe some +day those people'll be no better than we are."</p> + +<p>He shook his head.</p> + +<p>"I'd rather I was no worse than they are. And I will be. I won't put up +with it. If some people have to be treated like dirt, I'm going to help +do the treating."</p> + +<p>"That's no right way of thinking," she warned. "It's money makes the +mare go."</p> + +<p>But in Sylvia's case, George admitted, there was other propulsion than +that; something more fragile, and harder to understand or capture for +one's self.</p> + +<p>"Don't you worry, I'll make money," he said.</p> + +<p>She glanced up quickly.</p> + +<p>"Who's that?"</p> + +<p>A brisk masculine voice volleyed through the shrubbery:</p> + +<p>"Young Morton! I say, young Morton!"</p> + +<p>"It's Mr. Lambert," she breathed. "Go quick."</p> + +<p>George remembered what Sylvia had said about someone else having the +strength.</p> + +<p>"Can't you guess, Ma, what the young lady's brother wants of me?"</p> + +<p>The bitterness left his face. His smile was engaging.</p> + +<p>"To give me the devil."</p> + +<p>"Young Morton! Young Morton!"</p> + +<p>"Coming!" he called.</p> + +<p>"George," she begged, "don't have any trouble with Mr. Lambert."</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>She watched him with anxious eyes, failing to observe, because she was +his mother, details that informed his boasts with power. His ancestry +of labour had given him, at least, his straight, slender, and unusually +muscular body, and from somewhere had crept in the pride, just now +stimulated, with which he carried it. His wilful, regular features, +moreover, guarded by youth, were still uncoarsened.</p> + +<p>He found Lambert Planter waiting beyond the old boundary behind a screen +of bushes, his hands held behind his back. In his face, which had some +of Sylvia's beauty, hardened and enlarged, dwelt the devil George had +foreseen.</p> + +<p>George nodded, feeling all at once at ease. He could take care of +himself in an argument with Lambert Planter. No such distances separated +them as had widened beyond measure a little while back between him and +Sylvia. He wondered if that conception sprang from Lambert, or if it +came simply from the fact that they were two men, facing each other +alone; for it was from the first patent that Sylvia had asked her +brother to complete a punishment she had devised as fitting, but which +she had been incapable of carrying out herself. Lambert, indeed, brought +his hands forward, disclosing a whip. It was a trifle in his way as he +took off his coat.</p> + +<p>"That's right," George said. "Make yourself comfortable."</p> + +<p>"You won't help matters by being impertinent, Morton."</p> + +<p>Lambert's voice contrasted broadly with George's round, loud tones. +While, perhaps, not consciously affected, its accents fell according to +the custom of the head master of a small and particular preparatory +school. George crushed his instinct to mock. What the deuce had he +craved ever since his encounter with Sylvia unless it was to be one with +men like Lambert Planter? So all he said was:</p> + +<p>"What's the whip for?"</p> + +<p>"You know perfectly well," Lambert answered. "There's no possible excuse +for what you said and did this afternoon. I am going to impress that on +you."</p> + +<p>"You mean you want a fight?"</p> + +<p>"By no means. I wouldn't feel comfortable fighting a man like you. I'd +never dreamed we had such a rotten person on the place. Oh, no, Morton. +I'm going to give you a good horse-whipping."</p> + +<p>George's chin went out. His momentary good-humour fled.</p> + +<p>"If you touch me with that whip I'm likely to kill you."</p> + +<p>Without hesitating Lambert raised the whip. George sprang and got his +hands on it, intent only on avoiding a blow that would have carried the +same unbearable sting as Sylvia's riding crop. Such tactics took Lambert +by surprise. George's two hands against his one on the stock were +victorious. The whip flew to one side. Lambert, flushing angrily, +started after it. George barred his path, raising his fists.</p> + +<p>"You don't touch that thing again."</p> + +<p>Lambert's indecision, his hands hanging at his sides, hurt George nearly +as much as the lashing would have done. He had to destroy that attitude +of sheer superiority.</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure you're a man," he said, thickly, "but you tried to hit me, +so you can put your pretty hands up or take it in the face."</p> + +<p>He aimed a vicious blow. Lambert side-stepped and countered. George's +ear rang. He laughed, his self-respect rushing back with the keen joy of +battle. In Lambert's face, stripped of its habitual repression, he +recognized an equal excitement. It was a man's fight, with blood drawn +at the first moment, staining both of them. Lambert boxed skillfully, +and his muscles were hard, but after the first moment George saw +victory, and set out to force it. He looked for fear in the other's eyes +then, and longed to see it, but those eyes remained as unafraid as +Sylvia's until there wasn't left in them much of anything conscious. As +a last chance Lambert clinched, and they went down, fighting like a pair +of furious terriers. George grinned as he felt those eclectic hands +endeavouring in the most brotherly fashion to torture him. He managed to +pin them to the ground. He laughed happily.</p> + +<p>"Thought you hated to touch me."</p> + +<p>"You fight like a tiger, anyway," Lambert gasped.</p> + +<p>"Had enough?"</p> + +<p>Lambert nodded.</p> + +<p>"I know when I'm through."</p> + +<p>George didn't release him at once. His soul expanded with a sense of +power and authority earned by his own effort. It seemed an omen. It +urged him too far.</p> + +<p>"Then," he mused, "I guess I'd better let you run home and tell your +father what I've done to you."</p> + +<p>"That," Lambert said, "proves I was right, and I'm sorry I fought you."</p> + +<p>George tried to think. He felt hot and angry. Was the other, after all, +the better man?</p> + +<p>"I take it back," he muttered. "Ought to have had enough sense to know +that a fellow that fights like you's no tattle-tale."</p> + +<p>"Thanks, Morton."</p> + +<p>George's sense of power grew. He couldn't commence too soon to use it.</p> + +<p>"See here, Mr. Planter, I came up here to help with some horses your +people didn't know how to handle, and let myself get shifted to this +other job; but I'm not your father's slave, and anyway I'm getting out."</p> + +<p>He increased the pressure on Lambert's arms.</p> + +<p>"Just to remind you what we've been fighting about, and that I'm not +your slave, you call me Mr. Morton, or George, just as if I was about as +good as you."</p> + +<p>Lambert smiled broadly.</p> + +<p>"Will you kindly let me go—George?"</p> + +<p>George sprang up, grinning.</p> + +<p>"How you feel, Mr. Lam——" He caught himself—"Mr. Planter?"</p> + +<p>Lambert struggled to his feet.</p> + +<p>"Quite unwell, thanks. I'm sorry you made such a damned fool of yourself +this afternoon. We might have had some pretty useful times boxing +together."</p> + +<p>"I'd just as leave tell you," George said, glancing away, "that I never +intended to say it. I didn't realize it myself until it was scared out +of me."</p> + +<p>Lambert put on his coat.</p> + +<p>"It won't bear talking about."</p> + +<p>"It never hit me," George said, huskily, "that even a cat couldn't look +at a queen."</p> + +<p>"Perfectly possible," Lambert said as he walked off, feeling his +bruises, "only the queen mustn't see the cat."</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>George went, obliterating as best he could the souvenirs of battle. +Water, unfortunately, was a requisite, and the nearest was to be found +at his own home. His mother gasped.</p> + +<p>"You did! After what I said!"</p> + +<p>At the pump he splashed cold water over his face and arms.</p> + +<p>"I thrashed him," he spluttered.</p> + +<p>"I guess that settles it for your father and me."</p> + +<p>"Young Planter won't tell anybody," George assured her. "Although I +don't see how he's going to get away with it unless he says he was run +over by an automobile and kicked by a mule."</p> + +<p>"What's come over you?" she demanded. "You've gone out of your head."</p> + +<p>He dodged her desire for details. As Lambert had said, the thing +wouldn't bear talking about. For the first time in his life he stood +alone, and whatever he accomplished from now on would have to be done +alone.</p> + +<p>He saw his father striding toward them, the anxious light gone from his +eyes. George experienced a vast relief.</p> + +<p>"Father looks a little more cheerful," he commented, drying his face.</p> + +<p>"Get supper, Ma," the man said as he came up.</p> + +<p>She hesitated, held by her curiosity, while he turned on George.</p> + +<p>"I don't wonder you couldn't open your mouth to me. You're to be out of +here to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"I'd made up my mind to that."</p> + +<p>"And Old Planter wants to see you at nine o'clock to-night."</p> + +<p>"Since you and Ma," George said, "seem on such good terms with him I +suppose I'll have to go."</p> + +<p>"Thank the Lord we are," his father grumbled. "I wouldn't have blamed +him if he had packed us all off. He was more than fair. I've looked +after you so far, but you'll have to shift for yourself now."</p> + +<p>"And the only thing I didn't like about it," George mused, "was leaving +you and Ma."</p> + +<p>"What did he say to Miss Sylvia?" his mother whispered.</p> + +<p>"Said he couldn't get along without her, and was going to have her."</p> + +<p>He might have been speaking of one who had ventured to impersonate the +deity.</p> + +<p>"And he touched her! Put his arms around her!"</p> + +<p>The horror in his mother's face grew.</p> + +<p>"Georgie! Georgie! What could you have been thinking of?"</p> + +<p>He leaned against the pump.</p> + +<p>"I'm thinking now," he said, softly, "it's sort of queer a man's father +and mother believe there's any girl in the world too good for their +son."</p> + +<p>"Lots of them," his father snapped. "Sylvia Planter most of all."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," his mother agreed.</p> + +<p>He straightened.</p> + +<p>"Then listen," he said, peremptorily. "I don't think so. I told her I +was going to have her, and I will. Just put that down in your books. +I'll show the lot of you that I'm as good as she is, as good as +anybody."</p> + +<p>The late sun illuminated the purpose in his striking face.</p> + +<p>"Impertinent servant!" he cried. "Stable boy! Beast! It's pretty rough +to make her marry all that. It's my only business from now on."</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>He went to his room, leaving his parents aghast. With a nervous hurry he +rid himself of his riding breeches, his puttees, his stock.</p> + +<p>"That," he told himself, "is the last time I shall ever wear anything +like livery."</p> + +<p>When he had dressed in one of his two suits of ordinary clothing he took +the broken riding crop and for a long time stared at it as though the +venomous souvenir could fix his resolution more firmly. Once his hand +slipped to the stock where Sylvia's fingers had so frequently tightened. +He snatched his hand away. It was too much like an unfair advantage, a +stolen caress.</p> + +<p>"Georgie! Georgie!"</p> + +<p>His mother's voice drifted to him tentatively.</p> + +<p>"Come and get your supper."</p> + +<p>He hid the broken crop and went out. His father glanced disapproval.</p> + +<p>"You'd do better to wear Old Planter's clothes while you can. It's +doubtful when you'll buy any more of your own."</p> + +<p>George sat down without answering. Since his return from the ride that +afternoon his parents and he had scarcely spoken the same language, and +by this time he understood there was no possible interpreter. It made +him choke a little over his food.</p> + +<p>The others were content to share his silence. His father seemed only +anxious to have him away; but his mother, he fancied, looked at him with +something like sorrow.</p> + +<p>Afterward he fled from that nearly voiceless scrutiny and paced one of +the park paths, counting the minutes until he could answer Old Planter's +summons. He desired to have the interview over so that he could snap +every chain binding him to Oakmont, every chain save the single one +Sylvia's contempt had unwittingly forged. He could not, moreover, plan +his immediate future with any assurance until he knew what the great man +wanted.</p> + +<p>"Only to make me feel a little worse," he decided. "What else could he +do?"</p> + +<p>What, indeed, could a man of Planter's wealth and authority not do? It +was a disturbing question.</p> + +<p>Through the shrubbery the lights of the house gleamed. The moonlight +outlined the immense, luxurious mass. Never once had he entered the +great house. He was eager to study the surrounding in which women like +Sylvia lived, which she, to an extent, must reflect.</p> + +<p>In that serene moonlight he realized that his departure, agreeable and +essential as it was, would make it impossible for him during an +indefinite period to see that slender, adolescent figure, or the +features, lovely and intolerant, that had brought about this revolution +in his life. He acknowledged now that he had looked forward each day to +those hours of proximity and contemplation; and there had been from the +first, he guessed, adoration in his regard.</p> + +<p>It was no time to dwell on the sentimental phase of his situation. He +despised himself for still loving her. His approaching departure he must +accept gladly, since he designed it as a means of coming closer—close +enough to hurt.</p> + +<p>He wondered if he would have one more glimpse of her, perhaps in the +house. He glanced at his watch. He could go at last. He started for the +lights. Would he see her?</p> + +<p>At the corner of the building he hesitated before a fresh dilemma. His +logical entrance lay through the servants' quarters, but he squared his +shoulders and crossed the terrace. It was impossible now that he should +ever enter the house in which she lived by the back door.</p> + +<p>It was a warm night, so the door stood open. The broad spaces of the +hall, the rugs, the hangings, the huge chairs, the portraits in gilt +frames against polished walls, the soft, rosy light whose source he +failed to explore, seemed mutely to reprove his presumption.</p> + +<p>He rang. He did not hear the feet of the servant who answered. The vapid +man that had trotted for his father that afternoon suddenly shut off his +view.</p> + +<p>"You must wear rubbers," George said.</p> + +<p>"What you doing here? Go 'round to the back."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Planter," George explained, patiently, "sent for me."</p> + +<p>"All right. All right. Then go 'round to the back where you belong."</p> + +<p>George reached out, caught the other's shoulder, and shoved him to one +side. While the servant gave a little cry and struggled to regain his +balance, George walked in. A figure emerged painfully from an easy chair +in the shadows by the fireplace.</p> + +<p>"What's all this, Simpson?"</p> + +<p>The polished voice gave the impression of overcoming an impediment, +probably a swollen lip.</p> + +<p>"It's young Morton, Mr. Lambert," Simpson whined. "I told him to go to +the back door where he belongs."</p> + +<p>"What an idea!" Lambert drawled. "Enter, Mr. Morton. My dear Mr. Morton, +what is the occasion? What can we do for you? I must beg you to excuse +my appearance. I had a trifling argument with my new hunter this +afternoon."</p> + +<p>George grinned.</p> + +<p>"Must be some horse."</p> + +<p>None the less, he felt a bruise. It would have been balm to destroy +Lambert's mocking manner by a brusque attack even in this impressive +hall.</p> + +<p>"Your father sent for me."</p> + +<p>"Shall I put him out, sir?" Simpson quavered.</p> + +<p>Lambert burst into a laugh.</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't try it. We can't afford too many losses in one day. Go +away, Simpson, and don't argue with your betters. You might not be as +clever as I at explaining the visible results. I'll take care of Mr. +Morton."</p> + +<p>Simpson was bewildered.</p> + +<p>"Quite so, sir," he said, and vanished.</p> + +<p>"My father," Lambert said, "is in the library—that first door. Wait. +I'll see if he's alone."</p> + +<p>Painfully he limped to the door and opened it, while George waited, +endeavouring not to pull at his cap.</p> + +<p>"Father," Lambert said, smoothly, "Mr. Morton is calling."</p> + +<p>A deep voice, muffled by distance, vibrated in the hall.</p> + +<p>"What are you talking about?"</p> + +<p>Lambert bowed profoundly.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Morton from the lodge."</p> + +<p>George stepped close to him.</p> + +<p>"Want me to thrash you again?"</p> + +<p>Lambert faced him without panic.</p> + +<p>"I don't admit that you could, but, my dear—George, I'm too fatigued +to-night to find out. Some day, if the occasion should arise, I hope I +may. I do sincerely."</p> + +<p>He drew the door wide open, and stepped aside with a bow that held no +mockery. A white-haired, stately woman entered the hall, and, as she +passed, cast at George a glance curiously lacking in vitality. In her +George saw the spring of Sylvia's delicacy and beauty. Whatever Old +Planter might be this woman had something from the past, not to be +acquired, with which to endow her children. George resented it. It made +the future for him appear more difficult. Her voice was in keeping, +cultured and unaffected.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Planter is alone, Morton. He would like to see you."</p> + +<p>She disappeared in a room opposite. George took a deep breath.</p> + +<p>"On that threshold," Lambert said, kindly, "I've often felt the same +way, though I've never deserved it as you do."</p> + +<p>George plunged through and closed the door.</p> + +<p>The room was vaster than the hall, and darker, impressing him confusedly +with endless, filled book-shelves; with sculpture; with a difficult maze +of furniture. The only light issued from a lamp on a huge and littered +table at the opposite end.</p> + +<p>At first George glanced vainly about, seeking the famous man.</p> + +<p>"Step over here, Morton."</p> + +<p>There was no denying that voice. It came from a deep chair whose back +was turned to the light. It sent to George's heart his first touch of +fear. He walked carefully across the rugs and around the table until he +faced the figure in the chair. He wanted to get rid of his cap. He +couldn't resist the temptation to pull at it; and only grooms and stable +boys tortured caps.</p> + +<p>The portly figure in evening clothes was not calculated to put a culprit +at ease. Old Planter sat very straight. The carefully trimmed white side +whiskers, the white hair, the bushy brows above inflamed eyes, composed +a portrait suggestive of a power relentless and not to be trifled with. +George had boasted he was as good as any one. He knew he wasn't as good +as Old Planter; their disparity of attainment was too easily palpable. +No matter whether Old Planter's success was worthy, he had gone out +into the world and done things. He had manipulated railroads. He had +piled up millions whose number he couldn't be sure of himself. He had +built this house and all it stood for. What one man had done another +could. George stopped pulling at his cap. He threw it on the table as +into a ring. His momentary fear died.</p> + +<p>"You sent for me, sir."</p> + +<p>The mark of respect flowed naturally. This old fellow was entitled to +it, from him or any one else.</p> + +<p>The bass voice had a dynamic quality.</p> + +<p>"I did. This afternoon you grossly and inexcusably insulted my daughter. +It will be necessary to speak of her to you just once more. That's why I +told your father to send you. If I were younger it would give me +pleasure to break every bone in your body."</p> + +<p>The red lips opened and shut with the precision of a steel trap. They +softened now in a species of smile.</p> + +<p>"I see, Morton, you had a little argument with a horse this afternoon."</p> + +<p>George managed to smile back.</p> + +<p>"Nothing to speak of, sir."</p> + +<p>"I wish it had been. I take a pleasure in punishing you. It isn't +biblical, but it's human. I'm only sorry I can't devise a punishment to +fit the crime."</p> + +<p>"It was no crime," George said bravely, "no insult."</p> + +<p>"Keep your mouth shut. Unfortunately I can't do much more than run you +away from here, for I don't care to evict your parents from their home +for your folly; and they do not support you. Mr. Evans will pay you off +in the morning with a month's extra wages."</p> + +<p>"I won't take a cent I haven't earned," George said.</p> + +<p>Old Planter studied him with more curiosity.</p> + +<p>"You're a queer livery stable boy."</p> + +<p>"I'm banking on that," George said, willing the other should make what +he would of it.</p> + +<p>"It's there if you wish it," Old Planter went on. "I sent for you so +that I could tell you myself that you will be away from Oakmont and +from the neighbourhood by noon to-morrow. And remember your home is now +a portion of Oakmont. You will never come near us again. You will forget +what happened this afternoon."</p> + +<p>He stood up, his face reddening. George wanted to tell him that Sylvia +herself had said he shouldn't forget.</p> + +<p>"If, Morton," the old man went on with a biting earnestness, "once +you're away from Oakmont, you ever bother Miss Sylvia again, or make any +attempt to see her, I'll dispossess your parents, and I'll drive you out +of any job you get. I'll keep after you until you'll understand what +you're defying. This isn't an idle threat. I have the power."</p> + +<p>The father completely conquered him. He clenched his knotted fists.</p> + +<p>"I'd destroy a regiment of creatures like you to spare my little girl +one of the tears you caused her this afternoon."</p> + +<p>"After all," George said, defensively, "I'm a human being."</p> + +<p>Old Planter shook his head.</p> + +<p>"If your father hadn't failed you'd have spent your life in a livery +stable. It takes education, money, breeding to make a human being."</p> + +<p>George nodded. He wouldn't need to plan much for himself, after all. +Sylvia's father was doing it for him.</p> + +<p>"I've heard some pretty hard words to-day, sir," he said. "It's waked me +up. Can't a man get those things for himself?"</p> + +<p>He fancied reminiscence in Old Planter's eyes.</p> + +<p>"The right kind can. Get out of here now, Morton, and don't let me see +you or hear of you again."</p> + +<p>George stepped between him and the table to pick up his cap. His nerves +tightened. Close to his cap lay an unmounted photograph, not very large, +of Sylvia. What a companion piece for the broken crop! What an ornament +for an altar dedicated to ambition, to anger, and to love! He would take +it under her father's nose, following her father's threats.</p> + +<p>He slipped his cap over the photograph, and picked up both, the precious +likeness hidden by the cheap cloth.</p> + +<p>"Good-night, sir."</p> + +<p>He thought Old Planter started at the ring in his voice. He walked +swiftly from the room. Let Old Planter look out for himself. What did +all those threats amount to? Perhaps he could steal Sylvia as easily +from under her terrible parent's nose.</p> + + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p>Lambert, hands in pockets, stopped him in the hall.</p> + +<p>"Packed off, as you deserve, but you'll need money."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," George said. "I don't want any I don't earn."</p> + +<p>"If father should kick me out," Lambert drawled, "I'd be inclined to +take what I could get."</p> + +<p>"I'd rather steal," George said.</p> + +<p>Lambert smiled whimsically.</p> + +<p>"A word of advice. Stealing's dangerous unless you take enough."</p> + +<p>George indicated the library door. He tried to imitate Lambert's manner.</p> + +<p>"Then I suppose it's genius."</p> + +<p>"What are you getting at?"</p> + +<p>"I mean," George said, "you people may drive me to stealing, but it'll +be the kind you get patted on the back for."</p> + +<p>"Sounds like Wall Street," Lambert smiled.</p> + +<p>George wanted to put himself on record in this house.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to make money, and don't you forget it."</p> + +<p>Lambert's smile widened.</p> + +<p>"Then good luck, and a good job—George."</p> + +<p>George crushed his helpless irritation, turned, and walked out the front +door; more disappointed than he would have thought possible, because he +had failed to see Sylvia.</p> + +<p>Reluctantly he returned to the nearly silent discomfort of his parents. +He tried to satisfy their curiosity.</p> + +<p>"Nothing but threats. I'm to be driven to crime if I'm ever heard of +after I leave Oakmont in the morning."</p> + +<p>"He might have made it worse," his father grunted.</p> + +<p>The conversation died for lack of an interpreter.</p> + +<p>His father made a pretence of reading a newspaper. His mother examined +her swollen hands. Her eyes suggested the nearness of tears. George got +up.</p> + +<p>"I suppose I'd better be getting ready."</p> + +<p>As he stooped to kiss her his mother slipped an arm around his neck.</p> + +<p>"Mother's little boy."</p> + +<p>George steadied his voice.</p> + +<p>"Good-night, Dad."</p> + +<p>His father filled his pipe reflectively.</p> + +<p>"Good-night, George."</p> + +<p>No word of sympathy; no sympathy at all, beyond a fugitive, +half-frightened hint from his mother, because he had run boldly against +a fashion of thinking; little more, really.</p> + +<p>He softly closed the door of his room, the last time he would ever do +that! He sat on the edge of the bed. He took Sylvia's photograph from +his pocket and studied it with a deliberate lack of sentiment. He +fancied her desirable lips framing epithets of angry contempt and those +other words to which he had given his own significance.</p> + +<p>"You'll not forget."</p> + +<p>He looked so long, repeating it in his mind so often, that at last his +eyes blurred, and the pictured lips seemed, indeed, to curve and +straighten.</p> + +<p>"You'll not forget."</p> + +<p>He tapped the photograph with his forefinger.</p> + +<p>"You're going to help me remember," he muttered. "I'll not forget."</p> + + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p>He placed the photograph and the broken crop at the bottom of his +oilcloth suitcase. The rest of his packing was simple; he had so little +that was actually his own. There were a few books on a shelf, relics of +his erratic attendance at the neighbouring high school—he regretted now +that his ambition there had been physical rather that mental. Even in +the development of his muscles, however, his brain had grown a good +deal, for he was bright enough. If he made himself work, drawing on +what money he had, he might get ready for college by fall. He had +always envied the boys, who had drifted annually from the high school to +the remote and exhilarating grandeur of a university.</p> + +<p>What had Old Planter's sequence been? Education, money, breeding. Of +course. And he guessed that the three necessities might, to an extent, +walk hand in hand. The acquisition of an education would mean personal +contacts, helpful financially, projecting, perhaps, that culture that he +felt was as essential as the rest. Certainly the starting place for him +was a big university where a man, once in, could work his way through. +Lambert went to Yale. Harvard sprang into his mind, but there was the +question of railroad fare and lost time. He'd better try his luck at +Princeton which wasn't far and which had, he'd heard, a welcome for boys +working their way through college.</p> + +<p>He examined his bank book. Fortunately, since he had lived with his +parents, he had had little opportunity or need for spending. The balance +showed nearly five hundred dollars, and he would receive fifty more in +the morning. If he could find someone to bolster up his insufficient +schooling for a part of that amount he'd make a go of it; he'd be fairly +on his course.</p> + +<p>He went to bed, but he slept restlessly. He wanted to be away from +Oakmont and at work. Through his clouded mind persisted his desire for a +parting glimpse of Sylvia. If he slept at all it was to the discordant +memory of her anger.</p> + +<p>The sun smiled into his room, summoning him to get up and go forth.</p> + +<p>His father was not there. As if to emphasize the occasion, his mother +deserted her washtub, served his breakfast herself, stood about in +helpless attitudes.</p> + +<p>"George," she whispered, toward the close of the desolate meal, "try to +get a job near here. Of course you could never come home, but we could +go to see you."</p> + +<p>"Father," he said, "is kicking me out as much as Old Planter is, and you +back him up."</p> + +<p>She clasped her hands.</p> + +<p>"I've got to. And you can't blame your father. He has to look after +himself and me."</p> + +<p>"It makes no difference. I'm not going to take a job near by," he said.</p> + +<p>"Where are you going?" she asked, sharply.</p> + +<p>He stared at her for a moment, profoundly sorry for her and for himself.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to get away from everything that would remind me I've ever +been treated like something less than human."</p> + +<p>She gave a little cry.</p> + +<p>"Then say good-bye, my son, before your father comes back."</p> + + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p>His father returned and stood impatiently waiting. There was nothing to +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.</p> + +<p>"I'm off," he said, trying to make his voice cheery.</p> + +<p>His father considered his cold pipe. He held out his hand.</p> + +<p>"It's a bad start, but maybe you'll turn out all right after all."</p> + +<p>George smiled his confidence.</p> + +<p>"Well, let us hear from you," his father went on, "although as things +are I don't see how I could help you much."</p> + +<p>"Don't worry," George said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," he called quickly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I can't go back now," George thought.</p> + +<p>She seemed to visualize all that protected her from him. He put his +cheap suitcase down.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad I saw you," he said, deliberately. "I wanted to thank you for +having me fired, for waking me up."</p> + +<p>She didn't answer. She stood quite motionless. The dog growled, +straining at his leash toward the man in the road.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>He pointed to the gate.</p> + +<p>"I'm going out there just so I can come back and prove to you that I +don't forget."</p> + +<p>Her colour fled. She stooped swiftly, gracefully, and unleashed the +anxious bulldog.</p> + +<p>"Get him!" she whispered, tensely.</p> + +<p>Like a shot the dog sprang for George. He caught the animal in his arms +and submitted to its moist and eager caresses.</p> + +<p>"It's a mistake," he pointed out, "to send a dog that loves the stables +after a stable boy."</p> + +<p>He dropped the dog, picked up his suitcase, and started down the drive. +The dog followed him. He turned.</p> + +<p>"Go back, Roland!"</p> + +<p>Sylvia remained crouched. She cried out, her contralto voice crowded +with surprise and repulsion:</p> + +<p>"Take him with you. I never want to see him again."</p> + +<p>So, followed by the dog, George walked bravely out into the world +through the narrow gateway of her home.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="PART_II" id="PART_II"></a>PART II</h2> + +<h3>PRINCETON</h3> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>"Young man, you've two years' work to enter."</p> + +<p>"Just when," George asked, "does college open?"</p> + +<p>"If the world continues undisturbed, in about two months."</p> + +<p>"Very well. Then I'll do two years' work in two months."</p> + +<p>"You've only one pair of eyes, my boy; only one brain."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>His mood altered as he returned to his small, scantily furnished room +whose very unloveliness outlined the difficulties that lay ahead.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon. Are you going here?"</p> + +<p>The other looked him over as if suspecting a joke.</p> + +<p>"Going where?" he asked, faintly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I mean," he explained, "are you going to this college?"</p> + +<p>"The Lord," the young man answered, "and Squibs Bailly alone know. I'm +told I'm not very bright in the head."</p> + +<p>George smiled.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>The other nodded.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>George, his excitement increasing, walked beside his new acquaintance.</p> + +<p>"What's your name?" the bored youth asked all at once.</p> + +<p>"Morton. George Morton."</p> + +<p>"I'm Godfrey Rogers. Lawrenceville. What prep are you?"</p> + +<p>"What what?"</p> + +<p>"I mean, what school you come from?"</p> + +<p>George experienced a sharp discomfort, facing the first of his +unforeseen embarrassments. Evidently his simple will to crush the past +wouldn't be sufficient.</p> + +<p>"I went to a public school off and on," he muttered.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Don't know a thing about him. Just met him on the street looking for a +coach. No prep."</p> + +<p>"Haven't the time. I've enough blockheads as it is. He'd better go to +Corse's school."</p> + +<p>"You won't see him?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Rogers came out, shaking his head.</p> + +<p>"Guess there's nothing doing, but he'll pump you."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Before George had really closed the door the high voice had opened its +attack.</p> + +<p>"I haven't any more time for dunces."</p> + +<p>"I'm not a dunce," George said, trying to hold his temper.</p> + +<p>Bailly didn't go on right away. The youthful glance absorbed each detail +of George's face and build.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Bailly shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Even if I had the time my charges are high."</p> + +<p>George showed his whole hand.</p> + +<p>"I have about five hundred dollars."</p> + +<p>"For this condensed acquisition of a kindergarten knowledge, +or—or——"</p> + +<p>"For everything. But only let me get in and I'll work my way through."</p> + +<p>Again Bailly shook his head.</p> + +<p>"You can't get in this fall, and it's not so simple to work your way +through."</p> + +<p>"Then," George said, "you refuse to do anything for me?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"How tall are you?"</p> + +<p>"A little over six feet."</p> + +<p>"What's your weight?"</p> + +<p>George hesitated, unable to see how such questions could affect his +entering college. He decided it was better to answer.</p> + +<p>"A hundred and eighty-five."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"What for?" George asked.</p> + +<p>Bailly arose and circled the desk. George saw that the skeleton man +limped.</p> + +<p>"Because I'd like to see if the atrophying of your brain has furnished +any compensations."</p> + +<p>George grinned. The portrait in the window seemed friendly. He obeyed.</p> + +<p>Bailly ran his hand over George's muscles. His young eyes widened.</p> + +<p>"Ever play football?"</p> + +<p>George shook his head doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"Not what you would call really playing. Why? Would football help?"</p> + +<p>"Provided one's the right stuff otherwise, would being a god help one +climb Olympus?" Bailly wanted to know.</p> + +<p>He indicated the framed likeness in the window.</p> + +<p>"That's Bill Gregory."</p> + +<p>"Seems to me I've seen his name in the papers," George said.</p> + +<p>Bailly stared.</p> + +<p>"Without doubt, if you read the public prints at all. He exerted much +useful cunning and strength in the Harvard and Yale games last fall. He +was on everybody's All-American eleven. I got him into college and +man-handled him through. Hence this scanty hair, these premature +furrows; for although he had plenty of good common-sense, and was one of +the finest boys I've ever known, he didn't possess, speaking relatively, +when it came to iron-bound text-books, the brains of a dinosaur; but he +had the brute force of one."</p> + +<p>"Why did you do it?" George asked. "Because he was rich?"</p> + +<p>"Young man," Bailly answered, "I am a product of this seat of learning. +With all its faults—and you may learn their number for yourself some +day—its success is pleasing to me, particularly at football. I am very +fond of football, perhaps because it approximates in our puling, modern +fashion, the classic public games of ruddier days. In other words, I was +actuated by a formless emotion called Princeton spirit. Don't ask me +what that is. I don't know. One receives it according to one's concept. +But when I saw in Bill something finer and more determined than most men +possess, I made up my mind Princeton was going to be proud of him, on +the campus, on the football field, and afterward out in the world."</p> + +<p>The hollow, wrinkled face flushed.</p> + +<p>"When Bill made a run I could think of it as my run. When he made a +touchdown I could say, 'there's one score that wouldn't have been made +if I hadn't booted Bill into college, and kept him from flunking out by +sheer brute mentality!' Pardon me, Mr. Morton. I love the silly game."</p> + +<p>George smiled, sensing his way, if only he could make this fellow feel +he would be the right kind of Princeton man!</p> + +<p>"I was going to say," he offered, "that while I had never had a chance +to play on a regular team I used to mix it up at school, but I was +stronger than most of the boys. There were one or two accidents. They +thought I'd better quit."</p> + +<p>Bailly laughed.</p> + +<p>"That's the kind of material we want. You do look as if you could bruise +a blue or a crimson jersey. Know where the field house is? Ask anybody. +Do no harm for the trainer to look you over. Be there at three o'clock."</p> + +<p>"But my work? Will you help me?"</p> + +<p>"Give me," Bailly pled, "until afternoon to decide if I'll take another +ten years from my life. That's all. Send that fellow Rogers in. Be at +the field house at three o'clock."</p> + +<p>And as George passed out he heard him reviling the candidate.</p> + +<p>"Don't see why you come to college. No chance to make the team or a Phi +Beta Kappa. One ought to be a requisite."</p> + +<p>The shrill voice went lower. George barely caught the words certainly +not intended for him.</p> + +<p>"You know I wouldn't be a bit surprised if that fellow you brought me, +if he had a chance, might do both."</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + + +<p>George, since he had nothing else to do, walked home. Bailly could get +him in if he would. Did it really depend in part on the inspection he +would have to undergo that afternoon? It was hard there was nothing he +could do to prepare himself. He went to the yard, to which the landlady +had condemned Sylvia's bulldog, and, to kill time, played with the +friendly animal until luncheon. Afterward he sat in his room before +Sylvia's portrait impressing on himself the necessity of strength for +the coming ordeal.</p> + +<p>His landlady directed him glibly enough to the field house. As he +crossed the practice gridiron, not yet chalked out, he saw Bailly on the +verandah; and, appearing very small and sturdy beside him, a +gray-haired, pleasant-faced man whose small eyes were relentless.</p> + +<p>"This is the prospect, Green," George heard Bailly say.</p> + +<p>The trainer studied George for some time before he nodded his head.</p> + +<p>"A build to hurt and not get hurt," he said at last; "but, Mr. Bailly, +it's hard to supply experience. Boys come here who have played all their +lives, and they know less than nothing. Bone seems to grow naturally in +the football cranium."</p> + +<p>He shifted back to George.</p> + +<p>"How fast are you?"</p> + +<p>"I've never timed myself, but I'm hard to catch."</p> + +<p>"Get out there," the trainer directed.</p> + +<p>"In those clothes?" Bailly asked.</p> + +<p>"Why not? The ground's dry. A man wouldn't run any faster with moleskins +and cleats. Now you run as far as the end of that stand. Halt there for +a minute, then turn and come back."</p> + +<p>He drew out a stop watch.</p> + +<p>"All set? Then—git!"</p> + +<p>George streaked down the field.</p> + +<p>"It's an even hundred yards," the trainer explained to Bailly.</p> + +<p>As George paused at the end of the stand the trainer snapped his watch, +whistling.</p> + +<p>"There are lots with running shoes and drawers wouldn't do any better. +Let's have him back."</p> + +<p>He waved his arm. George tore up and leant against the railing, +breathing hard, but not uncomfortably.</p> + +<p>"You were a full second slower coming back," the trainer said with a +twinkle.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry," George cried. "Let me try it again."</p> + +<p>Green shook his head.</p> + +<p>"I'd rather see you make a tackle, but I've no one to spare."</p> + +<p>He grinned invitation at Bailly.</p> + +<p>"My spirit, Green," the tutor said, "is less fragile than my corpus, but +it has some common-sense. I prefer others should perish at the hands of +my discoveries."</p> + +<p>"You've scrubbed around," the trainer said, appraising George's long, +muscular legs. "Ever kick a football?"</p> + +<p>"A little."</p> + +<p>Green entered the field house, reappearing after a moment with a +football tucked under his arm.</p> + +<p>"Do you mind stepping down the field, Mr. Bailly, to catch what he +punts? I wouldn't go too far."</p> + +<p>Bailly nodded and walked a short distance away. The trainer gave George +the football and told him to kick it to Bailly. George stepped on the +grass and swung his leg. If the ball had travelled horizontally as far +as it did toward heaven it would have been a good kick. For half an hour +the trainer coached interestedly, teaching George the fundamentals of +kicking form. Some of the later punts, indeed, boomed down the field for +considerable distances, but in George's mind the high light of that +unexpected experience remained the lanky, awkward figure in wrinkled +tweeds, limping about the field, sometimes catching the ball, sometimes +looking hurt when it bounded from his grasp, sometimes missing it +altogether, and never once losing the flashing pleasure from his eyes or +the excitement out of his furrowed face.</p> + +<p>"Enough," the trainer said at last.</p> + +<p>George heard him confide to the puffing tutor:</p> + +<p>"Possibilities. Heaven knows we'll need them a year from this fall, +especially in the kicking line. I believe this fellow can be taught."</p> + +<p>Bailly, his hands shaking from his recent exercise, lighted a pipe. He +assumed a martyr's air. His voice sounded as though someone had done him +an irreparable wrong.</p> + +<p>"Then I'll have to try, but it's hard on me, Green, you'll admit."</p> + +<p>George hid his excitement. He knew he had passed his first examination. +He was sure he would enter college. Already he felt the confidence most +men placed in Squibs Bailly.</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't you have taken him on anyway, Mr. Bailly?" the trainer +laughed. "Anyway, a lot of my players are first-group men. I depend on +you to turn him over in the fall for the Freshman eleven. Going to +town?"</p> + +<p>"Come on, Morton," Bailly said, remorsefully.</p> + +<p>Side by side the three walked through to Nassau Street and past the +campus. George said nothing, drinking in the scarcely comprehensible +talk of the others about team prospects and the appalling number of +powerful and nimble young men who would graduate the following June.</p> + +<p>Near University Place he noticed Rogers loafing in front of a restaurant +with several other youths who wore black caps. He wondered why Rogers +started and stared at him, then turned, speaking quickly to the others.</p> + +<p>Green went down University Place. George paced on with Bailly. In front +of the Nassau Club the tutor paused.</p> + +<p>"I'm going in here," he said, "but you can come to my house at +eight-thirty. We'll work until ten-thirty. We'll do that every night +until your brain wrinkles a trifle. You may not have been taught that +twenty-four hours are allotted to each day. Eight for sleep. Two with +me. Two for meals. Two at the field. Two for a run in the country. That +leaves eight for study, and you'll need every minute of them. I'll give +you your schedule to-night. If you break it once I'll drop you, for +you've got to have a brain beyond the ordinary to make it wrinkle +enough."</p> + +<p>"Thanks, Mr. Bailly. If you don't mind, what will it cost?"</p> + +<p>Bailly considered.</p> + +<p>"I'll have to charge you," he said at last, "twenty-five dollars, but I +can lend you most of the books."</p> + +<p>George understood, but his pride was not hurt.</p> + +<p>"I'll pay you in other ways."</p> + +<p>Bailly looked at him, his emaciated face smiling all over.</p> + +<p>"I think you will," he said with a little nod. "All right. At +eight-thirty."</p> + +<p>He limped along the narrow cement walk and entered the club. George +started back. The group, he noticed, still loitered in front of the +restaurant. Rogers detached himself and strolled across. He was no +longer suspicious.</p> + +<p>"You been down at the field with Mr. Green?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"What for?"</p> + +<p>"Running a little, kicking a football around."</p> + +<p>"Trust Bailly to guess you played. What did Green say?"</p> + +<p>"If I get in," George, answered simply, "I think he'll give me a show."</p> + +<p>"I guess so," Rogers said, thoughtfully, "or he wouldn't be wasting his +time on you now. Come on over and meet these would-be Freshmen. We'll +all be in the same class unless we get brain-fever. Mostly +Lawrenceville."</p> + +<p>George crossed and submitted to elaborate introductions and warm +greetings.</p> + +<p>"Green's grooming him already for the Freshman eleven," Rogers +explained.</p> + +<p>George accepted the open admiration cautiously, not forgetting what he +had been yesterday, what Sylvia had said. Why was Rogers so friendly all +at once?</p> + +<p>"What prep?" "Where'd you play?" "Line or backfield?"</p> + +<p>The rapidity of the questions lessened his discomfort. How was he to +avoid such moments? He must make his future exceptionally full so that +it might submerge the past of which he couldn't speak without +embarrassment. In this instance Rogers helped him out.</p> + +<p>"Morton's bummed around. Never went to any school for long."</p> + +<p>George pondered this kind act and its fashion as he excused himself and +walked on to his lodging. There was actually something to hide, and +Rogers admitted it, and was willing to lend a cloak. He could guess why. +Because Green was bothering with him, had condescended to be seen on the +street with him. George's vision broadened.</p> + +<p>He locked himself in his room and sat before his souvenirs. Sylvia's +provocative features seemed clearer. For a long time he stared hungrily. +He had an absurd impression that he had already advanced toward her. +Perhaps he had in view of what had happened that afternoon.</p> + +<p>His determination as well as his strength had clearly attracted Bailly; +yet that strength, its possible application to football, had practically +assured him he would enter college, had made an ally of the careful +Rogers, had aroused the admiration of such sub-Freshmen as were in town. +It became clear that if he should be successful at football he would +achieve a position of prominence from which he could choose friends +useful here and even in the vital future after college.</p> + +<p>His planning grew more practical. If football, a game of which he knew +almost nothing, could do that, what might he not draw from one he +thoroughly knew—anything concerning horses, for instance, hunting, +polo? The men interested in horses would be the rich, the best—he +choked a trifle over the qualification—the financial and social leaders +of the class. He would have that card up his sleeve. He would play it +when it would impress most. Skill at games, he hazarded, would make it +easier than he had thought to work his way through.</p> + +<p>Whatever distaste such cold calculation brought he destroyed by staring +at Sylvia's remote beauty. If he was to reach such a goal he would have +to use every possible short cut, no matter how unlovely.</p> + +<p>He found that evening a radical alteration in Squibs Bailly's study. The +blotter was spattered with ink. Papers littered the desk and drifted +about the floor. Everything within reach of the tutor's hands was +disarranged and disreputably untidy. Bailly appeared incomparably more +comfortable.</p> + +<p>The course opened with a small lecture, delivered while the attenuated +man limped up and down the cluttered room.</p> + +<p>"Don't fancy," he began, "that you have found in football a key to the +scholastic labyrinth."</p> + +<p>His wrinkled face assumed a violent disapproval. His youthful eyes +flashed resentfully.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Morton, if I suffered the divine Delphic frenzy and went to the +Dean and assured him you were destined to be one of our very best +undergraduates and at the same time would make fifteen touchdowns +against Yale, and roughly an equal number against Harvard, do you know +what he would reply?"</p> + +<p>George gathered that an answer wasn't necessary.</p> + +<p>"You might think," the tutor resumed, limping faster than ever, "that he +would run his fingers through his hair, if he had sufficient; would +figuratively flame with pleasure; would say: 'Miraculous, Mr. Bailly. +You are a great benefactor. We must get this extraordinary youth in the +university even if he can't parse "the cat caught the rat."'"</p> + +<p>Bailly paused. He clashed his hands together.</p> + +<p>"Now I'll tell you what he'd actually reply. 'Interesting if true, Mr. +Bailly. But what are his scholastic attainments? Can he solve a +quadratic equation in his head? Has he committed to memory my favourite +passages of the "Iliad" of Homer and the "Aeneid" of Virgil? Can he name +the architect of the Parthenon or the sculptor of the Aegean pediments? +No? Horrible! Then off with his head!'"</p> + +<p>Bailly draped himself across his chair.</p> + +<p>"Therefore it behooves us to get to work."</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>That was the first of sixty-odd toilsome, torturing evenings, for Bailly +failed to honour the Sabbath; and, after that first lecture, drab +business alone coloured those hours. The multiplicity of subjects was +confusing; but, although Bailly seldom told him so, George progressed +rapidly, and Bailly knew just where to stress for the examinations.</p> + +<p>If it had ended there it would have been bad enough. When he studied the +schedule Bailly gave him that first night he had a despairing feeling +that either he or it must break down. Everything was accounted for even +to the food he was to eat. That last, in fact, created a little +difficulty with the landlady, who seemed to have no manner of +appreciation of the world-moving importance of football. Rogers wanted +to help out there, too. He had found George's lodging. It was when +Green's interest was popular knowledge, when from the Nassau Club had +slipped the belief that Squibs Bailly had turned his eyes on another +star. George made it dispassionately clear to Rogers that Bailly had not +allowed in his schedule for calls. Rogers was visibly disappointed.</p> + +<p>"Where do you eat, then?"</p> + +<p>"Here—with Mrs. Michin."</p> + +<p>"Now look, Morton. That's no way. Half a dozen of us are eating at Joe's +restaurant. They're the best of the sub-Freshmen that are here. Come +along with us."</p> + +<p>The manner of the invitation didn't make George at all reluctant to tell +the truth.</p> + +<p>"I can't afford to be eating around in restaurants."</p> + +<p>"That needn't figure," Rogers said, quickly. "Green's probably only +letting you eat certain things. I'll guarantee Joe'll take you on for +just what you're paying Mrs. Michin."</p> + +<p>George thought rapidly. He could see through Rogers now. The boy wanted, +even as he did, to run with the best, but for a vastly different cause. +That was why his manner had altered that first morning when he had sized +George up as the unfinished product of a public school, why it had +altered again when he had sensed in him a football star. George's heart +warmed, but not to Rogers. Because he rioted around for a period each +afternoon in an odorous football suit he was already, in the careful +Rogers' eyes, one of the most prominent of the students in town. For the +same reason he was in a position to wait and make sure that Rogers +himself was the useful sort. George possessed no standard by which to +judge, and it would be a mistake to knot ropes that he might want to +break later; nor did he care for that sort of charity, no matter how +well disguised, so he shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Green and Squibs wouldn't put up with it."</p> + +<p>He wheedled his landlady, instead, into a better humour, paying her +reluctantly a little more.</p> + +<p>The problem of expenses was still troublesome, but it became evident +that there, too, Bailly would be a useful guide.</p> + +<p>"I have actually bearded the dean about you," he said one evening. +"There are a few scholarships not yet disposed of. If I can prove to him +that you live by syntax alone you may get one. As for the rest, there's +the commons. Impecunious students profitably wait on table there."</p> + +<p>George's flush was not pretty.</p> + +<p>"I'll not be a servant," he snapped.</p> + +<p>"It's no disgrace," Bailly said, mildly.</p> + +<p>"It is—for me."</p> + +<p>He didn't like Bailly's long, slightly pained scrutiny. There was no use +keeping things from him anyway.</p> + +<p>"I can trust you, Mr. Bailly," he said, quickly, and in a very low +voice, as if the walls might hear: "I know you won't give me away. I—I +was too much like a servant until the day I came to Princeton. I've +sworn I'd never be again. I can't touch that job. I tell you I'd rather +starve."</p> + +<p>"To do so," Bailly remarked, drily, "would be a senseless suicide. +You'll appreciate some day, young man, that the world lives by service."</p> + +<p>George wondered why he glanced at the untidy table with a smile +twitching at the corners of his mouth.</p> + +<p>"I'm also sorry to learn your ambition is not altogether unselfish, or +altogether worthy."</p> + +<p>George longed to make Bailly understand.</p> + +<p>"It was forced on me," he said. "I worked in my father's livery business +until he failed. Then I had to go to a rich man's stable. I was treated +like dirt. Nobody would have anything to do with me. They won't here, +probably, if they find out."</p> + +<p>"Never mind," Bailly sighed. "We will seek other means. Let us get on +with our primers."</p> + +<p>Once or twice, when some knotty problem took George to the house during +the early morning, he found the spic-and-span neatness he had observed +at his first visit. In Bailly's service clearly someone laboured with a +love of labour, without shame or discouragement.</p> + +<p>One evening in August the maid who customarily opened the door was +replaced by a short, plump-looking woman well over thirty. She greeted +George with kindly eyes.</p> + +<p>"I daresay you're Mr. Morton. I've heard a great deal about you."</p> + +<p>George had never seen a face more unaffected, more friendly, more +competent. His voice was respectful.</p> + +<p>"Yes, ma'am."</p> + +<p>"And I am Mrs. Bailly. We expect much of you."</p> + +<p>There rushed over George a feeling that, his own ambition aside, he had +to give them a great deal. No wonder Squibs felt as he did if his ideas +of service had emerged from such a source.</p> + +<p>That portion of his crowded schedule George grew eventually to like. It +brought him either unrestrained scolding or else a tempered praise; and +he enjoyed his cross-country runs. Sylvia's bulldog usually accompanied +him, unleashed, for he could control the animal. With surprised eyes he +saw estates as extravagant as Oakmont, and frequently in better taste. +Little by little he picked up the names of the families that owned them. +He told himself that some day he would enter those places as a guest, +bowed to by such servants as he had been. It was possible, he promised +himself bravely, if only he could win a Yale or a Harvard game.</p> + +<p>He enjoyed, too, the hours he spent at the field. He could measure his +progress there as well as in Bailly's study. Green was slow with either +praise or blame, but sometimes Rogers and his clan would come down, and, +sitting in the otherwise empty stands, would audibly marvel at the +graceful trajectory of his punts. He soiled himself daily at the +tackling dummy. He sprawled after an elusive ball, falling on it or +picking it up on the run. Meantime, he had absorbed the elements of the +rules. He found them rather more complicated than the classics.</p> + +<p>The head coach came from the city one day. Like Green, he said nothing +in praise or blame, merely criticising pleasantly; but George felt that +he was impressed. The great man even tossed the ball about with him for +a while, teaching him to throw at a definite mark. After that Rogers and +his cronies wanted to be more in evidence than ever, but George had no +time for them, or for anything outside his work.</p> + +<p>His will to survive the crushing grind never really faltered, but he +resented its necessity, sometimes wistfully, sometimes with turbulence. +He despised himself for regretting certain pleasanter phases of his +serfdom at Oakmont. The hot, stuffy room on the top floor of the frame +house; the difficult books; the papers streaked with intricate and +reluctant figures, contrived frequently to swing his mind to pastoral +corners of the Planter estate. He might have held title to them, they +had been so much his own. He had used them during his free time for the +reading of novels, and latterly, he remembered, for formless dreams of +Sylvia's beauty. At least his mind had not been put to the torture +there. He had had time to listen to a bird's song, to ingratiate himself +with a venturesome squirrel, to run his hands through the long grass, to +lie half asleep, brain quite empty save for a temporal content.</p> + +<p>Now, running or walking in the country, he found no time for the happier +aspects of woods or fields. He had to drive himself physically in order +that his mind could respond to Bailly's urgencies. And sometimes, as has +been suggested, his revolt was more violent. He paced his room angrily. +Why did he do it? Why did he submit? Eventually his eyes would turn to +her photograph, and he would go back to his table.</p> + +<p>He was grateful for the chance that had let him pick up that picture. +Without its constant supervision he might not have been able to keep up +the struggle. During the worst moments, when some solution mocked him, +he would stare at the likeness while his brain fought, while, with a +sort of self-hypnosis induced by that pictured face, he willed himself +to keep on.</p> + +<p>One night, when he had suffered over an elusive equation beyond his +scheduled bedtime, he found his eyes, as he stared at the picture, +blurring strangely; then the thing was done, the answer proved; but +after what an effort! Why did his eyes blur? Because of the intensity of +some emotion whose significance he failed all at once to grasp. He +continued to stare at Sylvia's beauty, informed even here with a sincere +intolerance; at those lips which had released the contempt that had +delivered him to this other slavery. Abruptly the emotion, that had +seemed to leap upon him from the books and the complicated figures, +defined itself with stark, unavoidable brutality. He reached out and +with both hands grasped the photograph. He wanted to snatch his hands +apart, ripping the paper, destroying the tranquil, arrogant features. He +replaced the picture, leant back, and continued hypnotically to study +it. His hands grasped the table's edge while the blurring of his eyes +increased. He spoke aloud in a clear and sullen voice:</p> + +<p>"I hate you," he said. "With all my heart and soul and body I hate you."</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>About this time one partial break in the schedule came like a strong +tonic. Bailly at the close of an evening's session spoke, George +fancied, with a little embarrassment.</p> + +<p>"My wife wants to speak to you before you go."</p> + +<p>He raised his voice.</p> + +<p>"Martha! The battle's over for to-night."</p> + +<p>She came quietly in and perched herself on the arm of a chair.</p> + +<p>"I'm having a few people for dinner to-morrow," she explained. "There's +one young girl, so I want a young man. Won't you help me out?"</p> + +<p>George's elation was shot with doubt of an unexplored territory. This +promised an advance if he could find the way. He glanced inquiringly at +Bailly.</p> + +<p>"Women," the tutor said, "lack a sense of values. I shall be chained +anyway to my wife's ill-conceived hospitality, so you might as well +come. But we'll dine early so we won't destroy an entire evening."</p> + +<p>"Then at seven-thirty, Mr. Morton," Mrs. Bailly said.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," George answered. "I shall be very happy to come."</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, he was there before seven-thirty, over-anxious to +be socially adequate. He had worried a good deal about the invitation. +Could it be traced to his confession to Bailly? Was it, in any sense, a +test? At least it bristled with perplexities. His ordinary suit of +clothing, even after an extended pressing and brushing, was, he felt, +out of place. It warned him that of the ritual of a mixed dinner he was +blankly ignorant. He established two cardinal principles. He would watch +and imitate the others. He wouldn't open his mouth unless he had to.</p> + +<p>Bailly, with tact, wore the disgraceful tweeds, but there were two other +men, a professor and a resident, George gathered in the rapidity of the +introduction which slurred names. These wore evening clothes. Of the two +elderly women who accompanied them one was quite dazzling, displaying +much jewellery, and projecting an air truly imperial. Side by side with +her Mrs. Bailly appeared more than ever a priestess of service; yet to +George her serene self-satisfaction seemed ornament enough.</p> + +<p>Where, George wondered, was the girl for whom he had been asked?</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bailly drew him from these multiple introductions. He turned and +saw the girl standing in the doorway, a dazzling portrait in a dingy +frame. As he faced her George was aware of a tightening of all his +defences. Her clothing, her attitude, proclaimed her as of Sylvia's +sort. He ventured to raise his eyes to her face. It was there, too, the +habit of the beautiful, the obvious unfamiliarity with life's grayer +tones. Yet she did not resemble Sylvia. Her skin was nearly white. Her +hair glinted with gold; but she, too, was lovely. George asked himself +if she would have lifted the crop, if all these fortunates reacted to a +precise and depressing formula. Somehow he couldn't imagine this girl +striking to hurt.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bailly presented him. Her name was Alston, Betty</p> + +<p>Alston, it developed during the succeeding general conversation. He +fixed the stouter of the men in evening clothes as her father and the +imperial woman as her mother. He understood then that they were, indeed, +of Sylvia's sort, for during his cross-country work he had frequently +passed their home, an immense Tudor house in the midst of pleasant +acres.</p> + +<p>It was because of the girl that the pitfalls of dinner were bridged. In +the technique of accepting Mrs. Bailly's excellent courses he was always +a trifle behind her. She made conversation, moreover, surprisingly easy. +After the first few moments, during which no one troubled to probe his +past, the older people left them to themselves. She didn't ask what his +prep was, or where he lived, or any other thing to make him stammer.</p> + +<p>"You look like a football player," she said, frankly.</p> + +<p>They talked of his work. He said he had admired her home during his +runs. She responded naturally:</p> + +<p>"When we are really back you must come and see it more intimately."</p> + +<p>The invitation to enter the gates!</p> + +<p>He fell silent. Would it be fair to go without giving her an opportunity +to treat him as Sylvia had done? Why should she inspire such a question? +Hadn't he willed his past to oblivion? Hadn't he determined to take +every short cut? Of course he would go, as George Morton, undergraduate, +football player, magician with horses. The rest was none of her +business.</p> + +<p>They were in Princeton, she explained, only for a few days from time to +time, but would be definitely back when college opened. She, too, was +going to be introduced to society that winter. He wanted to ask her how +it was done. He pictured a vast apartment, dense with unpleasant people, +and a man who cried out with a brazen voice: "Ladies and gentlemen! This +is Miss Sylvia Planter. This is Miss Betty Alston." Quite like an +auction.</p> + +<p>"It must be wonderful to play football," she was saying. "I should have +preferred to be a man. What can a girl do? Bad tennis, rotten golf, +something with horses."</p> + +<p>He smiled. He could impress Betty Alston, but there was no point in +that, because she was a girl, and he could think of only one girl.</p> + +<p>Yet he carried home an impression of unexpected interest and kindness. +Her proximity, the rustling of her gown, the barely detectable perfume +from her tawny hair, furnished souvenirs intangible but very warm in his +memory. They made the portrait and the broken crop seem lifeless and +unimpressive.</p> + +<p>He forced himself to stare at Sylvia's likeness until the old hypnotic +sense returned.</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>He saw Betty Alston once more before college opened, unexpectedly, +briefly, and disturbingly; but with all that he carried again to his +lodging an impression of a distracting contact.</p> + +<p>He was out for a morning run, wearing some ancient flannels Bailly had +loaned him, and a sweater, for autumn's first exhilaration sharpened the +air. Sylvia's bulldog barked joyously about him as he trotted through a +lane not far from the Alston place. He often went that way, perhaps +because its gates were already half open. As he turned the corner of a +hedge he came face to face with Betty. In a short skirt and knitted +jacket she was even more striking than she had been at the Bailly's. The +unexpected encounter had brought colour to her rather pale face. The +bulldog sprang for her. George halted him with a sharp command.</p> + +<p>"I am not afraid of him," she laughed. "Come here, savage beast."</p> + +<p>The dog crawled to her and licked her fingers. George saw her examining +the animal curiously.</p> + +<p>"I hope he didn't frighten you," he said, his cap in his hand.</p> + +<p>She glanced up, and at her voice George straightened, and turned quickly +away so that she couldn't see the response to her amazing question. Was +it, he asked himself, traceable to Old Planter's threats. Were they +going to try to smash him at the start and keep him out of Princeton?</p> + +<p>"Do you happen," Betty had said, frowning, "to know Sylvia Planter, or, +perhaps, her brother, Lambert?"</p> + +<p>George didn't care to lie; nor was it, his instinct told him, safe to +lie to Betty. She knew the Planters, then. But how could Old Planter +drive him out except through his parents? He wasn't going to be driven +out. He turned back slowly. In Betty's face he read only a slight +bewilderment.</p> + +<p>"That's a queer thing to ask," he managed.</p> + +<p>"The dog," she said, caressing the ugly snout, "is the image of one +Sylvia Planter was very fond of. Sylvia and I were at school together +last year. I've just been visiting her the last few days. She said she +had given her dog away."</p> + +<p>She drew the dog closer and read the name on the collar.</p> + +<p>"Roland! What was the name of her dog?"</p> + +<p>George relaxed.</p> + +<p>"That dog," he said, harshly, "belongs to me."</p> + +<p>She glanced at him, surprised, releasing the dog and standing up. It +wasn't Old Planter then, and his parents were probably safe enough; but +had Sylvia, he asked himself angrily, made a story for her guest out of +his unwary declaration and his abrupt vanishing from Oakmont? Did this +friendly creature know anything? If she did she would cease to be +amiable. His anger diminished as he saw the curiosity leave her face.</p> + +<p>"An odd resemblance! Do you know, Mr. Morton, I rather think you're +bound to meet Lambert Planter anyway. I believe he's a very important +young man at Yale. You'll have to play football a little better than he +does. His sister and he are going to visit me for a few days before he +goes back to New Haven. Perhaps you'll see him then."</p> + +<p>George resented the prospect. He got himself away.</p> + +<p>"Squibs," he told her, "sees everything. If I loiter he finds out and +scolds."</p> + +<p>He had an impression that she looked after him until he was out of +sight. Or was it the dog that still puzzled her? Something of her, at +least, accompanied him longer than that—her kindness, her tact in the +matter of the Planters. He would take very good care that he didn't meet +Lambert; the prospect of Sylvia's adjacence, however, filled him with a +disturbing excitement. He wanted to see her, but he felt it wouldn't be +safe to have her see him yet.</p> + +<p>Her picture increased his excitement, filled him with a craving for her +physical presence. He desired to look at her, as he had looked at the +photograph, to see if he could tell himself under those conditions that +he hated her. Whether that was true or not, he was more determined than +ever to make his boasts good.</p> + + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p>The day of the immediate test approached and he found himself no longer +afraid of it. Even Bailly one early September evening abandoned +cynicism.</p> + +<p>"You've every chance, Morton," he said, puffing at his pipe, "to enter +creditably. You may have a condition in French, but what of that? We'll +have it off by the divisionals. I'll admit you're far from a dunce. +During the next ten days we'll concentrate on the examination +idiosyncrasies of my revered colleagues."</p> + +<p>The scholarship had, in fact, been won for George, but the necessary +work, removed from any suspicion of the servatorial, had not yet been +found. Bailly, although he plainly worried himself, told George not to +be impatient; then, just before the entrance examinations, the head +coach arrived and settled himself in Princeton. Self-assured young men +drifted to the field now every afternoon—"varsity men," the Rogers clan +whispered with awe. And there were last year's substitutes, and faithful +slaves of the scrub, over-anxious, pouring out to early practice, +grasping at one more chance. So far no Freshmen candidates had been +called, but the head coach was heard to whisper to Green:</p> + +<p>"We'd better work this fellow Morton with the squad until the cubs +start. He'll stand a lot of practice. Give him all the football he'll +hold. He's outkicking his ends now. Jack him up without cutting down his +distance. I'd like to see him make a tackle. He looks good at the dummy, +but you never can tell. He may be an ear-puller."</p> + +<p>The magic words slipped through the town. George caught arriving +Freshmen pointing him out. He overheard glowing prophecies.</p> + +<p>"Green says he'll outkick Dewitt."</p> + +<p>It didn't turn his head. To be the greatest player the game had ever +known wouldn't have turned his head, for that would have been only one +small step toward the summit from which Sylvia looked down on him with +contemptuous, inimical eyes.</p> + +<p>The head coach one afternoon gave the ball to a young man of no +pronounced value, and instructed him to elude George if he could.</p> + +<p>"You, Morton," the head coach instructed, "see that he doesn't get past +you. Remember what you've done to the dummy."</p> + +<p>George nodded, realizing that this was a real test to be passed with a +hundred per cent. That man with the ball had the power and the desire +to make a miserable failure of him. For the moment he seemed more than a +man, deadly, to be conquered at any cost. Schooled by his +rough-and-tumble combats at school and in the stables, George kept his +glance on the other's eyes; knew, therefore, when he was going to +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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>George helped the man to his feet.</p> + +<p>"Hope I didn't hurt you."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no. I'll be all right again in a couple of months."</p> + +<p>He limped about his work, muttering:</p> + +<p>"Maybe mother was right when she didn't want me to play this game."</p> + +<p>The coach wasn't through. He gave the ball to George and signalled one +of the biggest of the varsity men.</p> + +<p>"Let me see you get past that fellow, Morton."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry," George began.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I'm willing," the head coach said with apparent reluctance.</p> + +<p>Everyone within hearing laughed, but George couldn't laugh, although he +knew it was expected.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Stringham," he said, "I will learn to get past them unless they +come too thick."</p> + +<p>The coach patted his shoulder. His voice was satisfied.</p> + +<p>"Run along to the showers now."</p> + +<p>There may have been something in the sequence of these events, for that +very night Squibs Bailly's face twitched with satisfaction.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"No," George said, "but, Mr. Bailly, I need clothes. I can afford to buy +some now. Where shall I go? What shall I get?"</p> + +<p>Bailly limped about thoughtfully. He named a tailor of the town. He +prescribed an outing suit and a dinner suit.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Certainly it is Mr. Morton," he said in his old mocking fashion.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>George swallowed hard.</p> + +<p>"I heard you were going to be here. I wanted to keep out of your way."</p> + +<p>"But why?" Lambert laughed. "You have a scholastic appearance. You never +mean——"</p> + +<p>"I am taking my entrance examinations," George said. "I want to make +good here."</p> + +<p>He looked straight into Lambert's eyes. His voice became incisive, +threatening.</p> + +<p>"I will make good. Don't try giving me away. Don't you tell Miss Alston +where I came from——"</p> + +<p>"Yeh. The big fellow! Morton! Stringham and Green say he's going to be a +wonder."</p> + +<p>It drifted to them from the passing youths.</p> + +<p>Lambert whistled. The mockery left his voice.</p> + +<p>"Go as far as you can," he said.</p> + +<p>And followed it with:</p> + +<p>"Don't be a self-conscious ass."</p> + +<p>He smiled whimsically.</p> + +<p>"Glad to have run into you—George."</p> + +<p>The driver had noticed Lambert. The automobile glided nearer.</p> + +<p>"I—I've got to get away," George said, hastily. "I don't want your +sister to see me."</p> + +<p>Lambert turned. His voice, in turn, was a trifle threatening.</p> + +<p>"That's all nonsense. She's forgotten all about you; she wouldn't know +you from Adam."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Had Lambert been right? He didn't want to believe that. It hurt too +much.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>But he couldn't be sure. It seemed to him then that he wanted more than +anything in the world to be sure.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>"You are the loveliest thing in the world. The next time you'll know me. +By God, the next time I'll <i>make</i> you know me."</p> + + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I will not think of it," George told himself. "I will think of nothing +but this paper. I will pass it."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>At the foot of the stairs groups collected, discussing the ordeal +pessimistically. As he started to walk through, several spoke to George.</p> + +<p>"How did <i>you</i> hit it, Morton?"</p> + +<p>Already he was well spotted. He paused and joined the apprehensive +chatter.</p> + +<p>"It's a toss-up with me," Rogers admitted. "Don't tell me any answers. +If ignorance is bliss, I want to stay dumb."</p> + +<p>He caught George's arm.</p> + +<p>"Have you met Dicky Goodhue? Hello, Goodhue!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Would like you to meet Morton, Goodhue."</p> + +<p>Goodhue glanced at George inquiringly, almost resentfully.</p> + +<p>"George Morton," Rogers stumbled on, as if an apology were necessary. +"Stringham, you know, and Green——"</p> + +<p>"Glad to meet you," Goodhue said, indifferently.</p> + +<p>"Thanks," George acknowledged as indifferently, and turned away.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"How long have you known this fellow Goodhue?" George asked as he +crossed the campus with Rogers.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Goodhue?" Rogers said, uncomfortably. "I've seen him any number of +times. Ran into him last night."</p> + +<p>"Good-looking man," George commented. "Where's he come from?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>George had heard enough.</p> + +<p>"If I do as well with the other exams," he said, "I'm going to get in."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He reported that evening to Bailly:</p> + +<p>"I think it's all right so far."</p> + +<p>The tutor grinned.</p> + +<p>"To-day's beyond recall, but to-morrow's the future, and it cradles, +among other dragons, French."</p> + +<p>He pointed out passages in a number of books.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bailly stopped him in the hall.</p> + +<p>"How did it go?" she asked, eagerly.</p> + +<p>Her anxiety had about it something maternal. It gave him for the first +time a feeling of being at home in Princeton.</p> + +<p>"I got through to-day," he said.</p> + +<p>"Good! Good!"</p> + +<p>She nodded toward the study.</p> + +<p>"Then you have made him very happy."</p> + +<p>"I always want to," George said. "That's a worthy ambition, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>She looked at him gropingly, as if she almost caught his allusion.</p> + + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I know you passed," she said.</p> + +<p>He walked with her across the narrow yard to the porch.</p> + +<p>"I think so, to-day."</p> + +<p>She paused with her foot on the lower step. The light from the corner +disclosed her face, puzzled and undecided; and his uneasiness returned.</p> + +<p>"I am just returning this," she said, holding up a book. "I'd be glad to +drop you at your lodging——"</p> + +<p>"I'll wait."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Betty came gracefully down the steps, and George followed her into the +pleasant obscurity of the automobile. He could scarcely see her white +figure, but he became aware again of the delightful and singular perfume +of her tawny hair. If Sylvia had spoken he never could have sat so close +to her. He had no business, anyway——</p> + +<p>She snapped on the light. She laughed.</p> + +<p>"I said you were bound to meet Lambert Planter."</p> + +<p>He had started on false ground. At any moment the ground might give +way.</p> + +<p>"If I wasn't quite honest about that the other morning," he said, "it +was because I had met Lambert Planter, but under circumstances I wanted +to forget."</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry," she said, softly, "that I reminded you; but he seemed glad +to see you this morning. It is all right now, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," he answered, doubtfully.</p> + +<p>That thrilling quality of her voice became more pronounced.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad. For he's a good friend to have. He's a very real person; I +mean, a man who's likely to do big things, don't you think?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said again.</p> + +<p>Why was he conscious of resentment? Why did he ask himself quickly if +Lambert thought of her with equal benevolence? He pulled himself up +short. What earthly business was it of his what Betty Alston and Lambert +Planter thought of each other? But he regretted the briefness of his +companionship with Betty in the unaccustomed luxury of the car. It +surrounded him with a settled and congenial atmosphere; it lessened, +after the first moments, the sharp taste of the ambition to which he had +condemned himself.</p> + +<p>"Don't worry," she said, as he descended at his lodging, "you'll get in. +Dear old Squibs told me so."</p> + +<p>He experienced a strong impulse to touch her hand again. He thanked her, +said good-night, and turned resolutely away.</p> + +<p>It was only after long scrutiny of Sylvia's photograph that he attacked +Bailly's marked passages. Again and again he reminded himself that he +had actually seen her that day, and that she had either not remembered +him, or had, with a deliberate cruelty, sought to impress him with his +ugly insignificance in a crowded and pleasurable landscape.</p> + +<p>Then why should this other girl of the same class treat him so +differently?</p> + +<p>The answer came glibly. For that instant he was wholly distasteful to +himself.</p> + +<p>"Because she doesn't know."</p> + +<p>He picked up a piece of the broken riding crop, flushing hotly. He +would detach himself from the landscape for Sylvia. He would use that +crop yet.</p> + + +<h3>X</h3> + +<p>He worked all the next day in the examination hall. He purposely chose a +seat in the row behind Goodhue. Five or six men, clearly all friends of +Goodhue's, sat near him, each modelled more or less as he was. George +noticed one exception, a short fellow who stood out from the entire +room. At first George thought it was because he was older, then he +decided it was the light moustache, the thick hair, the eyes that lacked +lustre, the long, white fingers. The man barely lifted his examination +sheets. He glanced at them once, then set to work. He was the first to +rise and hand his papers in. The rest paused, stared enviously, and +sighed. George heard Goodhue say to the man next him:</p> + +<p>"How do you suppose Spike does it?"</p> + +<p>George wondered why they called the dainty little man Spike.</p> + +<p>He was slow and painstaking himself, and the room was fairly well +emptied before he finished. Except for the French, he was satisfied. He +took a deep breath. The ordeal was over. For the first time in more than +two months he was his own master. He could do anything he pleased.</p> + +<p>First of all, he hurried to Squibs Bailly.</p> + +<p>"Lend me a novel—something exciting," he began. "No, I wouldn't open a +text-book even for you to-night. The schedule's dead and buried, sir, +and you haven't given me another."</p> + +<p>Bailly's wrinkled face approved.</p> + +<p>"You wouldn't be coming at me this way if there was any doubt. You shall +have your novel. I'm afraid——"</p> + +<p>He paused, laughing.</p> + +<p>"I mean, my task with you is about done. You've more brain than a +dinosaur. It is variously wrinkled where once it was like a babe's. +Except for the French, you should handle your courses without superhuman +effort. Don't ever let me hear of your getting a condition. Your next +schedule will come from Stringham and Green."</p> + +<p>He limped to a bookcase and drew out a volume bound in red.</p> + +<p>"Without entirely wasting your time, you may amuse yourself with that."</p> + +<p>"'Treasure Island.'"</p> + +<p>George frowned doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"We studied something about this man. If he's good enough to get in the +school books maybe he isn't just what I'm looking for to-night."</p> + +<p>"Have you ever perused Nick Carter, or, perhaps Old Sleuth?" Bailly +asked.</p> + +<p>George smiled.</p> + +<p>"I know I have to forget all that."</p> + +<p>"In intellectual circles," Bailly agreed.</p> + +<p>He glanced slyly around.</p> + +<p>"I've scanned such matter," he whispered, "with a modicum of enjoyment, +so I can assure you the book you have in your hand possesses nearly +equal merit, yet you may discuss it without losing caste in the most +exalted places; which would seem to indicate that human judgment is +based on manner rather than matter."</p> + +<p>"You mean," George said, frowning, "that if a man does a rotten thing it +is the way he does it rather than the thing itself that is judged?"</p> + +<p>Bailly limped up and down, his hands behind his back. He faced George +with a little show of bewildered temper.</p> + +<p>"See here, Freshman Morton, I've taught you to think too fast. You can't +fasten a scheme of ethics on any silly aphorism of mine. Go home and +read your book. Dwell with picturesque pirates, and walk with flawless +and touching virtue. Delve for buried treasure. That, at least, is +always worth while."</p> + +<p>George's attitude was a challenge.</p> + +<p>"Remembering," he said, softly, "to dig in a nice manner even if your +hands do get dirty."</p> + +<p>Bailly sprawled in his chair and waved George away. "You need a +preacher," he said, "not a tutor."</p> + + +<h3>XI</h3> + +<p>In his room George opened his book and read happily. Never in his life +had he been so relaxed and content. Entangled in the adventures of +colourful characters he didn't hear at first the sliding of stealthy +feet in the hall, whispered consultations, sly knockings at various +doors. Then there came a rap at his own door, and he glanced up, +surprised, sweeping the photograph and the broken crop into the table +drawer.</p> + +<p>"Come in," he called, not heartily.</p> + +<p>A dozen young men crowded slowly into the room. They wore orange and +black jerseys and caps brilliant with absurd devices. They had the +appearance of judges of some particularly atrocious criminal. George had +no doubt that he was the man, for those were the days just before hazing +was frowned out of existence by an effete conservatism.</p> + +<p>"Get up, you Freshman," one hissed. "Put on your hat and coat, and +follow us."</p> + +<p>George was on the point of refusing, had his hands half up in fact, to +give them a fight; but a thrill entered his soul that he should be +qualified as a victim of such high-handed nonsense which acknowledged +him as an entity in the undergraduate world. He arose gladly, ready to +obey. Then someone grunted with disgust.</p> + +<p>"Come on. Duck out of here."</p> + +<p>"What for? This guy looks fresh as salt mackerel."</p> + +<p>"It's Morton. We can't monkey with him."</p> + +<p>The others expressed disappointment and thronged through the door in +search of victims more available. George became belligerent for an +opposite reason.</p> + +<p>"Why not?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>The leader smiled in friendly fashion.</p> + +<p>"You'll get all the hazing you need down at the field."</p> + +<p>As the last filed out and closed the door George smiled appreciation. +Even among the Sophomores he was spotted, a privileged and an important +character.</p> + +<p>The next morning, packed with the nervous Freshmen in a lecture room, he +heard his name read out with the sections. He fought his way into the +university offices to scan the list of conditioned men. He didn't appear +on a single slip. He had even managed the easy French paper. He attended +to the formalities of matriculating. He was free to play football, to +take up the by-no-means considerable duties of the laundry agency, to +make friends. He had completed the first lap.</p> + +<p>When he reported at the field that afternoon he found that the Freshmen +had a coach of their own, a young man who possessed the unreal violence +of a Sophomore, but he knew the game, and the extra invective with which +he drove George indicated that Stringham and Green had confided to him +their hopes.</p> + +<p>The squad was large. Later it would dwindle and its members be thrown +into a more intimate contact. Goodhue was there, a promising +quarterback. Rogers toiled with a hopeless enthusiasm. George smiled, +appreciating the other's logic. It was a good thing to try for the team, +even though one had no chance of making it. As a matter of fact, Rogers +disappeared at the first weeding-out.</p> + +<p>The opening fortnight was wholly pleasant—a stressing of fundamentals +that demanded little severe physical effort. Nor did the curriculum +place any grave demands on George. During the evenings he frequently +supplemented his work at the field with a brisk cross-country run, more +often than not in the vicinity of the Alston place. He could see the +lights in the huge house, and he tried to visualize that interior where, +perhaps, men of the Goodhue stamp sat with Betty. He studied those +fortunates, meantime, and the other types that surrounded him. There +were many men of a sort, of the Rogers sort particularly, who +continually suggested their receptivity; and he was invariably +courteous—from a distance, as he had seen Goodhue respond to Rogers. +For George had his eyes focused now. He had seen the best.</p> + +<p>The election of Freshmen class officers outlined several facts. The +various men put up for office were unknown to the class in general, were +backed by little crowds from their own schools. Men from less important +schools, and men, like George, with no preparatory past, voted wild. +These school groups, he saw, clung together; would determine, it was +clear, the social progress through college of their members. That +inevitably pointed to the upper-class club houses on Prospect Street. +George had seen them from his first days at University Field, but until +now they had, naturally enough, failed to impress him with any immediate +interest. He desired the proper contacts for the molding of his own +deportment and, to an extent even greater, for the bearing they would +have on his battle for money and position after he should leave college. +But it became clear to him now that the contest for Prospect Street had +begun on the first day, even earlier, back in the preparatory schools.</p> + +<p>Were such contacts possible in a serviceable measure without success in +that selfish, headlong race? Was it practicable to draw the attention of +the eager, half-blind runners to one outside the sacred little groups? +Football would open certain doors, but if there was one best club he +would have that or nothing. It might be wiser to stand brazenly aloof, +posing as above such infantile jealousies. The future would decide, but +as he left the place of the elections he had an empty feeling, a +sharpened appreciation of the hazards that lay ahead.</p> + +<p>Goodhue would be pointed for the highest. Goodhue would lead in many +ways. He was elected the first president of the class.</p> + +<p>The poor or earnest men, ignorant of everything outside their books, +come from scattered homes, quite friendless, gravitated together in what +men like Rogers considered a social quarantine. Rogers, indeed, ventured +to warn George of the risk of contagion. As chance dictated George +chatted with such creatures; once or twice even walked across the campus +with them.</p> + +<p>"You're making a mistake," Rogers advised, "being seen with polers like +Allen."</p> + +<p>"I've been seen with him twice that I can think of," George answered. +"Why?"</p> + +<p>"That lot'll queer you."</p> + +<p>George put his hand on Rogers' shoulder.</p> + +<p>"See here. If I'm so small that that will queer me, you can put me down +as damned."</p> + +<p>He walked on with that infrequently experienced sensation of having made +an advance. Yet he couldn't quite see why. He had responded to an +instinct that must have been his even in the days at Oakmont, when he +had been less than human. If he didn't see more of men like Allen it was +because they had nothing to offer him; nothing whatever. Goodhue had——</p> + +<p>When their paths crossed on the campus now Goodhue nodded, for each day +they met at the field, both certainties, if they escaped injury, for the +Freshmen eleven.</p> + +<p>Football had ceased to be unalloyed pleasure. Stringham that fall used +the Freshmen rather more than the scrub as a punching bag for the +varsity. The devoted youngsters would take punishment from three or four +successive teams from the big squad. They became, consequently, as hard +as iron. Frequently they played a team of varsity substitutes off its +feet. George had settled into the backfield. He was fast with the ball, +but he found it difficult to follow his interference, losing patience +sometimes, and desiring to cut off by himself. Even so he made +consistent gains through the opposing line. On secondary defence he was +rather too efficient. Stringham was continually cautioning him not to +tackle the varsity pets too viciously. After one such rebuke Goodhue +unbent to sympathy.</p> + +<p>"If they worked the varsity as hard as they do us Stringham wouldn't +have to be so precious careful of his brittle backs. Just the same, +Morton, I would rather play with you than against you."</p> + +<p>George smiled, but he didn't bother to answer. Let Goodhue come around +again.</p> + +<p>George's kicking from the start outdistanced the best varsity punts. The +stands, sprinkled with undergraduates and people from the town, would +become noisy with handclapping as his spirals arched down the field.</p> + +<p>Squibs Bailly, George knew, was always there, probably saying, "I kicked +that ball. I made that run," and he had. The more you thought of it, the +more it became comprehensible that he had.</p> + +<p>The afternoon George slipped outside a first varsity tackle, and dodged +two varsity backs, running forty yards for a touchdown, Squibs limped on +the field, followed by Betty Alston. The scrimmaging was over. The +Freshmen, triumphant because of George's feat, streaked toward the field +house. Goodhue ran close to George. Bailly caught George's arm. Goodhue +paused, calling out:</p> + +<p>"Hello, Betty!"</p> + +<p>At first Betty seemed scarcely to see Goodhue. She held out her hand to +George.</p> + +<p>"That was splendid. Don't forget that you're going to make me +congratulate you this way next fall after the big games."</p> + +<p>"I'll do my best. I want you to," George said.</p> + +<p>Again he responded to the frank warmth of her fingers that seemed +unconsciously endeavouring to make more pliable the hard surface of his +mind.</p> + +<p>"The strength of a lion," Bailly was saying, "united to the cruel +cunning of the serpent. Heaven be praised you didn't seek the higher +education at Yale or Harvard."</p> + +<p>Betty called a belated greeting to Goodhue.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Dicky! Wasn't it a real run? I feel something of a sponsor. I +told him before college opened he would be a great player."</p> + +<p>Goodhue's surprise was momentarily apparent.</p> + +<p>"It was rather nice to see those big fellows dumped," he said.</p> + +<p>Betty went closer to him.</p> + +<p>"Aren't you coming out to dinner soon? I'll promise Green you won't +break training."</p> + +<p>The warm, slender fingers were no longer at George's mind. He felt +abruptly repulsed. He wanted only to get away. Her eyes caught his, and +she smiled.</p> + +<p>"And bring Mr. Morton. I'm convinced he'll never come unless somebody +takes him by the hand."</p> + +<p>George glanced at her hand. He had a whimsical impulse to reach out for +it, to close his eyes, to be led.</p> + +<p>Heavy feet hurried behind the little group. A voice filled with rancour +and disgust cried out:</p> + +<p>"You standing here without blankets just to enjoy the autumn breezes? +You ought to have better sense, Mr. Bailly."</p> + +<p>"It's my fault, Green," Betty laughed.</p> + +<p>"That's different," the trainer admitted, gallantly. "You can't expect a +woman to have much sense. Get to the showers now, and on the run."</p> + +<p>Goodhue and George trotted off.</p> + +<p>"I didn't know you were a friend of Betty Alston's," Goodhue said.</p> + +<p>George didn't answer. Goodhue didn't say anything else.</p> + + +<h3>XII</h3> + +<p>Often after those long, pounding afternoons George returned to his room, +wondering dully, as he had done last summer, why the deuce he did it. +Sylvia's picture stared the same answer, and he would turn with a sigh +to one of the novels Bailly loaned him regularly. Bailly was of great +value there, too, for he chose the books carefully, and George was +commencing to learn that as a man reads so is he very likely to think. +Whenever he spoke now he was careful to modulate his voice, to choose +his words, never to be heard without a reason.</p> + +<p>The little fellow with the moustache whom the Goodhue crowd called Spike +met him on the campus one day after practice.</p> + +<p>"My name," he announced in a high-pitched, slurred voice, "is Wandel. +You may not realize it, but you are a very great man, Morton."</p> + +<p>George looked him over, astonished. He had difficulty not to mock the +other's manner, nearly effeminate.</p> + +<p>"Why am I great, Mr. Wandel?"</p> + +<p>"Anybody," Wandel answered in his singing voice, "who does one thing +better than others is inevitably great."</p> + +<p>George smiled vindictively.</p> + +<p>"I suppose I ought to return the compliment. What do you do?"</p> + +<p>Wandel wasn't ruffled.</p> + +<p>"Very many things. I brew good tea for one. What about a cup now? Come +to my rooms. They're just here, in Blair tower."</p> + +<p>George weighed the invitation. Wandel was beyond doubt of the +fortunates, yet curiously apart from them. George's diplomacy required a +forcing of the fortunates to seek him. Wandel, for that matter, had +sought. Where George might have refused a first invitation from Goodhue +he accepted Wandel's, because he was anxious to know the man's real +purpose in asking him.</p> + +<p>"All right. Thanks. But I haven't much time. I want to do some reading +before dinner."</p> + +<p>He hadn't imagined anything like Wandel's room existed in college, or +could be conceived or executed by one of college age. The study was +large and high with a broad casement window. The waning light increased +the values Wandel had evidently sought. The wall covering and the +draperies at the three doors and the window were a dead shade of green +that, in fact, suggested a withdrawal from life nearly supernatural, at +least medieval. The half-dozen pictures were designed to complete this +impression. They were primitives—an awkward but lovely Madonna, a +procession of saints who seemed deformed by their experiences, grotesque +conceptions of biblical encounters. There were heavy rugs, also green in +foundation; and, with wide, effective spaces between, stood +uncomfortable Gothic chairs, benches, and tables.</p> + +<p>Two months ago George would have expressed amazement, perhaps +admiration. Now he said nothing, but he longed for Squibs' opinion of +the room. He questioned what it reflected of the pompous little man who +had brought him.</p> + +<p>Wandel stooped and lighted the fire. He switched the heavy green +curtains over the window. In a corner a youth stirred and yawned.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Dalrymple," Wandel said. "Waited long? You know that very great +man, Morton?"</p> + +<p>The increasing firelight played on Dalrymple's face, a countenance +without much expression, intolerant, if anything, but in a far weaker +sense than Sylvia's assurance. George recognized him. He had seen him +accompany Goodhue through the crowd the day of the first examination. +Dalrymple didn't disturb himself.</p> + +<p>"The football player? How do. Damn tea, Spike. You've got whiskey and a +siphon."</p> + +<p>George's hand had been ready. He was thankful he hadn't offered it. In +that moment a dislike was born, not very positive; the emotion one has +for an unwholesome animal.</p> + +<p>Wandel disappeared. After a moment he came in, wearing a fantastic +embroidered dressing gown of the pervading dead green tone. He lighted a +spirit lamp, and, while the water heated, got out a tea canister, cups, +boxes of biscuits, cigarettes, bottles, and glasses. Dalrymple poured a +generous drink. Wandel took a smaller one.</p> + +<p>"You," he said to George, "being a very great man, will have some tea."</p> + +<p>"I'll have some tea, anyway," George answered.</p> + +<p>The door opened. Goodhue strolled in. His eyebrows lifted when he saw +George.</p> + +<p>"Do you know you're in bad company, Morton?"</p> + +<p>"I believe so," George answered.</p> + +<p>Wandel was pleased. George saw Goodhue glance a question at Dalrymple. +Dalrymple merely stared.</p> + +<p>They sat about, sipping, talking of nothing in particular, and the +curious room was full of an interrogation. George lost his earlier fancy +of being under Wandel's inspection. It was evident to him now that +Wandel was the man to do his inspecting first. Why the deuce had he +asked him here? Dalrymple and Goodhue were clearly puzzled by the same +question.</p> + +<p>When he had emptied his cup George rose and put on his cap.</p> + +<p>"Thanks for the cup of tea, Wandel."</p> + +<p>"Don't go," Wandel urged.</p> + +<p>He waved his hands helplessly.</p> + +<p>"But, since you're a very distinguished person, I suppose I can't keep +you. Come again, any day this time. Every day."</p> + +<p>The question in Goodhue's eyes increased. Dalrymple altered his position +irritably, and refilled his glass. George didn't say good-bye, waiting +for the first move from him. Dalrymple, however, continued to sip, +unaffected by this departure.</p> + +<p>Goodhue, on the other hand, after a moment's hesitation, followed George +out. When they had reached the tower archway Goodhue paused. The broken +light from an iron-framed lamp exposed the curiosity and indecision in +his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Have you any idea, Morton," he asked, "what Spike's up to with you; I +mean, why he's so darned hospitable all of a sudden?"</p> + +<p>George shook his head. He was quite frank.</p> + +<p>"I'm not so dull," he said, "that I haven't been wondering about that +myself."</p> + +<p>Goodhue smiled, and unexpectedly held out his hand.</p> + +<p>"Good-night, see you at the field to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"Why," George asked as he released that coveted grasp, "do you call +Wandel 'Spike'?"</p> + +<p>Goodhue's voice was uneasy in spite of the laugh with which he coloured +it.</p> + +<p>"Maybe it's because he's so sharp."</p> + + +<h3>XIII</h3> + +<p>George saw a day or two later a professor's criticism in the <i>Daily +Princetonian</i> of the current number of the <i>Nassau Literary Magazine</i>. +Driggs Wandel, because of a poem, was excitedly greeted as a man with a +touch of genius. George borrowed a copy of the <i>Lit</i> from a neighbour, +and read a haunting, unreal bit of verse that seemed a part of the room +in which it had probably been written. Obsessed by the practicality of +the little man, George asked himself just what Wandel had to gain by +this performance. He carried the whole puzzle to Bailly that night, and +was surprised to learn that Wandel had impressed himself already on the +faculty.</p> + +<p>"This verse isn't genius," Bailly said, "but it proves that the man has +an abnormal control of effect, and he does what he does with no apparent +effort. He'll probably be managing editor of the <i>Lit</i> and the +<i>Princetonian</i>, for I understand he's out for that, too. He's going to +make himself felt in his class and in the entire undergraduate body. +Don't undervalue him. Have you stopped to think, Morton, that he still +wears a moustache? Revolutionary! Has he overawed the Sophomores, or has +he too many friends in the upper classes?"</p> + +<p>Bailly limped up and down, ill at ease, seeking words.</p> + +<p>"I don't know how to advise you. I believe he'll help you delve after +some treasure, though the stains on his own hands won't be visible. +Whether it's just the treasure you want is another matter. Be +inscrutable yourself. Accept his invitations. If you can, find out what +he's up to without committing yourself. You can put it down that he +isn't after you for nothing."</p> + +<p>"But why?" George demanded.</p> + +<p>Bailly shrugged his narrow shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Anyway, I've told you what I could, and you'll go your own way whether +you agree or not."</p> + +<p>George did, as a matter of fact. His curiosity carried him a number of +times to Wandel's rooms. Practically always Dalrymple sat aloof, +sullenly sipping whiskey which had no business there. He met a number of +other men of the same crowd who talked football in friendly enough +fashion; and once or twice the suave little fellow made a point of +asking him for a particular day or hour. Always Wandel would introduce +him to some new man, offering him, George felt, as a specimen to be +accepted as a triumph of the Wandel judgment. And in every fresh face +George saw the question he continually asked himself.</p> + +<p>Wandel's campaign accomplished one result: Men like Rogers became more +obsequious, considering George already a unit of that hallowed circle. +But George wasn't fooled. He knew very well that he wasn't.</p> + +<p>Goodhue, however, was more friendly. Football, after all, George felt, +was quite as responsible for that as Betty Alston or Wandel; for it was +the combination of Goodhue at quarter and George at half that accounted +for the team's work against the varsity, and that beat the Yale and the +Harvard Freshmen. Such a consistent and effectual partnership couldn't +help drawing its members closer out of admiration, out of joy in +success, out of a ponderable dependence that each learned to place upon +the other. That conception survived the Freshman season. George no +longer felt he had to be careful with Goodhue. Goodhue had even found +his lodgings.</p> + +<p>"Not palatial," George explained, "because—you may not know it—I am +working my way through college."</p> + +<p>Goodhue's voice was a trifle envious.</p> + +<p>"I know. It must give you a fine feeling to do that."</p> + +<p>Then Betty's vague invitation materialized in a note which mentioned a +date and the fact that Goodhue would be there. Goodhue himself suggested +that George should call at his rooms that evening so they could drive +out together. George had never been before, had not suspected that +Dalrymple lived with Goodhue. The fact, learned at the door, which bore +the two cards, disquieted him, filled him with a sense nearly +premonitory.</p> + +<p>When he had entered in response to Goodhue's call his doubt increased. +The room seemed inimical to him, yet it was a normal enough place. What +did it harbour that he was afraid of, that he was reluctant even to look +for?</p> + +<p>Goodhue was nearly ready. Dalrymple lounged on a window seat. He glanced +at George languidly.</p> + +<p>"Will say, Morton, you did more than your share against those Crimson +Freshmen Saturday."</p> + +<p>George nodded without answering. He had found the object the room +contained for which he had experienced a premonitory fear. On one of the +two desks stood an elaborately framed replica of the portrait he himself +possessed of Sylvia Planter. Its presence there impressed him as a +wrong, for to study and commune with that pictured face he had fancied +his unique privilege. Nor did its presence in this room seem quite +honest, for Sylvia, he was willing to swear, wasn't the type to scatter +her likenesses among young men. George had an instinct to turn on +Dalrymple and demand a history of the print, since Goodhue, he was +certain, wouldn't have placed it there without authority. After all, +such authority might exist. What did he know of Sylvia aside from her +beauty, her arrogance, and her breeding? That was it. Her breeding made +the exposure of her portrait here questionable.</p> + +<p>"What you staring at?" Dalrymple asked, sullenly.</p> + +<p>"Is this your desk?" George demanded.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Why?"</p> + +<p>George faced him abruptly.</p> + +<p>"I was looking at that photograph."</p> + +<p>"What for?" Dalrymple demanded, sitting up.</p> + +<p>"Because," George answered, evenly, "it happens to be where one sees +it."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple flushed.</p> + +<p>"Deuced pretty girl," he said with an affectation of indifference. "Of +course you don't know her."</p> + +<p>"I have seen her," George said, shortly.</p> + +<p>He felt that a challenge had been passed and accepted. He raised his +voice.</p> + +<p>"How about it, Goodhue?"</p> + +<p>"Coming."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple opened his mouth as if to speak, but Goodhue slipped into the +room, and George and he went down the stairs and climbed into Goodhue's +runabout.</p> + +<p>"I didn't know," George said when they had started, "that you lived with +Dalrymple."</p> + +<p>"We were put together at school, so it seemed simple to start out here."</p> + +<p>George was glad to fancy a slight colour of apology, as if such a +companionship needed a reason.</p> + +<p>It was a pleasant and intimate little dinner to which they drove. Mr. +and Mrs. Alston recollected meeting George at the Baillys', and they +were kind about his football. A friend of Betty's from a neighbouring +house made the sixth. George was not uncomfortable. His glass had shown +him that in a dinner suit he was rather better looking than he had +thought. Observation had diminished his dread of social lapses. There +flowed, however, rather too much talk of strange worlds, which included +some approaching gaieties in New York.</p> + +<p>"You," Betty said casually to him, "must run up to my great affair."</p> + +<p>Her aunt, it appeared, would engineer that a short time before the +holidays. George was vague. The prospect of a ballroom was terrifying. +He had danced very little, and never with the type of women who would +throng Betty Alston's début. Yet he wanted to go.</p> + +<p>"Betty," her mother said, dryly, "will have all the lions she can trap."</p> + +<p>George received an unpleasant impression of having been warned. It +didn't affect him strongly, because warnings were wasted there; he was +too much the slave of a photograph and a few intolerable memories. +Sylvia would almost certainly be at that dance.</p> + +<p>Wandel appeared after dinner.</p> + +<p>"I tried to get Dolly to come," he said, "but he was in a most +villainous temper about something, and couldn't be budged. Don't mind +saying he missed a treat. I hired a pert little mare at Marlin's. If I +can find anything in town nearly as good I'll break the two to tandem +this winter."</p> + +<p>George's suppressed enthusiasm blazed.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to help you. I'd give a good deal for a real fight with a +horse."</p> + +<p>He was afraid he had plunged in too fast. He met the surprise of the +others by saying he had played here and there with other people's +horses; but the conversation had drifted to a congenial topic, and it +got to polo.</p> + +<p>"Because a man was killed here once," Wandel said, "is no reason why the +game should be damned forever."</p> + +<p>"If you young men," Mr. Alston offered, "want to get some ponies down in +the spring, or experiment with what I've got, you're welcome to play +here all you please, and it might be possible to arrange games with +scrub teams from Philadelphia and New York."</p> + +<p>"Do you play, Mr. Morton?" Betty asked, interestedly.</p> + +<p>"I've scrubbed around," he said, uncertainly.</p> + +<p>She laughed.</p> + +<p>"Then he's a master. That's what he told dear old Squibs about his +football."</p> + +<p>George wanted to get away from horses. He could score only through +action. Talking was dangerous. He was relieved when he could leave with +Goodhue and Wandel.</p> + +<p>The runabout scurried out of Wandel's way. The pert little mare sensed a +rival in the automobile, and gave Wandel all the practice he wanted. +George smiled at the busy little man as his cart slithered from side to +side of the driveway.</p> + +<p>"That's Spike's one weakness," Goodhue laughed as they hurried off. +"He's not a natural horseman, but he loves the beasts, so he takes his +falls. By the way, I rather think I can guess what he's up to with you."</p> + +<p>"What?" George asked.</p> + +<p>Goodhue shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Learn from Spike. Anyway, I may be wrong."</p> + +<p>Then why had Goodhue spoken at all? To put him on his guard?</p> + +<p>"Wandel," George promised himself, "will get away with nothing as far as +I am concerned."</p> + +<p>Yet all that night the thought of the little man made him uncomfortable.</p> + + +<h3>XIV</h3> + +<p>George watched his first big varsity game the following Saturday. It was +the last of the season, against Yale. He sat with Goodhue and other +members of the Freshman eleven in an advantageous part of the stands. +The moment the blue squad, greeted by a roar, trotted on the field, he +recognized Lambert Planter's rangy figure. Lambert's reputation as a +fullback had come to Princeton ahead of him, and it had scarcely been +exaggerated. Once he had torn through the line he gave the Princeton +backs all they wanted to do. He kicked for Yale. Defensively he was the +deadliest man on the field. He, George and Goodhue agreed, would +determine the outcome. As, through him, the balance of the contest +commenced to tip, George experienced a biting restlessness. It wasn't +the prospect of the defeat of Princeton by Yale that angered him so much +as the fact that Lambert Planter would unquestionably be the cause. +George felt it unjust that rules should exist excluding him from that +bruising and muddy contest. More than anything else just then he wanted +to be on the field, stopping Planter, avoiding the reluctance of such an +issue.</p> + +<p>"We ought to be out there, Morton," Goodhue muttered. "If nothing +happens, we will be next year."</p> + +<p>"It's that fellow Planter," George answered. "He could be stopped."</p> + +<p>"You could stop him," Goodhue said. "You could outkick him."</p> + +<p>George's face was grim.</p> + +<p>"I'm stronger than Planter," he said, simply. "I could beat him."</p> + +<p>The varsity, however, couldn't. Lambert, during the last quarter, +slipped over the line for the deciding touchdown. The game ended in a +dusky and depressing autumn haze. George and Goodhue watched sullenly +the enemy hosts carry Planter and the other blue players about the +field. Appearing as if they had survived a disaster, they joined the +crowd of men and women, relatives and friends of the players, near the +field house. The vanquished and the substitutes had already slipped +through and out of sight. The first of the steaming Yale men appeared +and threaded a path toward the steps. Lambert, because he had been +honoured most, was the last to arrive, and at that moment out of the +multitude there came into George's vision faces that he knew, as if they +had waited to detach themselves for this spectacular advent.</p> + +<p>He saw the most impressive one first of all, and he stood, as he had +frequently stood before her portrait, staring in a mood of wilful +obstinacy. It was only for a few moments, and she was quite some +distance away. Before he could appreciate the chance, she had withdrawn +herself, after a quick, approving tap of her brother's shoulder, among +the curious, crowding people. George had seen her face glow with a happy +pride in spite of her effort at repression; but in the second face which +he noticed there was no emotion visible at all. The hero's mother simply +nodded. Dalrymple stood between mother and daughter, smiling inanely.</p> + +<p>Lambert forged ahead, filthy and wet. The steam, like vapour from an +overworked animal, wavered about him. The Baillys and the Alstons pushed +close to George and Goodhue, who were in Lambert's path, pressed there +and held by the anxious people.</p> + +<p>At sight of Betty, Lambert paused and stretched out his hand. She was, +George thought, whiter than ever.</p> + +<p>"You'll say hello even to an Eli?"</p> + +<p>She gave her hand quickly, the colour invading her pallor. For an +instant George thought Lambert was going to draw her closer, saw his +lips twitch, heard him say:</p> + +<p>"Don't hold it against me, Betty."</p> + +<p>Certainly something was understood between these two, or Lambert, at +least, believed so.</p> + +<p>Betty freed her hand and caught at George's arm.</p> + +<p>"Look at him," she said clearly, indicating Planter. "You're going to +take care of him next fall. You're not going to let him laugh at us +again."</p> + +<p>George managed a smile.</p> + +<p>"I'll take care of him, Miss Alston."</p> + +<p>Lambert's dirty face expanded.</p> + +<p>"These are threats! And it's—George. Then we're to have a return bout +next fall. I'll look forward to it. Hello, Dick. Good-bye, Betty. Till +next fall—George."</p> + +<p>He passed on, leaving an impression of confidence and conquest.</p> + +<p>"Why," Betty said, impulsively, in George's ear, "does he speak to you +that way? Why does he call you George like that?"</p> + +<p>For a moment he looked at her steadily, appealingly.</p> + +<p>"It's partly my own fault," he said at last, "but it hurts."</p> + +<p>Her voice was softer than before.</p> + +<p>"That's wrong. You mustn't let little things hurt, George."</p> + +<p>For the first time in his memory he felt a stinging at his eyes, the +desire for tears. He didn't misunderstand. Her use of his first name was +not a precedent. It had been balm applied to a wound that she had only +been able to see was painful. Yet, as he walked away with Goodhue, he +felt as if he had been baptized again.</p> + + +<h3>XV</h3> + +<p>Wandel, quite undisturbed, joined them.</p> + +<p>"You and Dicky," the little man said, "look as if you had come out of a +bad wreck. What's up? It's only a game."</p> + +<p>"Of course you're right," George answered, "but you have to play some +games desperately hard if you want to win."</p> + +<p>"Now what are you driving at, great man?" Wandel wanted to know.</p> + +<p>"Come on, Spike," Goodhue said, irritably. "You're always looking for +double meanings."</p> + +<p>George walked on with them, desolately aware of many factors of his life +gone awry. The game; Lambert's noticeable mockery, all the more +unbearable because of its unaffectedness; Dalrymple's adjacence to +Sylvia—these remembrances stung, the last most of all.</p> + +<p>"Come on up, you two," Goodhue suggested as they approached the building +in which he lived, "I believe Dolly's giving tea to Sylvia Planter and +her mother."</p> + +<p>George wanted to see if the photograph was still there, but he couldn't +risk it. He shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Not into the camp of the enemy?" Wandel laughed.</p> + +<p>Of course, George told himself as he walked off, Wandel's words couldn't +possibly have held any double meaning.</p> + +<p>He fought it out that night, sleeping scarcely at all. In the rush of +his progress here he had failed to realize how little he had really +advanced toward his ultimate goal. Lambert had offhand, perhaps +unintentionally, shown him that afternoon how wide the intervening space +still stretched. Was it because of moral cowardice that he shrank from +challenging a crossing? The answer to such a challenge might easily mean +the destruction of all he had built up, the heavy conditioning of his +future which now promised so abundantly.</p> + +<p>He faced her picture with his eyes resolute, his jaw thrust out.</p> + +<p>"I'll do it," he told the lifeless print. "I'll make you know me. I'll +teach your brother not to treat me as a servant who has forgotten his +place."</p> + +<p>The last, in any case, couldn't be safely put off. Lambert's manner had +already aroused Betty's interest. Had she known its cause she might not +have resented it so sweetly for George. There was no point in fretting +any more. His mind was made up to challenge at the earliest possible +moment.</p> + +<p>In furtherance of his resolution he visited his tailor the next day, and +during the evening called at the Baillys'. He came straight to the +point.</p> + +<p>"I want some dancing lessons," he said. "Do you know anybody?"</p> + +<p>Bailly limped up, put his hands on George's shoulder, and studied him.</p> + +<p>"Is this traceable to Wandel?"</p> + +<p>"No. To what I told you last summer."</p> + +<p>"He's going to Betty Alston's dance," Mrs. Bailly cried.</p> + +<p>"If I'm asked," George admitted, "but as a general principle——"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bailly interrupted, assuming control.</p> + +<p>"Move that table and the chairs," she directed the two men. "You'll keep +my husband's secret—tinkling music hidden away between grand opera +records. It will come in handy now."</p> + +<p>George protested, but she had her own way. Bailly sat by, puffing at his +pipe, at first scornful.</p> + +<p>"I hate to see a football player pirouetting like a clown."</p> + +<p>But in a little while he was up, awkwardly illustrating steps, his +cheeks flushed, his cold pipe dangling from his lips.</p> + +<p>"You dance very well as it is," Mrs. Bailly told George. "You do need a +little quieting. You must learn to remember that the ballroom isn't a +gridiron and your partner the ball."</p> + +<p>And at the end of a fortnight she told him he was tamed and ready for +the soft and perfumed exercise of the dance floor.</p> + +<p>He was afraid Betty wouldn't remember. Her invitation had been informal, +his response almost a refusal.</p> + +<p>On free afternoons Goodhue and he often ran together, trying to keep in +condition, already feeling that the outcome of next year's big games +would depend on them. They trotted openly through the Alston place, +hoping for a glimpse of Betty as a break in their grind. When she saw +them from the house she would come out and chat for a time, her yellow +hair straying in the wind, her cheeks flushed from the cold. During +these brief conferences it was made clear that she had not forgotten, +and that George would go up with Goodhue and be a guest at his home the +night of the dance.</p> + +<p>George was grateful for that quality of remoteness in Goodhue which at +first had irritated him. Now he was well within Goodhue's vision, and +acceptably so; but the young man had not shown the slightest interest in +his past or his lack of the right friends before coming to Princeton. At +any moment he might.</p> + +<p>The Goodhue house was uptown between Fifth and Madison avenues. It was +as unexpected to George as Wandel's green study had been. The size of +its halls and rooms, the tasteful extravagance of its decorations, the +quiet, liveried servants took his breath. It was difficult not to say +something, to withhold from his glance his admiration and his lack of +habit.</p> + +<p>There he was at last, handing his hat and coat to one who bent +obsequiously. He felt a great contempt. He told himself he was unjust, +as unjust as Sylvia, but the contempt persisted.</p> + +<p>There were details here more compelling than anything he had seen or +fancied at Oakmont. The entire household seemed to move according to a +feudal pattern. Goodhue's father and mother welcomed George, because +their son had brought him, with a quiet assurance. Mrs. Goodhue, George +felt, might even appreciate what he was doing. That was the outstanding, +the feudal, quality of both. They had an air of unprejudiced judgment, +of removal from any selfish struggle, of being placed beyond question.</p> + +<p>Goodhue and George dined at a club that night. They saw Wandel and +Dalrymple, the latter flushed and talking louder than he should have +done in an affected voice. They went to the theatre, and afterward drove +up Fifth Avenue to Betty's party. George was dazzled, and every moment +conscious of the effort to prevent Goodhue's noticing it. His excitement +increased as he came to the famous establishment in the large ballroom +of which Betty was waiting, and, perhaps, already, Sylvia. To an extent +the approaching culmination of his own campaign put him at ease; lifted +him, as it were, above details; left him free to face the moment of his +challenge.</p> + +<p>The lower halls were brilliant with pretty, eager faces, noisy with +chatter and laughter, a trifle heady from an infiltration of perfumes.</p> + +<p>Wandel joined them upstairs and took George's card, returning it after a +time nearly filled.</p> + +<p>"When you see anybody you particularly want to dance with," he advised +secretly, "just cut in without formality. The mere fact of your presence +ought to be introduction enough. You see everybody here knows, or thinks +he knows, everybody else."</p> + +<p>George wondered why Wandel went out of his way, and in that particular +direction. Did the little man suspect? The succeeding moments brushed +the question aside.</p> + +<p>Betty was radiant, lovelier in her white-and-yellow fashion than George +had ever seen her. He shrank a little from their first contact, all the +more startling to him because he was so little accustomed to the ritual +familiarity of dancing. With his arm around her, with her hand in his, +with her golden hair brushing his cheek, with her lips and eyes smiling +up at him, he felt like one who steals. Why not? Didn't people win their +most prized possessions through theft of one kind or another? It was +because those pliant fingers were always at his mind that he wanted to +release them, wanted to run away from Betty since she always made him +desire to tell her the truth.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad you could come. It isn't as bad as football, is it? Have we +any more? If I show signs of distress do cut in if you're not too busy."</p> + +<p>He overcame his fear of collisions, avoiding other couples smoothly and +rhythmically. Dalrymple, he observed, was less successful, apologizing +in a high, excited voice. As in a haze George watched a procession of +elderly women, young girls, and men of every age, with his own tall +figure and slightly anxious face greeting him now and then from a +mirror. This repeated and often-unexpected recognition encouraged him. +He was bigger and better looking than most; in the glasses, at least, he +appeared as well-dressed. More than once he heard girls say:</p> + +<p>"Who is that big chap with Betty Alston?"</p> + +<p>With all his heart he wanted to ask Betty why she had been so kind to +him from the beginning, why she was so kind now. He longed to tell her +how it had affected him. She glanced up curiously. Without realizing it +his grasp had tightened. He relaxed it, wondering what had been in his +mind. It was this odd proximity to a beautiful girl who had been kind to +him that had for a moment swung him from his real purpose in coming +here, the only purpose he had. He resumed his inspection of the crowding +faces. He didn't see Lambert or Sylvia. Had he been wrong? It was +incredible they shouldn't appear.</p> + +<p>The music stopped.</p> + +<p>"Thanks," he said. "Three after this."</p> + +<p>His voice was wistful.</p> + +<p>"I did like that."</p> + +<p>He desired to tell her that he didn't care to dance with any one else, +except Sylvia, of course.</p> + +<p>"I enjoyed it, too. Will you take me back?"</p> + +<p>But her partner met them on the way, and he commenced to trail his.</p> + +<p>It was halfway through the next number that he knew he had not planned +futilely. It was like Sylvia to arrive in that fashion—a distracting +element in a settled picture, or as one beyond the general run for whom +a special welcome was a matter of course. To George's ears the orchestra +played louder, as if to call attention to her. To his eyes the dancers +slackened their pace. The chatter certainly diminished, and nearly +everyone glanced toward the door where she stood a little in advance of +her mother and two men.</p> + +<p>George was able to judge reasonably. In dress and appearance she was the +most striking woman in the room. Her dark colouring sprang at one, +demanding attention. George saw Dalrymple unevenly force a path in her +direction. He caught his breath. The dance resumed its former rhythm. In +its intricacies Sylvia was for a time lost.</p> + +<p>Sometime later Lambert drifted in. George saw him dancing with Betty. He +also found Sylvia. He managed to direct his partner close to her a +number of times. She must have seen him, but her eyes did not waver or +her colour heighten. He wouldn't ask for an introduction. There was no +point. His imagination pictured a number of probable disasters. If he +should ask her to dance would she recognize him, and laugh, and demand, +so that people could hear, how he had forced a way into this place?</p> + +<p>George relinquished his partner to a man who cut in. From a harbour +close to the wall he watched Sylvia, willing himself to the point of +action.</p> + +<p>"I will make her know me before I leave this dance," he said to himself.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple had her now. His weak face was too flushed. He was more than +ever in people's way. George caught the distress in Sylvia's manner. He +remembered Wandel's advice, what Betty had asked him to do for her. He +dodged, without further reflection, across the floor, and held out his +hand.</p> + +<p>"If I may——"</p> + +<p>Without looking at him she accepted his hand, and they glided off, while +Dalrymple stared angrily. George scarcely noticed. There was room in his +mind for no more than this amazing and intoxicating experience. She was +so close that he could have bent his head and placed his lips on her +dark hair—closer than she had been that unforgettable day. The +experience was worthless unless she knew who he was.</p> + +<p>"She must know," he thought.</p> + +<p>If she did, why did she hide her knowledge behind an unfathomable +masquerade?</p> + +<p>"That was kind of you," he heard her say. "Poor Dolly!"</p> + +<p>She glanced up. Interrogation entered her eyes.</p> + +<p>"I can't seem to remember——"</p> + +<p>"I came from Princeton with Dick Goodhue," he explained. "It seemed such +a simple thing. Shouldn't I have cut in?"</p> + +<p>He looked straight at her now. His heart seemed to stop. She had to be +made to remember.</p> + +<p>"My name is George Morton."</p> + +<p>She smiled.</p> + +<p>"I've heard Betty talk of you. You're a great football player. It was +very kind. Of course it's all right."</p> + +<p>But it wasn't. The touch of her hand became unbearable to George because +she didn't remember. He had to make her remember.</p> + +<p>They were near the entrance. He paused and drew her apart from the +circling dancers.</p> + +<p>"Would you mind losing a little of this?" he asked, trying to keep his +voice steady. "It may seem queer, but I have something to tell you that +you ought to know."</p> + +<p>She studied him, surprised and curious.</p> + +<p>"I can't imagine——" she began. "What is it?"</p> + +<p>It was only a step through the door and to an alcove with a red plush +bench. The light was soft there. No one was close enough to hear. She +sat down, laughing.</p> + +<p>"Don't keep me in suspense."</p> + +<p>He, too, sat down. He spoke deliberately.</p> + +<p>"The last two times I've seen you you wouldn't remember me. Even now, +when I've told you my name, you won't."</p> + +<p>Her surprise increased.</p> + +<p>"It's about you! But I said Betty had——Who are you?"</p> + +<p>He bent closer.</p> + +<p>"If I didn't tell you you might remember later. Anyway, I wouldn't want +to fight a person whose eyes were closed."</p> + +<p>Her lips half parted. She appeared a trifle frightened. She made a +movement as if to rise.</p> + +<p>"Just a minute," he said, harshly.</p> + +<p>He called on the hatred that had increased during the hours of his +mental and physical slavery, a hatred to be appeased only through his +complete mastery of her.</p> + +<p>"It won't take much to remind you," he hurried on. "Although you talk to +me as if I were a man now, last summer I was a beast because I had the +nerve to touch you when you were thrown from your horse."</p> + +<p>She stood up quickly, reaching out for the alcove curtain. Her contralto +voice was uneven.</p> + +<p>"Stop! You shouldn't have said that. You shouldn't have told me."</p> + +<p>All at once she straightened, her cheeks flaming. She started for the +ballroom. He sprang after her, whispering over her shoulder:</p> + +<p>"Now we can start fair."</p> + +<p>She turned and faced him.</p> + +<p>"I don't know how you got here, but you ask for a fight, Mr. Morton——"</p> + +<p>He smiled.</p> + +<p>"I am Mr. Morton now. I'm getting on."</p> + +<p>Then he knew again that sickening sensation of treacherous ground eager +to swallow him.</p> + +<p>"Are you going to run and tell them," he asked, softly, "as you did your +father last summer?"</p> + +<p>She crossed the threshold of the ballroom. He watched her while she +hesitated for a moment, seeking feverishly someone in the brilliant, +complacent crowd.</p> + + +<h3>XVI</h3> + +<p>George watched Sylvia, fighting his instinct to call out a command that +she should keep secret forever what he had told her. It was intolerable +to stand helpless, to realize that on her sudden decision his future +depended. Did she seek her mother, or Lambert, who would understand +everything at the first word? Nevertheless, he preferred she should go +to Lambert, because he could forecast too easily the alternative—Mrs. +Planter's emotionless summoning of Betty and her mother; perhaps of +Goodhue or Wandel or Dalrymple; the brutal advertisement of just what he +was to all the people he knew, to all the people he wanted to know. That +might mean the close of Betty's friendliness, the destruction of the +fine confidence that had developed between him and Goodhue, a violent +reorganization of all his plans. He gathered strength from a warm +realization that with Squibs and Mrs. Squibs Sylvia couldn't possibly +hurt him.</p> + +<p>He became ashamed of his misgivings, aware that for nothing in the +world, even if he had the power, would he rearrange the last five +minutes.</p> + +<p>He saw her brilliant figure start forward and take an uneven course +around the edge of the room until a man caught her and swung her out +among the dancers. George turned away. He was sorry it was Wandel who +had interfered, but that would give her time to reflect; and even if she +blurted it out to Wandel, the little man might be decent enough to +advise her to keep quiet.</p> + +<p>George wandered restlessly across the hall to the smoking-room. How long +would the music lilt on, imprisoning Sylvia in the grasp of Wandel or +another man?</p> + +<p>He asked for a glass of water, and took it to a lounge in front of the +fire. Here he sat, listening to the rollicking music, to the softer +harmonies of feminine voices that seemed to define for him compelling +and pleasurable vistas down which he might no longer glance. When the +silence came Sylvia would go to her mother or Lambert.</p> + +<p>"My very dear—George."</p> + +<p>Lambert himself bent over the back of the lounge. George guessed the +other had seen him enter and had followed. All the better, even if he +had come to attack. George had things to say to Lambert, too; so he +glanced about the room and was grateful that, except for the servants, +it held only some elderly men he had never seen before, who sat at a +distance, gossiping and laughing.</p> + +<p>"Where," Lambert asked, "will I run into you next?"</p> + +<p>"Anywhere," George said. "Whenever we're both invited to the same place. +I didn't come without being asked, so my being here isn't funny."</p> + +<p>Lambert walked around and sat down. All the irony had left his face. He +had an air of doubtful disapproval.</p> + +<p>"Maybe not funny," he said, "but—odd."</p> + +<p>George stirred. How long would the music and the laughter continue to +drift in?</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"You've travelled a long way," Lambert mused. "I wonder if in football +clothes men don't look too much of a pattern. I wonder if you haven't +let yourself be carried a little too far."</p> + +<p>"Why?" George asked again.</p> + +<p>"Princeton and football," Lambert went on, "are well enough in their +way; but when you come to a place like this and dance with those girls +who don't know, it seems scarcely fair. Of course, if they knew, and +wanted you still—that's the whole point."</p> + +<p>"They wouldn't," George admitted, "but why should they matter if the +people that count know?"</p> + +<p>Lambert glanced at him. Was the music's quicker measure prophetic of the +end?</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" Lambert asked.</p> + +<p>"What you said last fall has worried me," George answered. "That's the +reason I came here—so that your sister would know me from Adam. She +does, and she can do what she pleases about it. It's in her hands now."</p> + +<p>Lambert reddened.</p> + +<p>"You've the nerve of the devil," he said, angrily. "You had no business +to speak to my sister. The whole thing had been forgotten."</p> + +<p>George shook his head.</p> + +<p>"You hadn't forgotten it. She told me that day that I shouldn't forget. +I hadn't forgotten it. I never will."</p> + +<p>"I can't talk about it," Lambert said.</p> + +<p>He looked squarely at George.</p> + +<p>"Here's what puts your being here out of shape: You're ashamed of what +you were. Aren't you?"</p> + +<p>"I've always thought," George said, "you were man enough to realize it's +only what I am and may become that counts. I wouldn't say ashamed. I'm +sorry, because it makes what I'm doing just that much harder; because +you, for instance, know about it, and might cause trouble."</p> + +<p>Lambert made no difficulty about the implied question.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to risk causing trouble for any one unjustly. It's up to +you not to make me. But don't bother my sister again."</p> + +<p>"Let me get far enough," George said, "and you won't be able to make +trouble—you, or your sister, or your father."</p> + +<p>Lambert grinned, the doubt leaving his face as if he had reached a +decision.</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't bank on father. I'd keep out of his sight."</p> + +<p>The advice placed him, for the present, on the safe side. Sylvia's +decision remained, and just then the music crashed into a silence, +broken by exigent applause. George got up, thrusting his hands in his +pockets. The orchestra surrendered to the applause, but was Sylvia +dancing now?</p> + +<p>Voices drifted in from the hall, one high and obdurate; others better +controlled, but persistent in argument. Lambert grimaced. George +sneered.</p> + +<p>"But that's all right, because he didn't have to work for his living."</p> + +<p>"If you don't come a cropper," Lambert said, "you'll get fed up with +that sort of thinking. Dolly's young."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple was the first in the room, flushed, a trifle uneven in his +movements. Goodhue and Wandel followed. Goodhue smiled in a pained, +surprised way. Wandel's precise features expressed nothing.</p> + +<p>"Why not dancing, Lambert, old Eli?" Dalrymple called jovially. "Haul +these gospel sharks off——Waiter! I say, waiter! Something bubbly, dry, +and nineteen hundred, if they're doing us that well."</p> + +<p>The others didn't protest. They seemed to arrange themselves as a +friendly screen between Dalrymple and the elderly men. George didn't +care to talk to Dalrymple in that condition—there was too much that +Dalrymple had always wanted to say and hadn't. He started for the door, +but Wandel caught his arm.</p> + +<p>"Wait around, very strong person," he whispered. "Dolly doesn't know it, +but he's leaving in a minute."</p> + +<p>George shook his head, and started on. Dalrymple glanced up.</p> + +<p>"Morton!" he said.</p> + +<p>Goodhue took the glass from the waiter, but Dalrymple, grinning a shamed +sort of triumph and comprehension, reached out for it and sipped.</p> + +<p>"Not bad. Great dancer, Morton. Around the end, and through the centre, +and all that——"</p> + +<p>"Keep quiet," Goodhue warned him.</p> + +<p>George knew that the other wouldn't. He shrank from the breaking of the +sullen truce between them. Dalrymple glanced at his cuffs, spilling a +little of the wine.</p> + +<p>"Damned sight more useful to stick to your laundry—it's none too good."</p> + +<p>Quite distinctly George caught Lambert's startled change of countenance +and his quick movement forward, Goodhue's angry flush, Wandel's apparent +unconcern. In that moment he measured his advance, understood all he had +got from Squibs and books, from Betty, from Goodhue, from Princeton; +but, although he easily conquered his first impulse to strike, his rage +glowed the hotter because it was confined. As he passed close he heard +Lambert whisper:</p> + +<p>"Good man!"</p> + +<p>But even then Wandel wouldn't let him go, and the music had stopped +again, and only the undefinable shadows of women's voices reached him. +He tried to shake off Wandel who had followed him to the hall. He +couldn't wait. He had to enter that moving, chattering crowd to find out +what Sylvia had decided.</p> + +<p>"Go downstairs, great man," Wandel was whispering, "get a cab, and wait +in it at the door, so that you will be handy when I bring the infant +Bacchus out."</p> + +<p>"I'd rather not," George said, impatiently. "Someone else will do."</p> + +<p>"By no means. Expediency, my dear friend, and the general welfare. +Hercules for little Bacchus."</p> + +<p>He couldn't refuse. Wandel and Goodhue, and, for that matter all of +Dalrymple's friends, those girls in there, depended on him; yet he knew +it was a bad business for him and for Dalrymple; and he wanted above all +other things to pass for a moment through that brilliant screen that +moved perpetually between him and Sylvia.</p> + +<p>He waited in the shadows of the cab until Dalrymple and Wandel left the +building. Wandel motioned the other into the cab. Dalrymple obeyed, +willingly enough, swinging his stick, and humming off the key. Probably +Wandel's diplomacy. Wandel jumped in, called an address to the driver, +and slammed the door.</p> + +<p>"Where are you taking him?" George asked.</p> + +<p>For the first time Dalrymple seemed to realize who the silent man in the +shadows was.</p> + +<p>"I'm not going on any party with Morton," he said, sullenly.</p> + +<p>"You can go to the devil," Wandel said, pleasantly, "as long as you keep +away from decent people until you're decent yourself."</p> + +<p>"No," George said. "He's going home or I have nothing more to do with +it."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you're right," Wandel agreed, "but you can fancy I had to offer +him something better than that to get him out."</p> + +<p>He tapped on the pane and gave the driver the new address. Dalrymple +started to rise.</p> + +<p>"Won't go home—you keep your dirty hands off me, Morton. You——"</p> + +<p>"Hercules!" softly from Wandel.</p> + +<p>George grasped Dalrymple's arms, pulled him down, held him as in a +vise. Dalrymple raved. Wandel laughed pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"Dirty hands," flashed through George's brain. Did Dalrymple know +anything, or was it an instinctive suspicion, or merely the explosion of +helpless temper and dislike?</p> + +<p>The ride was brief, and the block in which Dalrymple lived was, +fortunately, at that moment free of pedestrians. Wandel descended and +rang the bell. When the door was opened George relaxed his grasp. +Dalrymple tried to spring from the opposite side of the cab. George +caught him, lifted him, carried him like a child across the sidewalk, +and set him down in the twilight of a hall where a flunky gaped.</p> + +<p>"There's your precious friend," he accused Wandel.</p> + +<p>He returned to the cab, rubbing his hands as if they needed cleansing.</p> + +<p>"There's no one like you, great man," Wandel said when he had come back +to the cab. "You've done Dolly and everyone he would have seen to-night +a good turn."</p> + +<p>But George felt he had done himself a bad one. During the rest of his +time at Princeton, and afterward in New York, he would have a dangerous +enemy. Dirty hands! Trust Dalrymple to do his best to give that +qualification its real meaning. And these people! You could trust them, +too, to stand by Dalrymple against the man who had done them a good +turn. It had been rotten of Wandel to ask it, to take him away at that +vital moment. Anyway, it was done. He forgot Dalrymple in his present +anxiety. The ride seemed endless. The ascent in the elevator was a +unique torture. The cloak-room attendants had an air of utter +indifference. When he could, George plunged into the ballroom, escaping +Wandel, threading the hurrying maze to the other end of the room where +earlier in the evening he had seen Sylvia's mother sitting with Mrs. +Alston. George passed close, every muscle taut. Mrs. Planter gave no +sign. Mrs. Alston reached over and tapped his arm with her fan. He +paused, holding his breath.</p> + +<p>"Betty asked me to look for you," she said. "Where have you been? She +was afraid you had found her party tiresome. You haven't been dancing +much."</p> + +<p>He answered her politely, and walked on. He braced himself against the +wall, the strain completely broken. She hadn't told. She hadn't demanded +that her mother take her home. She hadn't said: "Betty, what kind of men +do you ask to your dances?" Why hadn't she? Again he saw his big, +well-clothed figure in a glass, and he smiled. Was it because he was +already transformed?</p> + +<p>Here she came, dancing with Goodhue, and Goodhue seemed trying to lead +her close. George didn't understand at first that he silently asked for +news of Dalrymple. His own eyes studied Sylvia. Her face held too much +colour. She gave him back his challenge, but the contempt in her eyes +broadened his smile. He managed a reassuring nod to Goodhue, but +Dalrymple, for the time, was of no importance. Sylvia was going to +fight, and not like a spoiled child. He must have impressed her as being +worthy of a real fight.</p> + +<p>He faced the rest of the evening with new confidence. He forgot to be +over-careful with these people whose actions were unstudied. He dodged +across the floor and took Betty from Lambert Planter while Lambert +raised his eyebrows, relinquished her with pronounced reluctance, and +watched George guide her swiftly away. Maybe Lambert was right, and he +ought to tell Betty, but not now. To-night, against all his +expectations, he found himself having a good time, enjoying more than +anything else this intimate and exhilarating progress with Betty. Always +he hated to give her up, but he danced with other girls, and found they +liked to dance with him because he was big, and danced well, and was +Dicky Goodhue's friend and Betty's, and played football; but, since he +couldn't very well ask Sylvia, he only really cared to dance with Betty.</p> + +<p>He was at Betty's table for supper. He didn't like to hear these pretty +girls laughing about Dalrymple, but then with them Dalrymple must have +exercised a good deal of restraint. It ought to be possible to make them +see the ugly side, to bare the man's instinct to go from this party to +another. Then they wouldn't laugh.</p> + +<p>Lambert sat down for awhile.</p> + +<p>"Where's Sylvia?" Betty asked.</p> + +<p>Lambert shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"It's hard enough to keep track of you, Betty. Sylvia's a sister."</p> + +<p>George gathered that Sylvia's absence from that table had impressed them +both. He knew very well where she was, across the room, focus for as +large a gathering as Betty's, chiefly of young men, eager for her +brilliancy. Lambert went on, glancing at George his questions of the +smoking-room.</p> + +<p>It wasn't long before the dawn when George said polite things with +Goodhue and Wandel, and after their pattern. In the lower hall he +noticed that all these pleasure seekers, a while ago flushed and happy, +had undergone a devastating change. Faces were white. Gowns looked +rumpled and old. The laughter and chatter were no longer impulsive.</p> + +<p>"The way one feels after a hard game," he thought.</p> + +<p>Goodhue offered to take Wandel in and drop him. The little man alone +seemed as fresh and neat as at the start of the evening.</p> + +<p>"Had a good time, great person?" he asked as they drove off. "But then +why shouldn't great men always have good times?"</p> + +<p>Wandel's manner suggested that he had seen to George's good time. What +he had actually done was to involve him in an open hostility with +Dalrymple. The others didn't mention that youth. Was there a tactful +thought for him in their restraint?</p> + +<p>They left Wandel at an expensive bachelor apartment house overlooking +the park. George gathered from Goodhue, as they drove on, that Wandel's +attitude toward his family was that of an old and confidential friend.</p> + +<p>"You see Driggs always has to be his own master," he said.</p> + + +<h3>XVII</h3> + +<p>Because of the restless contrast of that trip George brought back to +Princeton a new appreciation; yet beneath the outer beauty there, he +knew, a man's desires and ambitions lost none of their ugliness. He +stared at Sylvia's portrait, but it made him want the living body that +he had touched, that was going to give him a decent fight. Already he +planned for other opportunities to meet her, although with her attitude +what it was he didn't see how he could use them to advance his cause; +and always there was the possibility of her resenting his persistence to +the point of changing her mind about telling.</p> + +<p>He had decided to avoid Dalrymple as far as possible, but that first +night, as he drowsed over a book, he heard a knock at his door, not +loud, and suggestive of reluctance and indecision. He hid the photograph +and the riding crop, and called:</p> + +<p>"Come in!"</p> + +<p>The door opened slowly. Dalrymple stood on the threshold, his weak face +white and perverse. George waited, watching him conquer a bitter +disinclination. He knew what was coming and how much worse it would make +matters between them.</p> + +<p>"It seems," the tortured man said, "that I was beastly rude to you last +night. I've come to say I didn't mean it and am sorry."</p> + +<p>"You've come," George said, quietly, "because Goodhue and Wandel have +made you, through threats, I daresay. If you hadn't meant it you +wouldn't have been rude in just that way. I'm grateful to Goodhue and +Wandel, but I won't have your apologies, because they don't mean a damn +thing."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple's face became evil. He started to back out.</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute," George commanded. "You don't like me because I'm +working my way through college. That's what you shot at me last night +when you'd drunk enough to give you the nerve, but it's been in your +mind all along. I'd pound a little common-sense and decency into you, +only I wouldn't feel clean after doing it."</p> + +<p>That, to an extent, broke down his severity. It sounded queer, from him. +If Lambert Planter could have heard him say that!</p> + +<p>"Let the others think they've done us a good turn," he went on. "We have +to live in the same class without clawing each other's faces every time +we meet, but you can't pull the wool over my eyes, and I won't try to +pull it over yours. Now get out, and don't come here alone again."</p> + +<p>He felt better and cleaner after that. When Dalrymple had gone he +finished his chapter and tumbled into bed.</p> + + +<h3>XVIII</h3> + +<p>George was glad of the laundry, indeed, as the holidays approached. It +gave him a sound excuse for not dashing joyously from Princeton with the +rest, but it didn't cure the depression with which he saw the college +empty. He wandered about a campus as deserted as a city swept by +pestilence, asking himself what he would have done if his father and +mother hadn't exiled him as thoroughly as Old Planter had. There was no +point thinking about that; it wasn't even a question. He took long walks +or stayed in his room, reading, and once or twice answering regretfully +invitations that had sprung from encounters at Betty's party. It was +nice to have them, but of course he couldn't go to such affairs alone +just yet. Besides, he didn't have the money.</p> + +<p>Squibs Bailly limped all the way up his stairs one day, scolding him for +sulking in his tent.</p> + +<p>"I only heard last night that you were in town. I'm not psychic. Why +haven't you been around?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't want to bother——"</p> + +<p>Bailly interrupted him.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid I didn't appreciate you went quite so much alone."</p> + +<p>"Altogether alone," George said. "But I don't want anybody to feel sorry +for me because of that. It has some advantages."</p> + +<p>"You're too young to say such things," Bailly said.</p> + +<p>He made George go to the Dickinson Street house for Christmas dinner. +There was no other guest. The rooms were bright with holly, and a very +small but dazzling Christmas tree stood in a corner, bearing a gift for +him. Mrs. Bailly, as he entered, touched his cheek with her lips and +welcomed him by his first name. She created for him an illusion that +made him choke a trifle. She made him feel as if he had come home.</p> + +<p>"And," he thought, "Squibs and she know."</p> + +<p>He wondered if it was that knowledge that made Squibs go into his social +views one evening when he sat with him in the study. It was then that +George realized he had no such views apart from his own case. Vaguely he +knew that somewhere outside of Princeton strikes multiplied these days, +that poor people complained of the cost of food and housing, that +communistic propaganda was talked with an increasing freedom, that now +and then a bomb burst, destroying more often than not the people it was +designed to help. He saw that Squibs sought to interest him, and he gave +a close attention while the tutor elaborated his slight knowledge of the +growing unrest.</p> + +<p>"But it's all so far away, sir," he said. "I've so much of more +importance to me to bother about right here."</p> + +<p>Bailly relighted his pipe.</p> + +<p>"The happy, limited vision of youth!" he sighed. "You'll be through your +a, b, c's before you know it. Are you going to face such big issues +without any forethought?"</p> + +<p>He smoked for a few moments, then commenced to speak doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"And in another sense it isn't as far away as you think. It all goes on +<i>in petto</i>, right here in undergraduate Princeton. The views a man takes +away from college should be applicable to the conditions he meets +outside."</p> + +<p>"I don't quite see what you mean, sir."</p> + +<p>Why was Bailly going at it so carefully?</p> + +<p>"I mean," Bailly said, "that here you have your poor men, your earnest +men, and your lords of the land. I mean there is no real community of +interest here. I mean you've made friends because you're bigger and +better looking than most, and play football like a demon. You haven't +made any friends simply because you are poor and earnest. And the poor +students suffer from the cost of things, and the rich men don't know and +don't care. And the poor men, and the men without family or a good +school behind them, who haven't football or some outstanding +usefulness, are as submerged as the workers in a mine. Prospect Street +is Fifth Avenue or Park Lane, and the men who can't get in the clubs, +because of poverty or lack of prominence, remind me of the ragged ones +who cling to the railings, peering through at plenty with evil in their +hearts."</p> + +<p>"You're advocating communism, sir?"</p> + +<p>Bailly shook his head.</p> + +<p>"I'm advocating nothing. I'm trying to find out what you advocate."</p> + +<p>"I can't help feeling," George said, stubbornly, "that a man has to look +after himself."</p> + +<p>And as he walked home he confessed freely enough in his own mind:</p> + +<p>"I'm advocating George Morton. How can Squibs expect me to bother with +any one else when I have so far to go?"</p> + + +<h3>XIX</h3> + +<p>He thrust Squibs' uncomfortable prods from his brain. He applied himself +to his books—useful books. Education and culture were more important to +him than the physical reactions of overworked labour or the mental +processes of men who advocated violence. Such distracting questions, +however, were uncomfortably in the air. Allen, one of the poor men +against whom the careful Rogers had warned him long ago, called on him +one cold night. The manner of his address made George wonder if Squibs +had been talking to him, too.</p> + +<p>"Would like a few minutes' chat, Morton. No one worth while's in +Princeton. It won't queer you to have me in your room."</p> + +<p>No, George decided. That was an opening one might expect from Allen. The +man projected an appreciable power from his big, bony figure; his +angular face. George had heard vaguely that he had worked in a factory, +preparing himself for college. He knew from his own observation that +Allen wasn't above waiting at commons, and he had seen the lesser men +turn to him as a leader.</p> + +<p>"Sit down," George said, "and don't talk like an ass. You can't queer +me. What do you want me to do—offer to walk to classes with my arm over +your shoulder? There's too much of that sensitive talk going around."</p> + +<p>"You're a plain speaker," Allen said. "So am I. You'll admit you've seen +a lot more of the pretty crowd than you have of me and my friends. I +thought it might be useful to ask you why."</p> + +<p>"Because," George answered, "I'm in college to get everything I can. You +and your crowd don't happen to have the stuff I want."</p> + +<p>Allen fingered a book nervously.</p> + +<p>"I came," he said, "to see if I couldn't persuade you that we have."</p> + +<p>"I'm listening," George said, indifferently.</p> + +<p>"Right on the table!" Allen answered, quickly. "You're the biggest poor +man in the class. You're logically the poor men's Moses. They admire +you. You've always been talked of in terms of the varsity. Everybody +knows you're Princeton's best football player. The poor men would do +anything for you. What will you do for them?"</p> + +<p>"I won't have you split the class that way," George cried.</p> + +<p>"Every class," Allen said, "is split along that line, only this class is +going to let the split be seen. You work your way through college, but +you run with a rich crowd, led by the hand of Driggs Wandel."</p> + +<p>So even Allen had noticed that and had become curious.</p> + +<p>"Wandel," Allen went on, "will use you to hurt us—the poor men; and +when he's had what he wants of you he'll send you back to the muck +heap."</p> + +<p>George shook his head, smiling.</p> + +<p>"No, because you've said yourself that whatever power I have comes from +football and not from an empty pocket-book."</p> + +<p>"Use all the power you have," Allen urged. "Come in with us. Help the +poor men, and we'll know how to reward you."</p> + +<p>"You're already thinking of Sophomore elections?" George asked. "I don't +care particularly for office."</p> + +<p>Allen's face reddened with anger.</p> + +<p>"I'm thinking of the clubs first. What I said when I came in is true. +The selfish men intriguing for Prospect Street don't dare be friendly +with the poor men; afraid it might hurt their chances to be seen with a +poler. By God, that's vicious! It denies us the companionship we've come +to college to find. We want all the help we can get here. The clubs are +a hideous hindrance. Promise me you'll keep away from the clubs."</p> + +<p>George laughed.</p> + +<p>"I haven't made up my mind about the clubs," he said. "They have bad +features, but there's good in them. The club Goodhue joins will be the +best club of our time in college. Suppose you knew you could get an +election to that; would you turn it down?"</p> + +<p>The angular face became momentarily distorted.</p> + +<p>"I won't consider an impossible situation. Anyway, I couldn't afford it. +That's another bad feature. If you want, I'll say no, a thousand times +no."</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't trust you," George laughed, "but you know you haven't a +chance. So you want to smash the thing you can't get in. I call <i>that</i> +vicious. And let me tell you, Allen. You may reform things out of +existence, but you can't destroy them with a bomb. Squibs Bailly will +tell you that."</p> + +<p>"You think you'll make a good club," Allen said.</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you what I think," George answered, quite unruffled, "when I +make up my mind to stand for or against the clubs. Squibs says half the +evils in the world come from precipitancy. You're precipitate. Thrash it +out carefully, as I'm doing."</p> + +<p>He wondered if he had convinced Allen, knowing very well that his own +attitude would be determined by the outcome of the chance he had to +enter Goodhue's club.</p> + +<p>"We've got to make up our minds now," Allen said. "Promise me that +you'll keep out of the clubs and I'll make you the leader of the class. +You're in a position to bring the poor men to the top for once."</p> + +<p>George didn't want to break with Allen. The man did control a large +section of the class, so he sent him away amicably enough, merely +repeating that he hadn't made up his mind; and ending with:</p> + +<p>"But I won't be controlled by any faction."</p> + +<p>Allen left, threatening to talk with him again.</p> + +<p>George didn't sleep well that night. Squibs and Allen had made him +uncomfortable. Finally he cleared his mind with the reflection that his +private attitude was determined. No matter whom it hurt he was going to +be one of the fortunates with a whip in his hand; but he, above most +people, could understand the impulses of men like Allen, and the +restless ones in the world, who didn't hold a whip, and so desired +feverishly to spring.</p> + + +<h3>XX</h3> + +<p>The cold weather placed a smooth black floor on Lake Carnegie. George +went down one evening with the Baillys. They brought Betty Alston, who +was just home from New York and had dined with them. A round moon smiled +above the row of solemn and vigilant poplars along the canal bank. The +shadows of the trees made you catch your breath as if on the edge of +perilous pitfalls.</p> + +<p>Going down through the woods they passed Allen. Even in that +yellow-splashed darkness George recognized the bony figure.</p> + +<p>"Been skating?" he called.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Morton! No, I don't skate."</p> + +<p>"Then," George laughed, "why don't you smash the ice?"</p> + +<p>Allen laughed back mirthlessly, but didn't answer; and, as they went on, +Betty wanted to know what it was all about. George told her of Allen's +visit.</p> + +<p>"But congenial people," she said, "will always gather together. It would +be dreadful to have one's friends arbitrarily chosen. You'll go to a +club with your friends."</p> + +<p>"But Allen says the poor men can't afford it," he answered. "I'm one of +the poor men."</p> + +<p>"You'll always find a way to do what you want," she said, confidently.</p> + +<p>But when they were on the lake the question of affording the things one +wanted slipped between them again.</p> + +<p>George had a fancy that Mrs. Bailly guided her awkward husband away from +Betty and him. Why? At least it was pleasant to be alone with Betty, +gliding along near the bank, sometimes clasping hands at a half-seen, +doubtful stretch. Betty spoke of it.</p> + +<p>"Where are my guardians?"</p> + +<p>"Let's go a little farther," he urged. "We'll find them easily enough."</p> + +<p>It didn't worry her much.</p> + +<p>"Why did you come back so soon?" she asked.</p> + +<p>He hesitated. He had hoped to avoid such questions.</p> + +<p>"I haven't been away."</p> + +<p>She glanced up, surprised.</p> + +<p>"You mean you've been in Princeton through the holiday?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I feel I ought to go easy with what little I have."</p> + +<p>"I knew you were working your way through," she said, "but I never +guessed it meant as much denial as that."</p> + +<p>"Don't worry," he laughed, "I'll make money next summer."</p> + +<p>"I wish I'd known. And none of your friends thought!"</p> + +<p>"Why should they? They're mostly too rich."</p> + +<p>"That's wrong."</p> + +<p>"Are you driving me into Allen's camp?" he asked. "You can't; for I +expect to be rich myself, some day. Any man can, if he goes about it in +the right way. Maybe Allen doubts his power, and that's the reason he's +against money and the pleasant things it buys. Does it make any +difference to you, my being poor for a time?"</p> + +<p>"Why should it?" she asked, warmly.</p> + +<p>"Allen," he said, "couldn't understand your skating with me."</p> + +<p>Why not tell Betty the rest in this frozen and romantic solitude they +shared? He decided not. He had risked enough for the present. When she +turned around he didn't try to hold her, skating swiftly back at her +side, aware of a danger in such solitude; charging himself with a +scarcely definable disloyalty to his conception of Sylvia.</p> + + +<h3>XXI</h3> + +<p>He fancied Betty desired to make up for her thoughtlessness during the +holidays when she asked him for dinner on a Saturday night. With that +dinner, no matter what others might think of his lack of money and +background, she had put herself on record, for it was a large, formal +party sprinkled with people from New York, and drawing from the +University only the kind of men Allen was out to fight. Wandel, George +thought, rather disapproved of his being there, but as a result, he made +two trips to parties in New York during the winter. Both were failures, +for he didn't meet Sylvia, yet he heard of her always as a dazzling +success.</p> + +<p>He answered Dalrymple's cold politeness with an irritating indifference. +In the spring, however, he detected a radical alteration in Dalrymple's +manner.</p> + +<p>By that time, the scheme discussed carelessly at the Alstons' in the +fall had been worked out. On good afternoons, when their work allowed, a +few men, all friends of the Alstons, drove out, and, with passable +ponies, played practice matches at polo on the field Mr. Alston had had +arranged. The neighbours fell into a habit of concentrating there, and +George was thrown into intimate contact with them, seeing other gates +open rather eagerly before him, for he hadn't miscalculated his ability +to impress with horses. When Mr. Alston had first asked him he had +accepted gladly. Because of his long habit in the saddle and his +accuracy of eye he played better from the start than these other +novices. As in football, he teamed well with Goodhue.</p> + +<p>"Goodhue to Morton," Wandel complained, "or Morton to Goodhue. What +chance has a mere duffer like me against such a very distinguished +combination?"</p> + +<p>It was during these games that Goodhue fell into the practice of +shouting George's first name across the field, and when George became +convinced that such familiarity was not chance, but an expression of a +deepening friendship, he responded unaffectedly. It was inevitable the +others should adopt Goodhue's example. Even Dalrymple did, and George +asked himself why the man was trying to appear friendly, for he knew +that in his heart Dalrymple had not altered.</p> + +<p>It filled George with a warm and formless pleasure to hear Betty using +his Christian name, to realize that a precedent had this time been +established; yet it required an effort, filled him with a great +confusion, to call her familiarly "Betty" for the first time.</p> + +<p>He chatted with her at the edge of the field while grooms led the ponies +up and down.</p> + +<p>"What are your plans for the summer?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"I don't quite know what will happen."</p> + +<p>"We," she said, "will be in Maine. Can't you run up in August? Dicky +Goodhue's coming then."</p> + +<p>He looked at her. He tried to hide his hunger for the companionship, the +relaxation such a visit would give. He glanced away.</p> + +<p>"I wish I could. Have you forgotten I'm to make money? I've got to try +to do that this summer, Betty."</p> + +<p>There, it was out. Colour stole into her white cheeks.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry," she said.</p> + +<p>He had another reason for refusing. He was growing afraid of Betty. He +was conscious of an increasing effort to drive her memory from the +little room where Sylvia's portrait watched. It was, he told himself, +because he didn't see Sylvia oftener, couldn't feel his heart respond to +the exciting enmity in her brilliant eyes.</p> + +<p>Goodhue and Dalrymple, it developed, were parting, amicably enough as +far as any one knew.</p> + +<p>"Dolly thinks he'll room alone next year," was Goodhue's explanation. +Dalrymple explained nothing.</p> + +<p>Driving back to town one afternoon Goodhue proposed to George that he +replace Dalrymple.</p> + +<p>"Campus rooms," he said, "aren't as expensive as most in town."</p> + +<p>He mentioned a figure. George thought rapidly. What an opportunity! And +aside from what Goodhue could do for him, he was genuinely fond of the +man. George craved absolute independence, and he knew Goodhue would give +him all of that he asked for.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to," he said.</p> + +<p>Goodhue smiled.</p> + +<p>"That's splendid. I think we'll manage together."</p> + +<p>Wandel frowned at the news. So did Allen. Allen came frequently now to +talk his college socialism. George listened patiently, always answering:</p> + +<p>"I've made up my mind to nothing, except that I'll take my friends where +I find them, high or low. But I'm not against you, Allen."</p> + +<p>Yet George was uneasy, knowing the moment for making up his mind +wouldn't be long delayed. He understood very well that already some men +knew to what club they'd go more than a year later. Secretly, perhaps +illegally, the sections for the clubs were forming in his class. Small +groups were quietly organizing under the guidance of the upper classes. +During Sophomore year these small groups would elect other men to the +limit of full membership. It was perfectly clear that unless he went in +ahead of Dalrymple his chances of making the club he wanted were +worthless. As a result of his talks with Allen, moreover, he felt that +Wandel didn't want him. If Wandel could persuade Goodhue that George +could serve the interests of the fortunates best from the outside the +issue would be settled.</p> + +<p>"But I won't be used that way," George decided. "I'm out for myself."</p> + +<p>Along that straight line he had made his plans for the summer. Somehow +he was going to study the methods of the greatest financial market in +the country, so that later he could apply them serviceably to his own +fortune. Bailly had other ideas. One night while they lounged on the +front campus listening to senior singing the long tutor suggested that +he take up some form of manual labour.</p> + +<p>"It would keep you in good condition," he said, "and it might broaden +your vision by disclosing the aims and the dissatisfactions of those who +live by the sweat of their brows."</p> + +<p>George frowned.</p> + +<p>"I know enough of that already. I've been a labourer myself. I haven't +the time, sir."</p> + +<p>Bailly probably knew that he was dealing with a point of view far more +determined and mature than that of the average undergraduate. He didn't +argue, but George felt the need of an apology.</p> + +<p>"I've got to learn how to make money," he said.</p> + +<p>"Money isn't everything," Bailly sighed.</p> + +<p>"I've started after certain things," George justified himself. "Money's +one of them. I'll work for next to nothing this summer if I have to. +I'll be a runner, the man who sweeps out the office, anything that will +give me a chance to watch and study Wall Street. I'm sorry if you don't +approve, sir."</p> + +<p>"I didn't say that," Bailly answered, "but the fact was sufficiently +clear."</p> + +<p>Yet George knew perfectly well a few days later that it was Bailly who +had spoken about his ambition to Mr. Alston.</p> + +<p>"Blodgett, I fancy," Mr. Alston said, "will offer you some small start."</p> + +<p>He handed George a letter addressed to one Josiah Blodgett, of the firm +of Blodgett and Sinclair.</p> + +<p>"Good luck, and good-bye until next fall."</p> + +<p>"If you do change your mind——If you can manage it——" Betty said.</p> + +<p>So George, two or three days before commencement, left Princeton for +Wall Street, and presented his letter.</p> + +<p>The offices of Blodgett and Sinclair were gorgeous and extensive, raw +with marble, and shining with mahogany. They suggested a hotel in bad +taste rather than a factory that turned out money in spectacular +quantities.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Blodgett will see you," a young man announced in an awed voice, as +if such condescension were infrequent.</p> + +<p>In the remote room where Blodgett lurked the scheme of furnishing +appeared to culminate. The man himself shared its ornamental grossness. +He glanced up, his bald head puckering half its height. George saw that +although he was scarcely middle-aged Blodgett was altogether too fat, +with puffy, unhealthily coloured cheeks. In such a face the tiny eyes +had an appearance nearly porcine. The man's clothing would have put an +habitué of the betting ring at ease—gray-and-white checks, +dove-coloured spats, a scarlet necktie. Pudgy fingers twisted Mr. +Alston's letter. The little eyes opened wider. The frown relaxed. A bass +voice issued from the broad mouth:</p> + +<p>"If you've come here to learn, you can't expect a million dollars a +week. Say fifteen to start."</p> + +<p>George didn't realize how extraordinarily generous that was. He only +decided he could scrape along on it.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Alston," the deep voice went on, "tells me you're a great football +player. That's a handicap. All you can tackle here is trouble, and the +only kicking we have is when Mundy boots somebody out of a job. He's my +office manager. Report to him. Wait a minute. I'd give a ping-pong +player a job if Mr. Alston asked me to. He's a fine man. But then I'm +through. It's up to the man and Mundy. If the man's no good Mundy +doesn't even bother to tell me, and it's twenty stories to the street."</p> + +<p>George started to thank him, but already the rotund figure was pressed +against the desk, and the tiny eyes absorbed in important-looking +papers.</p> + +<p>Mundy, George decided, wasn't such an ogre after all. He wore glasses. +He was bald, thin, and stoop-shouldered. He had the benign expression of +a parson; but behind that bald forehead, George soon learned, was stored +all the knowledge he craved, without, however, the imagination to make +it personally very valuable.</p> + +<p>If he didn't sweep the office at first, George approximated such labour, +straightening the desks of the mighty, checking up on the contents of +waste-paper baskets, seeing that the proper people got mail and +newspapers, running errands; and always, in the office or outside, he +kept his ears open and his eyes wide. He absorbed the patter of the +Street. He learned to separate men into classes, the wise ones, who +always made money, and the foolish, who now and then had good luck, but +most of the time were settling their losses. And at every opportunity he +was after what Mundy concealed behind his appearance of a parson.</p> + +<p>At night he dissected the financial journals, watching the alterations +in the market, and probing for the causes; applying to this novitiate +the same grim determination he had brought to Squibs Bailly's lessons a +year before. Never once was he tempted to seek a simple path to fortune.</p> + +<p>"When I speculate," he told himself, "there'll be mighty little risk +about it."</p> + +<p>Even in those days his fifteen dollars a week condemned him to a cheap +lodging house near Lexington Avenue, the simplest of meals, and +practically no relaxation. He exercised each morning, and walked each +evening home from the office, for he hadn't forgotten what Princeton +expected from him in the fall.</p> + +<p>Sylvia's photograph and the broken riding crop supervised his labours, +but he knew he couldn't hope, except by chance, to see her this summer.</p> + +<p>One Saturday morning Goodhue came unexpectedly into the office and +carried him off to Long Island. George saw the tiny eyes of Blodgett +narrow.</p> + +<p>Blodgett, perhaps because of Mr. Alston's letter, had condescended to +chat with George a number of times in the outer office. On the Monday +following he strolled up and jerked out:</p> + +<p>"Wasn't that young Richard Goodhue I saw you going off with Saturday?"</p> + +<p>"Yes sir."</p> + +<p>"Know him well?"</p> + +<p>"Very. We're in the same class. We're rooming together next year."</p> + +<p>Blodgett grunted and walked on, mopping his puffy face with a shiny blue +handkerchief. George wondered if he had displeased Blodgett by going +with Goodhue. He decided he hadn't, for the picturesquely dressed man +stopped oftener after that, chatting quite familiarly.</p> + +<p>Whatever one thought of Blodgett's appearance and manner, one admired +him. George hadn't been in the Street a week before he realized that the +house of Blodgett and Sinclair was one of the most powerful in America, +with numerous ramifications to foreign countries. There was no phase of +finance it didn't touch; and, as far as George could see, it was all +Josiah Blodgett, who had come to New York from the West, by way of +Chicago. In those offices Sinclair was scarcely more than a name in gold +on various doors. Once or twice, during the summer, indeed, George saw +the partner chatting in a bored way with Blodgett. His voice was high +and affected, like Wandel's, and he had a house in Newport. According to +office gossip he had little money interest in the firm, lending the +prestige of his name for what Blodgett thought it was worth. As he +watched the fat, hard worker chatting with the butterfly man, George +suddenly realized that Blodgett might want a house in Newport, too. Was +it because he was Richard Goodhue's room-mate that Blodgett stopped him +in the hall one day, grinning with good nature?</p> + +<p>"If I were a cub," he puffed, "I'd buy this very morning all the Katydid +I could, and sell at eighty-nine."</p> + +<p>George whistled.</p> + +<p>"I knew something was due to happen to Katydid, but I didn't expect +anything like that."</p> + +<p>"How did you know?" Blodgett demanded.</p> + +<p>He shot questions until he had got the story of George's close +observation and night drudgery.</p> + +<p>"Glad to see Mundy hasn't dropped you out the window yet," he grinned. +"Maybe you'll get along. Glad for Mr. Alston's sake. See here, if I were +a cub, and knew as much about Katydid as you do, I wouldn't hesitate to +borrow a few cents from the boss."</p> + +<p>"No," George said. "I've a very little of my own. I'll use that."</p> + +<p>He had, perhaps, two hundred dollars in the bank at Princeton. He drew a +check without hesitation and followed Blodgett's advice. He had +commenced to speculate without risk. Several times after that Blodgett +jerked out similar advice, usually commencing with: "What does young +Pierpont Morgan think of so and so?" And usually George would give his +employer a reasonable forecast. Because of these discreet hints his +balance grew, and Mundy one day announced that his salary had been +raised ten dollars.</p> + +<p>All that, however, was the brighter side. Often during those hot, heavy +nights, while he pieced together the day's complicated pattern, George +envied the fortunates who could play away from pavements and baking +walls. He found himself counting the days until he would go back to +Princeton and football, and Betty's charm; but even that prospect was +shadowed by his doubt as to how he would emerge from the club tangle.</p> + +<p>He didn't meet Sylvia, but one day he saw Old Planter step from an +automobile and enter the marble temple where he was accustomed to +sacrifice corporations and people to the gods of his pocket-book. The +great man used a heavy stick and climbed the steps rather slowly, +flanked by obsequious underlings, gaped at by a crowd, buzzing and +over-impressed. Somehow George couldn't fancy Blodgett with the gout—it +was too delightfully bred.</p> + +<p>He peered in the automobile, but of course Sylvia wasn't there, nor, he +gathered from his mother's occasional notes to thank him for the little +money he could send her, was she much at Oakmont.</p> + +<p>"I'll see her this fall," he told himself, "and next winter. I've +started to do what I said I would."</p> + +<p>As far as Wall Street was concerned, Blodgett evidently agreed with him.</p> + +<p>"I can put up with you next summer," he said at parting. "I'll write Mr. +Alston you're fit for something besides football."</p> + +<p>Mundy displayed a pastoral sadness.</p> + +<p>"You ought to stay right here," he said. "College is all right if you +don't want to amount to a hill of beans. It's rotten for making money."</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, he agreed to send George a weekly letter, giving his wise +views as to what was going on among the money makers. They all made him +feel that even in that rushing place his exit had caused a perceptible +ripple.</p> + + +<h3>XXII</h3> + +<p>The smallness, the untidiness, the pure joy of Squibs Bailly's study!</p> + +<p>The tutor ran his hands over George's muscles.</p> + +<p>"You're looking older and a good deal worn," he said, "but thank God +you're still hard."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bailly sat there, too. They were both anxious for his experiences, +yet when he had told them everything he sensed a reservation in their +praise.</p> + +<p>"I think I should turn my share of the laundry back," he said, +defiantly. "I've something like three thousand dollars of my own now."</p> + +<p>"Does it make you feel very rich?" Mrs. Bailly asked.</p> + +<p>He laughed.</p> + +<p>"It's a tiny start, but I won't need half of it to get through the +winter."</p> + +<p>Bailly lighted his pipe, stretched his legs, and pondered.</p> + +<p>"You're giving the laundry up," he said, finally, "because—because it +savours of service?"</p> + +<p>George didn't get angry. He couldn't with Squibs in the first place; +and, in the second, hadn't that thought been at the bottom of his mind +ever since Dalrymple's remark about dirty hands?</p> + +<p>"I don't need it any more," he said, "and I'd like to have you dispose +of it where it will do the most good."</p> + +<p>His voice hardened.</p> + +<p>"But to somebody who wants to climb, not to any wild-eyed fellow who +thinks he sees salvation in pulling down."</p> + +<p>"You've just returned from the world," Bailly said, "and all you've +brought is three thousand dollars and a bad complexion. I wish you'd +directed your steps to a coal mine. You'd have come back richer."</p> + + +<h3>XXIII</h3> + +<p>Goodhue got in a few hours after George. There was a deep satisfaction +in their greetings. They were glad to be together, facing varsity +football, looking ahead to the pleasures and excitements of another +year, but George would have been happier if he could have shared his +room-mate's unconcern about the clubs. Of course, Goodhue was settled. +Did he know about George? George was glad the other couldn't guess how +carefully he had calculated the situation—to take the best, or a +dignified stand against all clubs with Allen getting behind him with all +the poor and unknown men. But wasn't that exactly Wandel's game?</p> + +<p>Stringham and Green were glad enough to see him, but Green thought he +had been thoughtless not to have kept a football in the office for +kicking goals through transoms.</p> + +<p>It was good to feel the vapours of the market-place leaving his lungs +and brain. Goodhue and he, during the easy preliminary work, resumed +their runs. He felt he hadn't really gone back. If he didn't get hurt he +would do things that fall that would drive the perplexed frown from +Bailly's forehead, that would win Betty's applause and Sylvia's +admiration. Whatever happened he was going to take care of her brother +in the Yale game.</p> + +<p>Betty was rather too insistent about that. She had fallen into the habit +again of stopping George and Goodhue on their runs for a moment's +gossip.</p> + +<p>"See here, Betty," Goodhue laughed once, "you're rather too interested +in this Eli Planter."</p> + +<p>George had reached the same conclusion—but why should it bother him? It +was logical that Betty and Lambert should be drawn together. He blamed +himself for a habit of impatience that had grown upon him. Had it come +out of the strain of the Street, or was it an expression of his +knowledge that now, at the commencement of his second year, he +approached the culmination of his entire college course? With the club +matter settled there would remain little for him save a deepening of +useful friendships and a squeezing of the opportunity to acquire +knowledge and a proper manner. For the same cause, the approaching +election of officers for Sophomore year was of vital importance. It was +generally conceded that the ticket put through now, barring accident, +would be elected senior year to go out into the world at the head of the +class. The presidency would graduate a man with a patent of nobility, as +one might say. George guessed that all of Wandel's intrigues led to the +re-election of Goodhue. He wanted that influential office in his own +crowd. Even now George couldn't wholly sound Wandel's desires with him. +He yielded to the general interest and uneasiness. Squibs had been +right. Princeton did hold a fair sample of it all. He understood that +very much as this affair was arranged he would see the political +destinies of the country juggled later.</p> + +<p>Allen got him alone, begging for his decision.</p> + +<p>"Have you been asked for a club yet?"</p> + +<p>"None of your business," George said, promptly.</p> + +<p>"You've got to make up your mind in a hurry," Allen urged. "Promise me +now that you'll leave the clubs alone, then I can handle Mr. Wandel."</p> + +<p>"You're dickering with him?" George asked, quickly.</p> + +<p>"No. Mr. Wandel is trying to dicker with me."</p> + +<p>But George couldn't make up his mind. There were other problems as +critical as the clubs. Could he afford to fight Dick Goodhue for that +high office? If only he could find out what the Goodhue crowd thought of +him!</p> + +<p>He had an opportunity to learn one evening, and conquered a passionate +desire to eavesdrop. As he ran lightly up the stairs to his room he +heard through the open study door Wandel and Goodhue talking with an +unaccustomed heat.</p> + +<p>"You can't take such an attitude," Wandel was saying.</p> + +<p>"I've taken it."</p> + +<p>"Change your mind," Wandel urged. "I've nursed him along as the only +possible tie between two otherwise irreconcilable elements of the class. +I tell you I can't put you over unless you come to your senses."</p> + +<p>George hurried in and nodded. From their faces he gathered there had +been a fair row. Wandel grasped his arm. George stiffened. Something was +coming now. It wasn't quite what he had expected.</p> + +<p>"How would you like," Wandel said, "to be the very distinguished +secretary of your class?"</p> + +<p>George gazed from the window at the tree-bordered lawns where lesser men +contentedly kicked footballs to each other.</p> + +<p>"It ought to be what the class likes," he muttered. "I'm really only +interested in seeing Dicky re-elected."</p> + +<p>"If," Wandel said, "I told you it couldn't be done without your +distinguished and untrammelled name on the ticket?"</p> + +<p>George flushed.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean by untrammelled?"</p> + +<p>"You stop that, Spike," Goodhue said, more disturbed than George had +ever seen him. "It's indecent. I won't have it."</p> + +<p>George relaxed. Untrammelled had certainly meant free from the taint of +the clubs. He was grateful Goodhue had interfered.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you run for something yourself, Mr. Wandel?" he asked, dryly.</p> + +<p>Goodhue laughed.</p> + +<p>"Carry your filthy politics somewhere else."</p> + +<p>He and George, with an affectation of good nature, pushed Wandel out of +the room. They looked at each other. Neither said anything.</p> + +<p>George had to call upon his will to keep his attention on his books that +night. In return for Allen's support for Goodhue Wandel wanted to give +Allen for a minor place on the ticket a poor man untrammelled by the +clubs. The realization angered George. Aside from any other +consideration he couldn't permit himself to be bartered about to save +any one—even Goodhue. But was Goodhue trying to spare him at a +sacrifice? George, with a vast relief, decided that that was so when +Goodhue mentioned casually one day that he was a certainty for the club.</p> + +<p>"Don't say anything about it," he advised. "The upper classmen have been +getting a few of us together. I'm glad you're among us. We'll elect the +full section later."</p> + +<p>"Of course I came here a stranger," George began, trying to hide his +pleasure.</p> + +<p>"Quite a lot of us have learned to know you pretty well," Goodhue +smiled.</p> + +<p>George wouldn't accept this coveted gift without putting himself on +record.</p> + +<p>"I needn't ask you," he said, "if Dalrymple's already in."</p> + +<p>Goodhue shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Maybe later."</p> + +<p>"I think," George said, distinctly, "that the men who are responsible +for my election should know I'll hold out against Dalrymple."</p> + +<p>"You're a conscientious beggar," Goodhue laughed. "It's your own +business now, but there'll be a nice little rumpus just the same."</p> + +<p>George was conscientious with Allen, too.</p> + +<p>"I feel I ought to tell you," he said, "that I've made up my mind, if +I'm asked, to join a club. Anything that has so much to offer can't be +as bad as you think."</p> + +<p>Without answering Allen flushed and walked off angrily.</p> + +<p>It was the next day that the parties gathered on the top floor of +Dickinson Hall for the election. George went as an amused spectator. He +had played the game on the level and had destroyed his own chances, but +he was afraid he had destroyed Goodhue's, too, or Goodhue had destroyed +his own by insisting on taking George into the club. That was a +sacrifice George wanted to repay.</p> + +<p>Wandel, as usual, was undisturbed. Allen's angular figure wandered +restlessly among the groups. George had no idea what the line-up was.</p> + +<p>George sensed weakness in the fact that, when the nominations were +opened, Wandel was the first on his feet. He recited Goodhue's virtues +as an athlete and a scholar. Like a real political orator at a +convention he examined his record as president the previous year. He +placed him in nomination amid a satisfactory applause. Now what was +coming? Who did Allen have?</p> + +<p>When he arose Allen wore an air of getting through with a formality. He +insisted on the fact that his candidate was working his way through +college, and would always be near the top scholastically. He represented +a section of the class that the more fortunate of the students were +prone to forget. And so on—a condensation of his complaints to George. +The room filled with suspense, which broke into loud laughter when Allen +named a man of absolutely no importance or colour, who couldn't poll +more than the votes of his personal friends. A trick, George guessed it, +and everyone else. But Wandel was quickly moving that the nominations be +closed. Allen glanced around with a worried, expectant air. Then George +saw that Rogers was up—a flushed, nervous figure—and had got the +floor. He spoke rapidly, nearly unintelligibly.</p> + +<p>"My candidate doesn't need any introduction," he recited. "All factions +can unite on him—the man that smashed the Yale and Harvard Freshmen. +The man who is going to smash the Yale and Harvard varsities this +year—George Morton!"</p> + +<p>A cheer burst out, loud, from the heart. George saw that it came from +both sides. The poor men had been stampeded, too.</p> + +<p>Goodhue was on his feet, his arms upraised, demanding recognition. +Suddenly George realized what this meant to Goodhue, and temper replaced +his amazement. He sprang up, shouting:</p> + +<p>"I won't have it——"</p> + +<p>A dozen pairs of hands dragged him down. A dozen voices cried in his +ears:</p> + +<p>"Shut up, you damned fool!"</p> + + +<h3>XXIV</h3> + +<p>Goodhue got the floor and withdrew his name, but the chairman wouldn't +see or hear George. He declared the nominations closed. It was as if he +and all the lesser men, who weren't leading factions, had seen in +George the one force that could pull the class together. The vote was +perfunctory, and Allen lazily moved to make it unanimous. George took +the chair, frowning, altogether unhappy in his unforeseen victory. He +had a feeling of having shabbily repaid Goodhue's loyalty and sacrifice, +yet it hadn't been his fault; but would Goodhue know that?</p> + +<p>"Speech! Shoot something, George! Talk up there, Mr. President!"</p> + +<p>He'd give them a speech to chew over.</p> + +<p>"Back-door politicians have done their best to split the class. The +class has taken matters into its own hands. There isn't going to be a +split. It won't be long before you'll have Prospect Street off your +minds. That seems to be two thirds of the trouble. Let's forget it, and +pull together, and leave Princeton a little better than we found it. If +you think anything needs reform let's talk about it openly and sensibly, +clubs and all. I appreciate the honour, but Dick Goodhue ought to have +had it, would have had it, if he hadn't been born with a silver spoon. +Ought a man's wealth or poverty stand against him here? Think it over. +That's all."</p> + +<p>There was no opposition to Goodhue's election as Secretary.</p> + +<p>Allen slipped to George at the close of the meeting.</p> + +<p>"About what I'd have expected of you, anyway."</p> + +<p>But George was looking for Goodhue, found him, and walked home with him.</p> + +<p>"Best thing that could have happened," Goodhue said. "They're all +marvelling at your nerve for talking about Prospect Street as you did."</p> + +<p>George spied Rogers, and beckoned the freshly prominent youth.</p> + +<p>"See here, young man, please come to my room after practice."</p> + +<p>Rogers, with a frightened air, promised. Wandel appeared before, quite +as if nothing had happened. He wouldn't even talk about the election.</p> + +<p>"Just the same, Warwick," George said, "I'm not at all sure a poler +named Allen couldn't tell you something about juggling crowns."</p> + +<p>"A penetrating as well as a great president," Wandel smiled. "I haven't +thanked you yet for joining our club."</p> + +<p>George looked straight at him.</p> + +<p>"But I've thanked Dicky for it," he said.</p> + +<p>Rogers, when he arrived after Wandel's departure, didn't want to +confess, but George knew how to get it out of him.</p> + +<p>"You've put your finger in my pie without my consent," he said. "I'll +hold that against you unless you talk up. Besides, it won't go beyond +Goodhue and me. It's just for our information."</p> + +<p>"All right," Rogers agreed, nervously, "provided it doesn't go out of +this room. And there's no point mentioning names. A man we all know came +to me this morning and talked about the split in the class. He couldn't +get Goodhue elected because he didn't have any way of buying the support +of the poor men. Allen, he figured, was going to nominate a lame duck, +and then have somebody not too rich and not too poor spring his own +name, figuring he would get the votes of the bulk of the class which +just can't help being jealous of Goodhue and his little crowd. This chap +thought he could beat Allen at that game by stampeding the class for you +before Allen could get himself up, and he wanted somebody representative +of the bulk of the class, that holds the balance of power, to put you in +nomination. He figured even the poor men would flock to you in spite of +Allen's opposition."</p> + +<p>"And what did he offer you?" George sneered.</p> + +<p>Rogers turned away without answering.</p> + +<p>"Like Driggs," Goodhue said, when Rogers had gone. "He couldn't have +what he wanted, but he got about as good. Politically, what's the +difference? Both offices are in his crowd, but he's avoided making you +look like his president."</p> + +<p>George grinned.</p> + +<p>"I don't wonder you call him Spike."</p> + + +<h3>XXV</h3> + +<p>George, filled with a cold triumph, stared for a long time at Sylvia's +portrait that night. If she thought of him at all she would have to +admit he had come closer. At Princeton he was as big a man as her rich +brother was at Yale. He belonged to a club where her own kind gathered. +Give him money—and he was going to have that—and her attitude must +alter. He bent the broken crop between his fingers, his triumph fading. +He had come closer, but not close enough to hurt.</p> + +<p>The Baillys and Betty congratulated him at practice the next day.</p> + +<p>"You were the logical man," Betty said, "but the politicians didn't seem +to want you."</p> + +<p>Bailly drew him aside.</p> + +<p>"It was scandal in the forum," he said, "that money and the clubs were +an issue in this election."</p> + +<p>George fingered his headgear, laughing unpleasantly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and they elected a poor man; a low sort of a fellow with a +shadowed past."</p> + +<p>"Forget your past," Bailly pled, "and remember in the present that the +poor men, who helped elect you, are looking for your guidance. They need +help."</p> + +<p>"Then," George said, "why didn't they get themselves elected so they +could help themselves?"</p> + +<p>"Into the world there are born many cripples," Bailly said, softly. +"Would you condemn them for not running as fast as the congenitally +sound?"</p> + +<p>"Trouble is, they don't try to run," George answered.</p> + +<p>He looked at the other defiantly. Bailly had to know. It was his right.</p> + +<p>"I can guess what house I'm going to on Prospect Street."</p> + +<p>"Which?" Bailly sighed.</p> + +<p>"To the very home of reaction," George laughed. "But it's easier to +reform from the inside."</p> + +<p>"No," Bailly said, gravely. "The chairs are too comfortable."</p> + +<p>He pressed George's arm.</p> + +<p>"It isn't the clubs here that worry me in relation to you. It's the +principle of the lights behind the railing in the restless world. Try +not to surrender to the habit of the guarded light."</p> + +<p>George was glad when Stringham called from the field.</p> + +<p>"Jump in here, Morton!"</p> + +<p>He took his turn at the dummy scrimmage. Such exercise failed to offer +its old zest, nor was it the first day he had appreciated that. The +intrusion of these unquiet struggles might be responsible, yet, with +them determined in his favour, his anxiety did not diminish. Was Bailly +to blame with his perpetual nagging about the outside world where grave +decisions waited? George frankly didn't want to face them. They seemed +half-decipherable signposts which tempted him perplexingly and +precariously from his path. What had just happened, added to the passage +of a year and his summer in Wall Street, had brought that headlong world +very close, had outlined too clearly the barriers which made it +dangerous; so even here he spent some time each night studying the +changing lines in the battle for money.</p> + +<p>Yet Goodhue, with a settled outlook, shared George's misgivings at the +field.</p> + +<p>"It isn't the fun it was Freshman year," he grumbled one night. "We used +to complain then that they worked us too hard. Now I don't believe they +work us hard enough."</p> + +<p>That was a serious doubt for two men who realized they alone might save +inferior if eager material from defeat; and it grew until they resumed +surreptitiously the extra work they had attempted hitherto only outside +of the season or just at its commencement. Then it had not interfered +with Green's minutely studied scheme of physical development. Now it +did. The growth of their worry, moreover, measured the decline of their +condition. These apprehensions had a sharper meaning for George than for +his room-mate. Almost daily he saw his picture on the sporting pages of +newspapers. "Morton of Princeton, the longest kicker in the game." "The +keystone of the Princeton attack." "The man picked to lead Stringham's +hopes to victory over Harvard and Yale." And so on. Exaggeration, George +told himself, that would induce the university, the alumni, the Baillys, +Betty, and Sylvia—most of all Sylvia—to expect more than he could +reasonably give at his best.</p> + +<p>"Don't forget you've promised to take care of Lambert Planter——"</p> + +<p>In some form Betty repeated it every time George saw her. It irritated +him—not that it really made any difference—that Lambert Planter should +occupy her mind to that extent. No emotion as impersonal as college +spirit would account for it; and somehow it did make a difference.</p> + +<p>George suspected the truth a few days before the Harvard game, and +persuaded Goodhue to abandon all exercise away from Green's watchful +eye; but he went on the field still listless, irritable, and stale.</p> + +<p>That game, as so frequently happens, was the best played and the +prettiest to watch of the season. George wondered if Sylvia was in the +crowd. There was no question about her being at New Haven next week. He +wanted to save his best for that afternoon when she would be sure to see +him, when he would take her brother on for another thrashing. But it +wasn't in him to hold back anything, and the cheering section, where +Squibs sat, demanded all he had. To win this game, it became clear after +the first few plays, would take an exceptional effort. Only George's +long and well-calculated kicking held down the Harvard attack. Toward +the close of the first half a fumble gave Princeton the ball on +Harvard's thirty-yard line, and Goodhue for the first time seriously +called on George to smash the Harvard defence. With his effort some of +the old zest returned. Twice he made it first down by inches.</p> + +<p>"Stick to your interference," Goodhue was begging him between each play.</p> + +<p>Then, with his interference blocked and tumbling, George yielded to his +old habit, and slipped off to one side at a hazard. The enemy secondary +defence had been drawing in, and there was no one near enough to stop +him within those ten yards, and he went over for a touchdown, and +casually kicked the goal.</p> + +<p>When, a few minutes later, he walked off the field, he experienced no +elation. He realized all at once how tired he was. Like a child he +wanted to go to Stringham and say:</p> + +<p>"Stringham, I don't want to play any more games to-day. I want to lie +down and rest."</p> + +<p>He smiled as he dreamed of Stringham's reply.</p> + +<p>It was Stringham, really, who came to him as he sat silently and with +drooping shoulders in the dressing-room.</p> + +<p>"What's wrong here? When you're hurt I want to know it."</p> + +<p>George got up.</p> + +<p>"I'm not hurt. I'm all right."</p> + +<p>Green arrived and helped Stringham poke while George submitted, wishing +they'd leave him alone so he could sit down and rest.</p> + +<p>"We've got to have him next week," Stringham said, "but this game isn't +won by a long shot."</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with me?" George asked. "I'll play."</p> + +<p>He heard a man near by remark:</p> + +<p>"He's got the colour of a Latin Salutatorian."</p> + +<p>They let him go back, nevertheless, and at the start he suffered his +first serious injury. He knew when he made the tackle that the strap of +his headgear snapped. He felt the leather slide from his head, +experienced the crushing of many bodies, had a brief conviction that the +sun had been smothered. His next impression was of bare, white walls in +a shaded room. His brain held no record of the hushing of the multitude +when he had remained stretched in his darkness on the trampled grass; of +the increasing general fear while substitutes had carried him from the +field on a stretcher; or of the desertion of the game by the Baillys, by +Betty and her father, by Wandel, the inscrutable, even by the +revolutionary Allen, by a score of others, who had crowded the entrance +of the dressing room asking hushed questions, and a few moments later +had formed behind him a silent and frightened procession as he had been +carried to the infirmary. Mrs. Bailly told him about it.</p> + +<p>"I saw tears in Betty's eyes," she said, softly, "through my own. It was +so like a funeral march."</p> + +<p>"And you missed the end of the game?" George asked.</p> + +<p>She nodded.</p> + +<p>"When my husband knew Harvard had scored he said, 'That wouldn't have +happened if George had been there.' And it wouldn't have."</p> + +<p>But all George could think of was:</p> + +<p>"Squibs missed half a game for me, and there were tears in Betty's +eyes."</p> + +<p>Tears, because he had suggested the dreadful protagonist of a funeral +march.</p> + +<p>His period of consciousness was brief. He drifted into the darkness once +more, accompanied by that extraordinary and seductive vision of Betty in +tears. It came with him late the next morning back into the light. +Sylvia's portrait was locked in a drawer far across the campus. What +superb luxury to lie here with such a recollection, forecasting no near +physical effort, quite relaxed, dreaming of Betty, who had always meant +rest as Sylvia had always meant unquiet and absorbing struggle.</p> + +<p>He judged it wise to pretend to be asleep, but hunger at last made him +stir and threw him into an anxious agitation of examinations by +specialists, of conferences with coaches, and of doubts and prayers and +exhortations from everyone admitted to the room; for even the +specialists were Princeton men. They were non-committal. It had been a +nasty blow. There had been some concussion. They would guarantee him in +two weeks, but of course he didn't have that long. One old fellow turned +suspiciously on Green.</p> + +<p>"He was overworked when he got hurt."</p> + +<p>"I'll be all right," George kept saying, "if you'll fix a headgear to +cover my new soft spot."</p> + +<p>And finally:</p> + +<p>"I'll be all right if you'll only leave me alone."</p> + +<p>Yet, when they had, Squibs came, totally forgetful of his grave problems +of the classes, foreseeing no disaster nearly as serious as a defeat by +Yale—"now that we've done so well against Harvard, and would have done +better if you hadn't got hurt"—limping the length of the sick-room +until the nurse lost her temper and drove him out. Then Goodhue arrived +as the herald of Josiah Blodgett, of all people.</p> + +<p>"This does me good," George pled with the nurse.</p> + +<p>And it did. For the first time in a number of weeks he felt amused as +Blodgett with a pinkish silk handkerchief massaged his round, unhealthy +face.</p> + +<p>"Thought you didn't like football," George said.</p> + +<p>"Less reason to like it now," Blodgett jerked out. "Only sensible place +to play it is the front yard of a hospital. Thought I'd come down and +watch you and maybe look up what was left afterward."</p> + +<p>George fancied a wavering of the little eyes in Goodhue's direction, and +became even more amused, for he believed a more calculating man than +Blodgett didn't live; yet there seemed a real concern in the man's +insistence that George, with football out of the way, should spend a +recuperative Thanksgiving at his country place. George thought he would. +He was going to work again for Blodgett next summer.</p> + +<p>Betty and Mrs. Bailly were the last callers the nurse would give in to, +although she must have seen how they helped, one in a chair on either +side of the bed; and it was difficult not to look at only one. In her +eyes he sought for a souvenir of those tears, and wanted to tell her how +sorry he was; but he wasn't really sorry, and anyway she mustn't guess +that he knew. Why had Mrs. Bailly bothered to tell him at all? Could her +motherly instinct hope for a coming together so far beyond belief? His +memory of the remote portrait reminded him that it was incredible in +every way. He sighed. Betty beckoned Mrs. Bailly and rose.</p> + +<p>"Don't go," George begged, aware that he ought to urge her to go.</p> + +<p>"Betty was having tea with me," Mrs. Bailly offered.</p> + +<p>"I would have asked to be brought anyway," Betty said, openly. "You +frightened us yesterday. We've all wanted to find out the truth."</p> + +<p>There was in her eyes now at least a reminiscent pain.</p> + +<p>"Don't worry," he said, "I'll take care of Lambert Planter for you after +all."</p> + +<p>She stooped swiftly and offered her hand.</p> + +<p>"You'll take care of yourself. It would be beastly if they let you play +at the slightest risk."</p> + +<p>He grasped her hand. The touch of her flesh, combined with such a +memory, made him momentarily forgetful. He held her hand too long, too +firmly. He saw the colour waver in her pale cheeks. He let her hand go, +but he continued to watch her eyes until they turned uncertainly to Mrs. +Bailly.</p> + +<p>When they had left he slept again. He slept away his listlessness of the +past few weeks. As he confided to his callers, who were confined to an +hour in the afternoon, he did nothing but sleep and eat. He was more +content than he had been since his indifferent days, long past, at +Oakmont. All these people had deserted the game for him when he was no +longer of any use to the game. Then he had acquired, even for such +clashing types as Wandel and Allen, a value that survived his football. +He had advanced on a road where he had not consciously set his feet. He +treasured that thought. Next Saturday he would reward these friends, for +he was confident he could do it now. By Wednesday he was up and dressed, +feeling better than he had since the commencement of the season. If only +they didn't hurt his head again! The newspapers helped there, too. If he +played, they said, it would be under a severe handicap. He smiled, +knowing he was far fitter, except for his head, than he had been the +week before.</p> + +<p>Until the squad left for New Haven he continued to live in the +infirmary, watching the light practice of the last days without even +putting on his football clothes.</p> + +<p>"The lay-off won't hurt me," he promised.</p> + +<p>Stringham and Green were content to accept his judgment.</p> + +<p>As soon as he was able he went to his room and got Sylvia's portrait. He +disciplined himself for his temporary weakness following the accident. +He tried to force from his memory the sentiment aroused by Betty's tears +through the thought that he approached his first real chance to impress +Sylvia. He could do it. He was like an animal insufficiently exercised, +straining to be away.</p> + + +<h3>XXVI</h3> + +<p>He alone, as the squad dressed in the gymnasium, displayed no signs of +misgiving. Here was the climax of the season. All the better. The larger +the need the greater one's performance must be. But the others didn't +share that simple faith.</p> + +<p>He enjoyed the ride to the field in the cold, clear air, through +hurrying, noisy, and colourful crowds. He liked the impromptu cheers +they gave the team, sometimes himself particularly.</p> + +<p>In the field dressing-room, like men condemned, the players received +their final instructions. Already they were half beaten because they +were going to face Yale—all but George, who knew he was going to play +better than ever, because he was going to face one Yale man, Lambert +Planter, with Sylvia in the stands. He kept repeating to himself:</p> + +<p>"I will! I <i>will</i>!"</p> + +<p>He laughed at the others.</p> + +<p>"There aren't any wild beasts out there—just eleven men like ourselves. +If there's going to be any wild-beasting let's do it to them."</p> + +<p>They trotted through an opening into a vast place walled by men and +women. At their appearance the walls seemed to disintegrate, and a +chaotic noise went up as if from that ponderous convulsion.</p> + +<p>George dug his toes into the moist turf and looked about. Sylvia was +there, a tiny unit in the disturbed enclosure, but if she had sat alone +it would have made no difference. His incentive would have been +unaltered.</p> + +<p>Again the convulsion, and the Yale team was on the field. George singled +Planter out—the other man that Sylvia would watch to-day. He did look +fit, and bigger than last year. George shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"I will!"</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, he was grateful for his week of absolute rest. He smiled +as the crowd applauded his long kicks to the backs. He wasn't exerting +himself now.</p> + +<p>The two captains went to the centre of the field while the teams trotted +off. Lambert came up to George.</p> + +<p>"The return match," he said, "and you won't want another."</p> + +<p>George grinned.</p> + +<p>"I've heard it's the Yale system to try to frighten the young opponent."</p> + +<p>"You'll know more about the Yale system after the first half," Lambert +said, and walked on.</p> + +<p>George realized that Lambert hadn't smiled once. In his face not a trace +of the old banter had shown. Yale system or Yale spirit, it possessed +visible qualities of determination and peril, but he told himself he +could lick Lambert and smile while doing it.</p> + +<p>At the whistle he was off like a race horse, never losing sight of +Lambert until he was reasonably sure the ball wouldn't get to him. They +clashed personally almost at the start. Yale had the ball, and Lambert +took it, and tore through the line, and lunged ahead with growing speed +and power. George met him head on. They smashed to the ground. As he +hugged Lambert there for a moment George whispered:</p> + +<p>"Nothing fantastic about that, is there? Now get past me, Mr. Planter."</p> + +<p>The tackle had been vicious. Lambert rose rather slowly to his feet.</p> + +<p>George's kicks outdistanced Lambert's. Once he was forced by a Princeton +fumble, and a march of thirty yards by Yale, to kick from behind his own +goal line. He did exert himself then, and he outguessed the two men +lying back. As a result Yale put the ball in play on her own thirty-yard +line, while the stands marvelled, the Princeton side demonstratively, +yet George, long before the half was over, became conscious of something +not quite right. Since beyond question he was the star of his team he +received a painstaking attention from the Yale men. There is plenty of +legitimate roughness in football, and it can be concentrated. In every +play he was reminded of the respect Yale had for him. Perpetually he +tried to spare his head, but it commenced to ache abominably, and after +a tackle by Lambert, to repay him for some of his own deadly and painful +ones, he got up momentarily dazed.</p> + +<p>"Let's do something now," he pled with Goodhue, when, thanks to his +kicks, they had got the ball at midfield. He wanted a score before this +silly weakness could put him out. With a superb skill he went after a +score. His forward passes to Goodhue and the ends were well-conceived, +beautifully executed, and frequently successful. Many times he took the +ball himself, fighting through the line or outside of tackle to run +against Lambert or another back. Once he got loose for a run of fifteen +yards, dodging or shaking off half the Yale team while the stands with +primeval ferocity approved and prayed.</p> + +<p>That made it first down on Yale's five-yard line. He was absolutely +confident that the Yale team could not prevent his taking the ball over +in the next few plays.</p> + +<p>"I will! I will! I will!" he said to himself.</p> + +<p>Alone, he felt, he could overcome that five yards against the eleven of +them.</p> + +<p>"Let's have it, Dicky," he whispered. "I'm going over this play or the +next. Shoot me outside of tackle."</p> + +<p>On the first play Goodhue fumbled, and a Yale guard fell on the ball. +George stared, stifling an instinct to destroy his friend. The chance +had been thrown away, and his head made him suffer more and more. Then +he saw that Goodhue wanted to die, and as they went back to place +themselves for the Yale kick, George said:</p> + +<p>"You've proved we can get through them. Next time!"</p> + +<p>Would there be a next time? And Goodhue didn't seem to hear. With all +his enviable inheritance and training he failed to conceal a passionate +remorse; his conviction of a peculiar and unforgivable criminality.</p> + +<p>In the dressing-room a few minutes later some of the players bitterly +recalled that ghastly error, and a coach or two turned furiously on the +culprit. It was too bad Squibs and Allen weren't there to watch +George's white temper, an emotion he didn't understand himself, born, he +tried to explain it later, of his hurt head.</p> + +<p>"Cut that out!" he snarled.</p> + +<p>The temper of one of the coaches—an assistant—flamed back.</p> + +<p>"It was handing the game on a——"</p> + +<p>George reached out and caught the shoulders of that man who during the +season had ordered him around. The ringing in his head, the increasing +pain, had destroyed all memory of discipline.</p> + +<p>"Say another word and I'll throw you out of here."</p> + +<p>The room fell silent. Some men gasped. The coach shrank from the furious +face, tried to elude the powerful grasp. Stringham hurried up. George +let the other go.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Stringham," he said, quietly, "if there's any more of this I'll +quit right now, and so will the rest of the team if they've any pluck."</p> + +<p>Stringham motioned the coach away, soothed George, led him to a chair, +where Green and a doctor got off his battered headgear. George wanted to +scream, but he conquered the brimming impulse, and managed to speak +rationally.</p> + +<p>"You've done all you can for us. We've got to play the game ourselves, +and we're not giving anything away. We're not making any mistakes we can +help."</p> + +<p>Goodhue came up and gripped his shoulder. The touch quieted him.</p> + +<p>"This man oughtn't to go back, Green," the doctor announced.</p> + +<p>George stiffened. He hadn't made that score. He hadn't smashed Lambert +Planter half enough. Better to leave the field on a stretcher, and in +darkness again, than to quit like this: to walk out between the halves; +not to walk back. He began to lie, overcoming a physical agony of which +he had never imagined his powerful body capable.</p> + +<p>"No, that doesn't hurt, nor that," he replied, calmly, to the doctor's +questions. "Don't think I'm nutty because I lost my temper. My head's +all right. That gear's fine."</p> + +<p>So they let him go back, and he counted the plays, willing himself to +receive and overcome the pounding each down brought him, continuing by +pure force of will to outplay Lambert; to save his team from dangerous +gains, from possible scores; nearly breaking away himself half-a-dozen +times, although the Princeton eleven was tiring and much of the play was +in its territory.</p> + +<p>The sun had gone behind heavy clouds. A few snowflakes fluttered down. +It was nearly dark. In spite of his exertions he felt cold, and knew it +for an evil sign. Once or twice he shivered. His throbbing head gave him +an illusion of having grown enormously so that it got in everybody's +way. Instinctively he caught a Yale forward pass on his own thirty-yard +line and tore off, slinging tacklers aside with the successful fury of a +young bull all of whose dangerous actions are automatic. He had come a +long way. He didn't know just how far, but the Yale goal posts were +near. Then, quite consciously, he saw Lambert Planter cutting across to +intercept him. The meeting of the two was unavoidable. He thought he +heard Lambert's voice.</p> + +<p>"Not past me!"</p> + +<p>Lambert plunged for the tackle. George's right hand shot out and smashed +open against Lambert's face. He raced on, leaving Lambert sprawled and +clawing at the ground.</p> + +<p>The quarterback managed to bring him down on the eight-yard line, then +lost him; yet, before George could get to his feet others had pounced, +and his heavy, awkward head had crashed against the earth again.</p> + +<p>They dragged him to his feet. For a few moments he lurched about, +shaking off friendly hands.</p> + +<p>"Only five minutes more, George," somebody prayed.</p> + +<p>Only five minutes! Good God! For him each moment was a century of +unspeakable martyrdom. Flecks of rain or snow touched his face, lifted +in revolt. The contact, wet and cold, cleared his brain a trifle—let in +the screaming of the multitude, hoarse and incoherent, raised at first +in thanksgiving for his run, then, after its close, altering to menacing +disappointment and command. What business had they to tell him what to +do? Up there, warm and comfortable, undergoing no exercise more violent +than occasional excited rising and sitting down, they had the selfish +impudence to order him to make a touchdown. Why should he obey, or even +try? He had done his job, more than any one could reasonably have asked +of him. He had outplayed Lambert, gained more ground than any man on the +field, made more valuable tackles. Could he really impress Sylvia any +further? Why shouldn't he walk off now in the face of those unjust +commands to the rest he had earned and craved with all his body and +mind?</p> + +<p>"Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown! Morton! Morton! Morton!"</p> + +<p>Damn them! Why not, indeed, walk off, where he wouldn't have to listen +to that thoughtless and autocratic impertinence?</p> + +<p>He glanced down at his blackened hands, at his filthy breeches, at his +jersey striped about the sleeves with orange; and with a wave of +self-loathing he knew why he couldn't go. He had sworn never to wear +anything like livery again, yet here he was—in livery, a servant to men +and women who asked dreadful things without troubling even to +approximate the agony of obedience.</p> + +<p>"I'll not be a servant," he had told Bailly.</p> + +<p>Bailly had made him one after all, and an old phrase of the tutor's +slipped back:</p> + +<p>"Some day, young man, you'll learn that the world lives by service."</p> + +<p>George had not believed. Now for a moment his half-conscious brain knew +Bailly had been right. He had to serve.</p> + +<p>He knocked aside the sponge Green held to his face. He indicated the +bucket of cold water the trainer had carried out.</p> + +<p>"Throw it over my head," he said, "the whole thing. Throw it hard."</p> + +<p>Green obeyed. He, too, who ought to have understood, was selfish and +imperious.</p> + +<p>"You make a touchdown!" he commanded hoarsely.</p> + +<p>The water stung George's eyes, rushed down his neck in thrilling +streams, braced him for the time. The teams lined up while the +Princeton stands roared approval that their best servant should remain +on the job.</p> + +<p>Goodhue called the signal for a play around the left tackle. Every Yale +player was confident that George would take the ball, sensed the +direction of the play, and, over-anxious, massed there, all but the +quarter, who lay back between the goal posts. George saw, and turned +sharply, darting to the right. Suddenly he knew, because of that +over-anxiety of Yale, that he had a touchdown. Only the Yale quarterback +had a chance for the tackle, and he couldn't stop George in that +distance.</p> + +<p>Out of the corner of his eye George noticed Goodhue standing to the +right and a little behind. He, too, must have seen the victorious +outcome of the play, and George caught in his attitude again that air of +a unique criminal. They'd hold that fumble against Dicky forever +unless—if Goodhue had the ball the Yale quarter couldn't even get his +hands on him until he had crossed the line.</p> + +<p>"Dicky!"</p> + +<p>The dejected figure sprang into action. Without weighing his sacrifice, +without letting himself think of the crime of disobeying a signal, of +the risks of a hurried throw or of another fumble, George shot the ball +across, then forged ahead and put the Yale quarterback out of the play, +while Goodhue strolled across the line and set the ball down behind the +goal posts.</p> + +<p>As he went back to kick the goal George heard through the crashing +cacophony from the stands Goodhue's uncertain voice:</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you make that touchdown yourself? It was yours. You had it. +You had earned it."</p> + +<p>"It was the team's," George answered, shortly. "I might have been +spilled. Sure thing for you."</p> + +<p>"You precious idiot!" Goodhue whispered.</p> + +<p>As George kicked the goal there came to him again, across his pain, that +sensation of being on a road he had not consciously set out to explore. +He wondered why he was so well content.</p> + +<p>Eternity ended. With the whistle and the crunching of the horn George +staggered to his feet. Goodhue and another player supported him while +the team clustered for a cheer for Yale. The Princeton stands were a +terrific avalanche descending upon that little group. Green tried to +rescue him, shouting out his condition; but the avalanche wouldn't have +it. It dashed upon him, tossed him shoulder high, while it emitted +crashing noises out of which his name emerged.</p> + +<p>Goodhue was up also, and the others. Goodhue was gesturing and talking, +pointing in his direction. Soon Goodhue and the others were down. The +happy holocaust centred its efforts on George. Why? Had Goodhue given +things away about that touchdown? Anyhow, they knew how to reward their +servants, these people.</p> + +<p>They carried George on strong shoulders at the head of their careening +procession. His dazed brain understood that they desired to honour the +man who had done the giant's share, the one who had made victory +possible, and he sensed a wrong, a sublime ignorance or indifference +that they should carry only him. The victory went back of George Morton. +He bent down, screaming into the ears of his bearers.</p> + +<p>"Squibs Bailly! He found me. If it wasn't for him I wouldn't have played +to-day. Bailly, or let me down! Bailly made that run! I tell you, Bailly +played that game!"</p> + +<p>In his earnestness he grew hysterical.</p> + +<p>Maybe it was because they wanted to humour the hero, or perhaps they +caught his own hysteria, realizing what Bailly had done for him. They +stopped in front of the stands to which Bailly's bad foot had condemned +him during this triumphant march. They commenced a high-pitched, frantic +chant.</p> + +<p>"We want Squibs Bailly! We want Squibs Bailly! We want Squibs Bailly!"</p> + +<p>George waved his hands, holding the column until the slender figure, +urged by the spectators remaining in the stands, came down with +difficulty and embarrassment to be caught and lifted tenderly up beside +George.</p> + +<p>Then, with these two aloft in the very front, the wild march was resumed +through the Yale goal posts while Squibs' wrinkled face twitched, while +in his young eyes burned the unsurpassable light of a hopeless wish +miraculously come true.</p> + + +<h3>XXVII</h3> + +<p>Green rescued George when his head was drooping and his eyes blurred. He +got him to the gymnasium and stretched him out there and set the doctors +to work on his head.</p> + +<p>A voice got into George's brain. Who was talking? Was it Goodhue, or +Stringham?</p> + +<p>"I guess you can see him, but he's pretty vague. Played the whole game +with a broken head. Lied to the doctors."</p> + +<p>George forced his eyes open. Lambert Planter, still in his stained +football clothes, bent over him.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Planter!"</p> + +<p>Lambert grasped the black hand.</p> + +<p>"Hello, George Morton!"</p> + +<p>That was all. Lambert went away, but George knew that what he had really +said was:</p> + +<p>"It's only what you've made of yourself that counts."</p> + + +<h3>XXVIII</h3> + +<p>At Princeton they kept him in the infirmary for a few days, but he +didn't like it. It filled him with a growing fear. Since it made no +particular difference now how long he was ill, they let him see too many +callers. He distrusted hero worship. Most of all was he afraid when such +devotion came from Betty.</p> + +<p>"Being a vicarious hero," Mrs. Bailly said, "has made my husband the +happiest man in Princeton."</p> + +<p>After that she didn't enter the conversation much, and again George +sensed, with a reluctant thrill, a maternal caring in her heart for him.</p> + +<p>"You never ought to have gone back in the second half," Betty said.</p> + +<p>"If I hadn't," he laughed, "who would have taken care of Lambert Planter +for you?"</p> + +<p>"Squibs says you might have been killed."</p> + +<p>"He's a great romancer," George exploded.</p> + +<p>"Just the same, it was splendid of you to play at all."</p> + +<p>She touched the white bandage about his head.</p> + +<p>"Does it hurt a great deal?"</p> + +<p>"No," he said, nearly honestly. "I only let them keep me here to cut +some dull lectures."</p> + +<p>He glanced at Betty wistfully.</p> + +<p>"Did I take care of Lambert Planter as you wanted?"</p> + +<p>She glanced away.</p> + +<p>"Are you punishing me? Haven't you read the papers? You outplayed him +and every man on the field."</p> + +<p>"That was what you wished?"</p> + +<p>She turned back with an assumption of impatience.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>He couldn't tell her. He couldn't probe further into her feelings for +Lambert, her attitude toward himself. He had to get his mind in hand +again.</p> + +<p>Betty brought her mother one day. Mrs. Alston was full of praise, but +she exuded an imperial distaste for his sick-room. Both times he had to +overcome an impulse to beg Betty not to go so soon. That more than +anything else made him afraid of himself. It was, he felt, an excellent +change to escape to an active life.</p> + +<p>Blodgett's place gave him a massive, tasteless welcome. It was one of +those houses with high, sloping roofs, numerous chimneys, and much +sculptured stone, slightly reminiscent of Mansart, and enormously +suggestive of that greatest architect of all, the big round dollar. In +its grounds it fitted like a huge diamond on a flowered shirt-front. +There were terraces; and a sunken garden, a little self-conscious with +coy replicas of regency sculpture; and formal walks between carefully +barbered trees and hedges. It convinced George that his original choice +of three necessities had been wise. Blodgett had the money, but he +didn't have Squibs Bailly and Goodhue or the things they personified. +And how Blodgett coveted The Goodhue Quality! George told himself that +was why he had been asked, because he was so close to Goodhue. But +Blodgett let him see that there was another motive. After those games +George was temporarily one of the nation's famous men.</p> + +<p>It wasn't until he had arrived that George understood how near +Blodgett's place was to Oakmont—not more than fifteen miles. He was +interested, but he had no idea, even if the Planters were there for +Thanksgiving, that he would see any of them.</p> + +<p>At Blodgett's bachelor enormity people came and went. At times the huge, +over-decorated rooms were filled, yet to George they seemed depressingly +empty because he knew they didn't enclose the men and the women Blodgett +wanted. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, indeed, motored out for Thanksgiving +dinner—a reluctant concession, George gathered, to a profitable +partnership. Blodgett brought him forth as a specimen, and the specimen +impressed, for it isn't given to everyone to sit down at the close of +the season with the year's most famous football player. It puzzled +George that in the precious qualities he craved he knew himself superior +to everyone in the house except these two who made him feel depressingly +inferior. Would he some day reach the point where he would react +unconsciously, as they did, to every social emergency?</p> + +<p>When the dinner party had scattered, Blodgett and he walked alone on the +terrace in an ashen twilight. There the surprise was sprung. It was +clearly no surprise to his host, who beamed at George, pointing to the +drive.</p> + +<p>"I 'phoned him he would find an old football friend here if he'd take +the trouble to drive over."</p> + +<p>"But you didn't tell him my name?" George gasped.</p> + +<p>"No, but why——"</p> + +<p>Blodgett broke off and hurried his heavy body to the terrace edge to +greet these important arrivals.</p> + +<p>Lambert sprang from the runabout he had driven up and helped Sylvia +down. She was bundled in becoming furs. The sharp air had heightened her +rich colouring. How beautiful she was—lovelier than George had +remembered! Here was the tonic to kill the distracting doubts raised by +Betty. Here was the very spring of his wilful ambition. Glancing at +Sylvia, Betty's tranquil influence lost its power.</p> + +<p>At her first recognition of him she stopped abruptly, but Lambert ran +across and grasped his hand.</p> + +<p>"How do, Morton. Never guessed Blodgett's message referred to you."</p> + +<p>George disapproved of Blodgett's methods. Why had the man made him a +mystery at the very moment he used him as a bait to attract Lambert and +Sylvia? Wasn't he important enough, or was it only because he was a +Princeton man and Blodgett had feared some enmity might linger?</p> + +<p>Lambert's manner, at least, was proof that he had, indeed, meant to give +George a message that night in the dressing-room at New Haven. George +appreciated that "How do, Morton"—greeting at last of a man for a man +instead of a man for a servant or a former servant; nor was Lambert's +call to his sister without a significance nearly sharp enough to hurt.</p> + +<p>"Sylvia! Didn't you meet this strong-armed Princetonian at Betty's dance +a year ago?"</p> + +<p>George understood that she had no such motives as Lambert's for altering +her attitude, so much more uncompromising from the beginning than his. +There had been no contact or shared pain. Only what she might have +observed from a remote stand that Saturday could have affected her. How +would she respond now?</p> + +<p>She advanced slowly, at first bewildered, then angry. But Blodgett had +nothing but his money to recommend him to her. She wouldn't, George was +certain, bare any intimacies of emotion before him.</p> + +<p>"I rather think I did."</p> + +<p>In her eyes George recognized the challenge he had last seen there.</p> + +<p>"Thanks for remembering me," he said rather in Wandel's manner.</p> + +<p>"A week ago Saturday——" she began, uncertainly, as though her +remembering needed an apology.</p> + +<p>"Who could forget the great Morton?" Lambert laughed. "With a broken +head he beat Yale. That was a hard game to lose."</p> + +<p>"I'd heard," she said, indifferently, "that you had been hurt."</p> + +<p>George would have preferred words as ugly and unforgettable as those she +had attacked him with the day of her accident. She turned to Blodgett. +George had an instinct to shake her as she chatted easily and casually, +glancing at him from time to time. He could have borne it better if she +hadn't included him at all.</p> + +<p>He was glad her brother occupied him. Lambert was for dissecting each +play of the game, and he made no attempt to hide the admiration for +George it had aroused. He gave the impression that he knew very well men +didn't do such things—particularly that little trick with +Goodhue—unless they were the right sort.</p> + +<p>Blodgett said something about tea. They strolled into the house. A fire +burned in the great hall. That was the only light. George came last, +directly after Sylvia.</p> + +<p>"So you're a friend of Mr. Blodgett's!" she said with an intonation +intended to hurt.</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't have expected," he answered, easily, "to find you a caller +here."</p> + +<p>She paused and faced him. Lights from the distant fire got as far as her +face, disclosing her contempt. He wouldn't let her speak.</p> + +<p>"I won't have you think I had anything to do with bringing you. I never +guessed until I saw your brother drive up."</p> + +<p>She didn't believe him, or she tried to impress him with that affront. +Blodgett and Lambert had gone on into the library. They remained quite +alone in the huge, dusky hall, whose shadow masses shifted as the fire +blazed and fell. For the first time since their ancient rides he could +talk to her undisturbed. He wouldn't let that fact tie his tongue. She +couldn't call him "stable boy" now, although she did try to say "beast" +in another way. This solitude in the dusk, shared with her, stripped +every distracting thought from his mind. He was as hard as steel and +happy in his inflexibility.</p> + +<p>"You believe me," he said.</p> + +<p>She shook her head and turned for the door.</p> + +<p>"Let me say one thing," he urged. "It's rather important."</p> + +<p>She came back through the shadows, her attitude reminiscent of the one +she had assumed long ago when she had sought to hurt him. He caught his +breath, waiting.</p> + +<p>"There is nothing," she said, shivering a little in spite of the hall's +warmth and the furs she still wore, "that you would think of saying to +me if you had changed at all from the impertinent groom I had to have +discharged."</p> + +<p>He laughed.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Call me anything you please, only I've always wanted to thank you +for not making a scene at Miss Alston's dance a year ago."</p> + +<p>He would be disappointed if that failed to hurt back. The thought of +Sylvia Planter making a scene! At least it fanned her temper.</p> + +<p>"What is there," she threatened, defensively, "to prevent my telling Mr. +Blodgett, any one I please, now?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing, except that I'm a trifle more on my feet," he answered. "I'm +not sure your scandal would blow me over. We're going to meet again +frequently. It can't he helped."</p> + +<p>"I never want," she said, as if speaking of something unclean and +revolting, "to see you again."</p> + +<p>His chance had come.</p> + +<p>"You're unfair, because it was you yourself, Miss Planter, who warned me +I shouldn't forget. I haven't. I won't. Will you? Can't we shake hands +on that understanding?"</p> + +<p>With a hurried movement she hid her hands.</p> + +<p>"I couldn't touch you——"</p> + +<p>"You will when we dance."</p> + +<p>He thought her lips trembled a little, but the light was uncertain.</p> + +<p>"I will never dance with you again."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid you'll have to," he said with a confident smile, "unless you +care to make a scene."</p> + +<p>She drew away, unfastening her cloak, her eyes full of that old +challenge.</p> + +<p>"You're impossible," she whispered. "Can't you understand that I dislike +you?"</p> + +<p>His heart leapt, for didn't he hate her?</p> + + +<h3>XXIX</h3> + +<p>Lambert appeared in the doorway.</p> + +<p>"Blodgett's rung for tea——"</p> + +<p>He glanced curiously from one to the other. The broken shadows disclosed +little, but the fact that she had lingered at all was arresting.</p> + +<p>"What's up, Sylvia?"</p> + +<p>She went close to her brother.</p> + +<p>"This—this old servant has been impertinent again."</p> + +<p>Lambert smiled.</p> + +<p>"He's rather more than that now, sis. That's over—forgotten. Still if +the Princeton fellow Morton's been impertinent——"</p> + +<p>He spread his arms, smiling.</p> + +<p>"Have I got to submit myself to a trouncing more than once a year?"</p> + +<p>Sylvia shrugged her shoulders.</p> + +<p>"No," she said, impatiently. "You say it's forgotten. All right."</p> + +<p>George knew it would never be forgotten now by either of them. Lambert's +unruffled attitude made him uneasy. Her brother's scoffing response to +her accusation suggested that Lambert saw, since they would be more or +less thrown together, a beneficial side to such encounters as the one +just ended. For George didn't dream that Lambert had forgotten, either, +those old boasts.</p> + +<p>Another depressing thought made him bad company for Blodgett after the +callers had driven away. It came from a survey, following his glimpse of +Sylvia's beauty, of all the blatant magnificence with which Blodgett had +surrounded himself. Blodgett after dinner, a little flushed with wine, +and the triumph of having had in his house on the same day two Sinclairs +and two Planters, attempted an explanation.</p> + +<p>"I didn't build this, Morton, or my place in town, just for Josiah +Blodgett."</p> + +<p>George wasn't in a mood for subtleties of expression.</p> + +<p>"I've often wondered why you haven't married. With your money you ought +to have a big choice."</p> + +<p>Blodgett sipped a liqueur. He smiled in a self-satisfied way.</p> + +<p>"Money will buy about anything—even the kind of a wife you want. I'm in +no hurry. When I marry, young man, it will be the right kind."</p> + +<p>And George understood that he meant by the right kind some popular and +well-bred girl who would make the Blodgett family hit a social average.</p> + +<p>He carried that terrifying thought of marriage back to Princeton. He had +no fear Sylvia would ever look seriously in Blodgett's direction. Money +could scarcely bribe her. This, however, was her second season. Of +course she would marry someone of her own immediate circle. She could +take her choice. When that happened what would become of his +determination and his boasts? Frequently he clenched her riding crop and +swore:</p> + +<p>"Nothing—not even that—can keep me from accomplishing what I've set +out to do. I'll have my way with her."</p> + +<p>He shrank, nevertheless, from the thought of her adopting such a +defence. It was intolerable. He read the New York papers with growing +suspense. As an antidote he attacked harder than ever his study of cause +and effect in the Street. With football out of the way he could give a +good deal of time to that, and Blodgett now and then enclosed a hint in +Mundy's letters. It was possible to send a fair amount of money to his +parents; but his mother's letters never varied from their formality of +thanks and solicitations as to his health. His father didn't write at +all. Of course, they couldn't understand what he was doing. The shadow +of the great Planter remained perpetually over their little home.</p> + +<p>Another doubt troubled George. With the club matter out of the way, and +the presidency of the class his, and a full football garland resting on +his head, was he wasting his time at Princeton? The remembrance of +Blodgett steadied him. He needed all that Princeton and its +companionships could give.</p> + +<p>Purposefully he avoided Betty. Was she, indeed, responsible for that +softness he had yielded to in the infirmary and during the final game? +In his life, he kept telling himself, there was no room for sentiment. +Sentiment was childish, a hindrance. Hadn't he decided at the start that +nothing should turn him from his attempt for the summit? Still he +couldn't avoid seeing Betty now and then in Princeton, or at the dances +in New York to which he went with Goodhue. The less he saw of Betty, +moreover, the stronger grew his feeling of something essential lacking +from his life; and it bothered that, after a long separation, she was +invariably friendly instead of reproachful. He found that he couldn't +look at her eyes without hungrily trying to picture them wet with tears +for him.</p> + +<p>To some extent other demands took his mind from such problems. The +rumpus Goodhue had foreseen developed. Important men came or wrote from +New York or Philadelphia in Dalrymple's cause, but at the meetings of +the section George sat obdurate, and, when the struggle approached a +crisis, Goodhue came out openly on the side of his room-mate.</p> + +<p>"You can have Dalrymple in the club," was George's ultimatum, "or you +can have me, but you can't have us both."</p> + +<p>If George resigned, Goodhue announced, he would follow. Dalrymple was +doomed. The important men went back or ceased writing. Then Wandel +slipped Rogers into the charmed circle—the payment of a debt; and +George laughed and left the meeting, saying:</p> + +<p>"You can elect anybody you please now."</p> + +<p>Cynically, he was tempted to try to force Allen in.</p> + +<p>"You're not honest even with your own group," he said afterward to +Wandel.</p> + +<p>The club lost its value as a marker of progress. Besides, he didn't +look forward to eating with that little snob, Rogers, for two years. Nor +did he quite care for Wandel's reply.</p> + +<p>"You've enough class-consciousness for both of us, heroic and puissant +Apollo."</p> + +<p>For the first time George let himself go with Wandel.</p> + +<p>"You'll find Apollo Nemesis, little man, unless you learn to say what +you mean in words of one syllable."</p> + +<p>And the discussion of the clubs went on, breeding enmities but +determining no radical reform.</p> + +<p>The struggle at Princeton was over. George looked often at the younger +men, who didn't have to prepare themselves minutely for the greater +struggle just ahead, envying them their careless play, their proneness +to over-indulgence in beer and syncopated song. While he worked with +high and low prices and variations in exchange he heard them calling +cheerily across the campus, gathering parties for poker or bridge or a +session at the Nassau. Goodhue, even Wandel, found some time for +frivolity. George strangled his instinct to join them. He had too much +to do. In every diversion he took he wanted to feel there was a phase +personally valuable to him.</p> + +<p>He counted the days between his glimpses of Sylvia, and tried not to +measure the hours dividing his meetings with Betty. If only he dared let +himself go, dared cease battle for a little, dared justify Sylvia's +attitude! Even Goodhue noticed his avoidance of Betty.</p> + +<p>He encountered Sylvia in New York; asked her to dance with him; was +refused; cut in when she was, in a sense, helpless; and glided around +the room with a sullen, brilliant body that fairly palpitated with +distaste.</p> + +<p>Even during the summer he ran into her once on Long Island. Then he was +always missing her. Perhaps she had learned to avoid him. He shrank each +morning from his paper, from any bit of rumour connecting her with a +man; and Blodgett, he noticed, was still making money for a bachelor +bank account.</p> + +<p>He came to conceive a liking for his flabby employer, although he was +quite sure Blodgett wouldn't have bothered with him a moment if he +hadn't been a prominent college man with such ties among the great as +Blodgett hadn't been able to knot himself. What was more to the point, +the stout man admired George's ambition. He was more generous with his +surreptitious advice. He paid a larger salary which he admitted was less +than George earned during that summer. George, therefore, went back to +Princeton with fuller pockets. Again Mundy was loath to let him depart.</p> + +<p>"You know more about this game than men who've worked at it for years."</p> + +<p>His face of a parson grimaced.</p> + +<p>"You'd soon be able to hire me, if you'd stick on the job instead of +going back to college to get smashed up at football."</p> + +<p>George, however, didn't suffer much damage that year. He played +brilliantly through a season that without him would have been far more +disastrous than it was.</p> + +<p>When it was all over Squibs sat one night silently for a long time. At +last he stirred, lighted his pipe, and spoke.</p> + +<p>"I ought to say to you, George, that I was as satisfied with you in +defeat as I was in victory."</p> + +<p>"I outplayed Planter, anyway, didn't I?"</p> + +<p>Bailly studied him.</p> + +<p>"Did that mean more to you than having Princeton beaten?"</p> + +<p>"It kept Princeton from being beaten worse than it was."</p> + +<p>"Yes," Bailly admitted, "and, perhaps, you are right to find a personal +victory somewhere in a general defeat."</p> + +<p>"But you really think it selfish," George said.</p> + +<p>"I wish," Bailly answered, "I could graft on your brain some of Allen's +mental processes, even his dissatisfactions."</p> + +<p>"You can't," George said, bluntly. "I'm tired of Allen's smash talk. +Most people like him could be bought with the very conditions they +attack."</p> + +<p>Bailly arose and limped up and down. When he spoke his voice vibrated +with an unaccustomed passion:</p> + +<p>"I don't know. I don't think so. But I want you to realize that +prostrate worship of the fat old god success is as wicked as any other +idolatry. I want you to understand that Allen and his kind may be +sincere and right, that a vision unblinded by the bull's-eye may see +the target all awry. My fear goes back to your first days here. You are +still ashamed of service."</p> + +<p>"I've served," George said, hotly.</p> + +<p>"Was it real service," Bailly asked gently, "or a shot at the +bull's-eye?"</p> + +<p>Almost involuntarily George clapped his fingers to his head.</p> + +<p>"You're wrong, sir," he cried. "I've served when nothing but the thought +of service brought me through."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bailly hurried in. She put one hand on George's shoulder. With the +other she patted his hair.</p> + +<p>"What's he scolding my boy for?"</p> + +<p>George grinned at Bailly.</p> + +<p>"Don't you see, sir, if I were as bad as you think she couldn't do +that?"</p> + +<p>Bailly nodded thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"If you've served as you say you must be merely hiding the good."</p> + + +<h3>XXX</h3> + +<p>To himself at times George acknowledged his badness, in Bailly's terms +at least. He sometimes sympathized with Allen's point of view, even +while he heckled that angular man who often sat with him and Goodhue, +talking about strikes, and violence, and drunkenness as the quickest +recreation for men who had no time for play. He longed to tell Allen in +justification that he had walked out of the working class himself. +Later, staring at Sylvia's portrait, he would grow hard again. Men, he +would repeat, wanted to smash down obstacles only because they didn't +have the strength to scramble over. He had the strength. But Bailly +would intrude again. What about the congenitally unsound?</p> + +<p>"I'm not unsound," he would say to himself, studying the picture.</p> + +<p>And he suspected that it was because he didn't want to be good that he +was afraid of seeing too much of Betty Alston and her kindliness and the +reminiscence of tears in her eyes. If Squibs only knew how blessedly +easy it would be to turn good, to let ambition and Sylvia slip into a +remote and ugly memory! More frequently now he stared at her portrait, +forcing into his heart the thought of hatred and into her face the +expression of it; for the more hatred there was between them, the +smaller was the chance of his growing weak.</p> + +<p>He longed for the approaching escape from his gravest temptation. When +he was through college and definitely in New York he would find it +simpler to be hard. For that matter, why should he grow weak? He had +achieved a success far beyond the common. He would graduate president of +his class, captain of the football team, although he had tried to throw +both honours to Goodhue; member of the club that had drawn the best men +of his year, a power in the Senior Council; the man who had done most +for Princeton; a high-stand scholar; and, most important of all, one who +had acquired with his education a certain amount of culture and an ease +of manner in any company. Allen was still angular, as were most of those +other men who had come here, like George, with nothing behind them.</p> + +<p>In his success he saw no miracle, no luck beyond Squibs' early interest. +What he had won he had applied himself to get with hardness, cold +calculation, an indomitable will. He had kept his eyes open. He had used +everybody, everything, to help him climb toward Sylvia out of the valley +of humiliation. The qualities that had brought him all that were good +qualities, worth clinging to. As he had climbed he would continue in +spite of Bailly or Allen or Betty. But when he thought of Betty he had +to fight the tears from his own eyes.</p> + +<p>A little while before his graduation he went to her, knowing he must do +something to make her less kind, to destroy the impression she gave him +of one who, like Mrs. Bailly, always thought of him at his best.</p> + +<p>He walked alone through a bland moonlight scented with honeysuckle from +the hedges. His heart beat as it had that day four years ago when he had +unintentionally let Sylvia know his presumptuous craving.</p> + +<p>Two white figures strolled in front of the house. He went up, striving +to overcome the absurd reluctance in his heart. It wasn't simple to +destroy a thing as beautiful as this friendship. Betty paused and +turned, drawing her mother around.</p> + +<p>"I thought you'd quite forgotten us, George."</p> + +<p>Nor did he want to kill the welcome in her voice.</p> + +<p>"You're leaving Princeton very soon," Mrs. Alston said. "I'm glad you've +come. Of course, it isn't to say good-bye."</p> + +<p>He wondered if she didn't long for a parting to be broken only by +occasional meetings in town. He wondered if she didn't fear for Betty. +If there had been no Sylvia, if he had dared abandon the hard things and +ask for Betty, this imperious woman would have put plenty of searching +questions. But, he reflected, if it hadn't been for Sylvia he never +would have come so far, never would have come to Betty. Every +consideration held him on his course.</p> + +<p>He feared that Mrs. Alston, in her narrow, careful manner, wouldn't give +him an opportunity to speak to Betty alone. He was glad when they went +in and found Mr. Alston, who liked and admired him. When he left there +must come a chance. As he said good-night, indeed, Betty followed him to +the hall, and he whispered, so that the servant couldn't hear:</p> + +<p>"Betty, I've a confession. Won't you walk toward the gate with me?"</p> + +<p>The colour entered her white face as she turned and called to her +mother:</p> + +<p>"I'll walk to the gate with George."</p> + +<p>From the room he fancied a rustling, irritated acknowledgment.</p> + +<p>But she came, throwing a transparent scarf over her tawny hair, and they +were alone in the moonlight and the scent of flowers, walking side by +side across grass, beneath the heavy branches of trees.</p> + +<p>"See here, Betty! I've no business to call you that—never have had. +Without saying anything I've lied to you ever since I've been in +Princeton. I've taken advantage of your friendship."</p> + +<p>She paused. The thick leaves let through sufficient light to show him +the bewilderment in her eyes. Her voice was a little frightened.</p> + +<p>"You can't make me believe that. You're not the sort of man that does +such things. I don't know what you're talking about."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," he said, "but you're wrong, and I can't go away without +telling you just what I am."</p> + +<p>"You're just—George Morton," she said with a troubled smile.</p> + +<p>He tried not to listen. He hurried on with this killing that appealed to +him as necessary.</p> + +<p>"Remember the day in Freshman year, or before, wasn't it, when you +recognized Sylvia Planter's bulldog? It was her dog. She had given him +away—to me, because she had set him on me, and instead of biting he had +licked my face. So she said to take him away because she could never +bear to see him again."</p> + +<p>Betty's bewilderment grew. She spoke gropingly.</p> + +<p>"I guessed there had been something unusual between you and the +Planters. What difference does it make? Why do you tell me now? Anything +as old as that makes no difference."</p> + +<p>"But it does," he blurted out. "I know you too well now not to tell +you."</p> + +<p>"But you and Lambert are good friends. You dance with Sylvia."</p> + +<p>"And she," he said with a harsh laugh, "still calls me an impertinent +servant."</p> + +<p>Betty started. She drew a little away.</p> + +<p>"What? What are you talking about?"</p> + +<p>"Just that," he said, softly.</p> + +<p>He forced himself to a relentless description of his father and mother, +of the livery stable, of the failure, of his acceptance of the privilege +to be a paid by the week guardian on a horse of the beautiful Sylvia +Planter. The only point he left obscure was the sentimental basis of his +quarrel with her.</p> + +<p>"I <i>was</i> impertinent," he ended. "She called me an impertinent servant, +a stable boy, other pleasant names. She had me fired, or would have, if +I hadn't been going anyway. Now you know how I've lied to you and what I +am!"</p> + +<p>He waited, arms half raised, as one awaits an inevitable blow. For a +minute she continued to stare. Then she stepped nearer. Although he had +suffered to win an opposite response, she did what he had forced Lambert +Planter to do.</p> + +<p>"No wonder Lambert admires you," she said, warmly. "To do so much from +such a beginning! I knew at first you were different from—from us. +You're not now. It's——"</p> + +<p>She broke off, drawing away a little again. He struggled to keep his +hands from her white, slender figure, from her hair, yellow in the +moonlight.</p> + +<p>"You don't understand," he said, desperately. "This thing that you say +I've become is only veneer. It may have thickened, but it's still +veneer."</p> + +<p>It hurt to say that more than anything else, for all along he had been +afraid it was the truth.</p> + +<p>"Underneath the veneer," he went on, "I'm the mucker, the stable boy if +you like. If I were anything else I would have told you all this years +ago. Betty! Betty!"</p> + +<p>She drew farther away. He thought her voice was frightened, not quite +clear.</p> + +<p>"Please! Don't say anything more now. I'd rather not. I—I——Listen! +What difference does it make to me or anybody where you came from? +You're what you are, what you always have been since I've known you. It +was brave to tell me. I know that. I'm going now. Please——"</p> + +<p>She moved swiftly forward, stretching out her hand. He took it, felt its +uncertain movement in his, wondered why it was so cold, tightened his +grasp on its delightful and bewitching fragility. Her voice was +uncertain, too. It caressed him as he unconsciously caressed her hand.</p> + +<p>"Good-night, George."</p> + +<p>He couldn't help holding that slender hand tighter. She swayed away, +whispering breathlessly:</p> + +<p>"Let me go now!"</p> + +<p>He opened his fingers, and she ran lightly, with a broken laugh, across +the lawn away from him.</p> + +<p>The moonlight was like the half light of a breathless chapel, and the +scent of flowers suggested death; yet he had not killed what he had come +to kill.</p> + +<p>When he couldn't see her white figure any more George Morton, greatest +of football players, big man of his class, already with greedy fingers +in the fat purse of Wall Street, flung himself on the thick grass and +fought to keep his shoulders from jerking, his throat from choking, his +eyes from filling with tears.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="PART_III" id="PART_III"></a>PART III</h2> + +<h3>THE MARKET-PLACE</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>George left Princeton with a sense of flight. The reception of a diploma +didn't interest him, nor did the cheers he received class day or on the +afternoon of the Yale baseball game when, beneath a Japanese parasol, he +led the seniors in front of admiring thousands who audibly identified +him for each other.</p> + +<p>The man that had done most for Princeton! He admitted he had done a good +deal for himself. Of course, Squibs was right and he was abnormally +selfish; only it was too bad Betty couldn't have thought so. He had +tried to make her and had failed, he told himself, because Betty +couldn't understand selfishness.</p> + +<p>He avoided during those last days every chance of seeing her alone; but +even in the presence of others he was aware of an alteration in her +manner, to be traced, doubtless, to the night of his difficult +confession. She was kinder, but her eyes were often puzzled, as if she +couldn't understand why he didn't want to see her alone.</p> + +<p>He counted the moments, anxious for Blodgett and the enveloping +atmosphere of his marble-and-mahogany office. That would break the last +permanent tie. He would return to Princeton, naturally, but for only a +day or two now and then, too short a time to permit its influences +appreciably to swerve him.</p> + +<p>Without meaning to, he let himself soften on the very edge of his +departure when the class sang on the steps of Nassau Hall for the last +time, then burned the benches about the cannon, and in lock step, hands +on shoulders, shuffled slowly away like men who have accomplished the +interment of their youth.</p> + +<p>A lot of these mourning fellows he would never meet again; but he would +see plenty of Goodhue and Wandel and other useful people. Why, then, did +he abruptly and sharply regret his separation from all the others, even +the submerged ones who had got from Princeton only an education taken +like medicine and of about as much value? In the sway of this mood, +induced by permanent farewells, he came upon Dalrymple.</p> + +<p>"There's no point saying good-bye to you," George offered, kindly.</p> + +<p>Of course not. They would meet each other in town too frequently, +secreting a private enmity behind publicly worn masks of friendship. +George was wandering on, but Dalrymple halted him. The man was a trifle +drunk, and the sentiment of the moment had penetrated his narrow mind.</p> + +<p>"Not been very good friends, George, you and I."</p> + +<p>Even then George shrank from his apologies, since he appreciated their +precise value.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you forget it?" he asked, gruffly.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple nodded, but George knew in the morning the other would regret +having said as much as he had.</p> + +<p>Immediately after that sombre dissolution of the class George said +good-bye to the Baillys. Although it was quite late they sat waiting for +him in the study, neat and serene as it had been on that first day a +hundred years ago. The room was quite the same except that Bill +Gregory's picture had lost prominence while George's stood in the place +of honour—an incentive for new men, although George was confident +Squibs didn't urge certain of his qualities on his youngsters.</p> + +<p>Squibs looked older to-night, nearly as old, George thought, as the +disgraceful tweeds which he still wore. Mrs. Bailly sat in the shadows. +George kissed her and sank on the sofa at her side. She put her hand out +and groped for his, clinging to his fingers with a sort of despair. For +a long time they sat without speaking. George put his arm around her and +waited for one or the other to break this silence which became +unbearable. He couldn't, because as he dreamed among the shadows there +slipped into his mind the appearance and the atmosphere of another room +where three had sat without words on the eve of a vital parting. Tawdry +details came back of stove and littered table and ungainly chairs, and +of swollen hands and swollen eyes. He had suffered an unbearable silence +then because he had found himself suddenly incapable of speaking his +companions' language. With these two the silence was more difficult, +because there was too much to say—more than ever could be said.</p> + +<p>He started. Suppose Squibs at the very last should use his father's +parting words:</p> + +<p>"It's a bad start, but maybe you'll turn out all right after all."</p> + +<p>His lips tightened. Would it be any truer now than it had been then? For +that matter, would Squibs have cared for him or done as much for him, if +he had been less ambitious, if he had compromised at all?</p> + +<p>One thing was definite: No matter what he did these two would never +demand his exile; and the old pain caught him, and he knew it was real, +and not a specious cover for his relief at not having to see his parents +again. It hurt—most of all his mother's acceptance of a judgment she +should have fought with all her soul.</p> + +<p>He stroked the soft hand that clung to his. From that parting he had +come to the tender and eager maternal affection of this childless woman, +and he knew she would always believe he was right.</p> + +<p>But she wanted him to have Betty——</p> + +<p>He stood up. He was going away from home. She expressed that at the +door.</p> + +<p>"This is your home, George."</p> + +<p>Bailly nodded.</p> + +<p>"Never forget that. Don't let your ideas smoulder in your own brain. +Come home, and talk them over."</p> + +<p>George kissed Mrs. Bailly. He put his hands on Bailly's narrow +shoulders. He looked at the young eyes in a wrinkled face.</p> + +<p>"The thing that hurts me most," he muttered, "is that I haven't paid you +back."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not altogether," Bailly answered, gravely, "but someday you +may."</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>The last thing George did before leaving his dismantled room, which for +so long had sheltered Sylvia's riding crop and her photograph, was to +write this little note to Betty:</p> + +<blockquote><p><span class="smcap">Dear Betty</span>:</p> + +<p>It's simpler to go without saying good-bye.</p> + +<p>G. M.</p></blockquote> + +<p>Then he was hustled through the window of the railroad train, out of +Princeton, and definitely into the market-place.</p> + +<p>After the sentiment of the final days the crowding, unyielding +buildings, and the men that shared astonishingly their qualities, +offered him a useful restorative. He found he could approximate their +essential hardness again.</p> + +<p>The Street at times resembled the campus—it held so many of the men he +had learned to know at Princeton. Lambert was installed in his father's +marble temple. He caught George one day on the sidewalk and hustled him +to a luncheon club.</p> + +<p>"I suppose I really ought to put you up here."</p> + +<p>"Why?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"Because I'm always sure of a good scrap with you. I missed not playing +against you in the Princeton game last fall. Now there's no more +football for either of us. I like scraps."</p> + +<p>Blodgett, he chanced to mention later, had spent the previous week-end +at Oakmont. Blodgett had already bragged of that in George's presence. +He forgot the excellent dishes Lambert had had placed before him.</p> + +<p>"Have you put Blodgett up here, too?" he asked in his bluntest manner.</p> + +<p>Lambert shook his head.</p> + +<p>"That's different."</p> + +<p>"Not very honestly different," George said, attempting a smile.</p> + +<p>"You mean," Lambert laughed, "because I've never asked you to Oakmont? +Under the circumstances——"</p> + +<p>"I don't mean that," George said. "I mean Blodgett."</p> + +<p>"I can only arrange my own likes and dislikes," Lambert answered, still +amused.</p> + +<p>Then who at Oakmont liked the fat financier?</p> + +<p>Rogers was in the street, too, selling bonds with his old attitude +toward the serious side of life, striving earnestly only to spy out the +right crowd and to run with it.</p> + +<p>"Buy my bonds! Buy my bonds!" he would cry, coming into George's office. +"They're each and every one a bargain. Remember, what's a bargain to-day +may be a dead loss to-morrow, so buy before it's too late."</p> + +<p>Goodhue planned to enter a stock exchange firm in the fall, and a lot of +other men from the class would come down then after a long rest between +college and tackling the world on twenty dollars a month. Wandel alone +of George's intimates rested irresolute. George, since he had taken two +rooms and a bath in the apartment house in which Wandel lived, saw him +frequently. He could easily afford that luxury, for each summer his +balance had grown, and Blodgett, now that he had George for as long as +he could keep him, was paying him handsomely, and flattering him by +drawing on the store of special knowledge his extended and difficult +application had hoarded.</p> + +<p>To live in such a house, moreover, was necessary to his campaign, which, +he admitted, had lagged alarmingly. Sylvia had continued to avoid him. +She seemed to possess a special sense for the houses and the parties +where he would be, and when, in spite of this, they did meet, she tried +to impress him with a thorough indifference; or, if she couldn't avoid a +dance, with a rigid repulsion that failed to harmonize with her warm +colouring and her exquisite femininity.</p> + +<p>Through some means he had to get on. His restless apprehension had +grown. Her departure for Europe with her mother fed the rumours that +from time to time had connected her name with eligible men. It was even +hinted now that her mother's eyesight, which reached to social greatness +across the Atlantic, was responsible for her celibacy.</p> + +<p>"There'll be an announcement before she comes back," the gossip ran. +"They'll land a museum piece of a title."</p> + +<p>George didn't know about that, but he did realize that unless he could +progress, one day a rumour would take body. He resented bitterly her +absence this summer, but if things would carry on until the fall he +would manage, he promised himself, to get ahead with Sylvia.</p> + +<p>Wandel seemed to enjoy having George near, for, irresolute as he was, he +spent practically the entire summer in town. George, one night when they +had returned from two hours' suffering of a summer show, asked him the +reason. They smoked in Wandel's library.</p> + +<p>"I can look around better here," was all Wandel would say.</p> + +<p>"But Driggs! Those precious talents!"</p> + +<p>Wandel stretched himself in an easy chair.</p> + +<p>"What would you suggest, great man?"</p> + +<p>George laughed.</p> + +<p>"Do you write poetry in secret—the big, wicked, and suffering city, +seen from a tenth-story window overlooking a pretty park?"</p> + +<p>Vehemently Wandel shook his head.</p> + +<p>"You know what most of our modern American jinglers are up to—talking +socialism or anarchy to get themselves talked about. If only they +wouldn't apply such insincere and half-digested theories to their art! +It's a little like modern popular music—criminal intervals and measures +against all the rules. But crime, you see, is invariably arresting. My +apologies to the fox-trot geniuses. They pretend to be nothing more than +clever mutilators; but the jinglers! They are great reformers. Bah! They +remind me of a naughty child who proudly displays the picture he has +torn into grotesque pieces, saying: 'Come quick, mother, and see what +smart little Aleck has done.' You'll have to try again, George."</p> + +<p>George glanced up. His face was serious.</p> + +<p>"Don't laugh at me. I mean it. Politics."</p> + +<p>"At Princeton I wasn't bad at that," Wandel admitted, smiling +reminiscently. "But politics mixes a man with an unlovely crowd—uncouth +provincials, a lot of them, and some who are to all purposes foreigners. +Do you know, my dear George, that ability to read and write is essential +to occupying a seat in the United States Senate? I was amazed the other +day to hear it was so. You see how simple it is to misjudge."</p> + +<p>"Then there's room," George laughed, "for more honest, well-educated, +well-bred Americans."</p> + +<p>"Seems to me," Wandel drawled, "that a little broad-minded practicality +in our politics would be more useful than bovine honesty. I could +furnish that. How should I begin?"</p> + +<p>"You might get a start in the State Department," George suggested, +"diplomacy, a secretaryship——"</p> + +<p>"For once you're wrong," Wandel objected. "In this country diplomacy is +a destination rather than a route. The good jobs are frequently given +for services rendered, or men pay enormous sums for the privilege of +being taken for waiters at their own functions. To start at the +bottom——Oh, no. I don't possess the cerebral vacuity, and you can only +climb out of the service."</p> + +<p>"Just the same," George laughed, "you'd make a tricky politician."</p> + +<p>Wandel puffed thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"You're a far-seeing, a far-going person," he said. "You are bound to be +a very rich man. You'll want a few practical politicians. Isn't it so? +Never mind, but it's understood if I ever run for President or coroner +you'll back me with your money bags."</p> + +<p>George glanced about the room, as striking and costly in its French +fashion as the green study had been.</p> + +<p>"You have all the money you need," he said.</p> + +<p>"But I'd be a rotten politician," Wandel answered, "if I spent any of my +own money on my own campaigns. So we have an understanding if the +occasion should arise——"</p> + +<p>With a movement exceptionally quick for him, suggesting, indeed, an +uncontrollable nervous reaction, Wandel sprang to his feet and went to +the window where he leant out. George followed him, staring over the +park's far-spread velvet, studded with the small but abundant yellow +jewels of the lamps.</p> + +<p>"What is it, little man? It's insufferable in town. Why don't you go +play by the sea or in the hills?"</p> + +<p>"Because," Wandel answered, softly, "I can't help the feeling that any +occasion may arise. I don't mean our little politics, George. Time +enough for them. I don't want to go. I am waiting."</p> + +<p>George understood.</p> + +<p>"You mean the murders at Sarajevo," he said. "You're over-sensitive. Run +along and play. Nothing will come of that."</p> + +<p>"Tell me," Wandel said, turning slowly, "that you mean what you say. +Tell me you haven't figured on it already."</p> + +<p>George shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"You're discreet. All right. I have figured, because, if anything should +come of it, it offers the chance of a lifetime for making money. Mundy's +put me in touch with some useful people in London and Paris. I want to +be ready if things should break. I hope they won't. Honestly, I very +much doubt if they will. Even Germany will think twice before forcing a +general war."</p> + +<p>"But you're making ready," Wandel whispered, "on the off-chance."</p> + +<p>George pressed a switch and got more light. It was as if a heavy shadow +had filled the delightful room.</p> + +<p>"We're growing fanciful," he said, "seeing things in the dark. By the +way, you run into Dalrymple occasionally? I'm told he comes often to +town."</p> + +<p>Wandel left the window, nodding.</p> + +<p>"How long can he keep it up?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"I'm not a physician."</p> + +<p>"No, no. I mean financially. I gather his family live up to what they +have."</p> + +<p>"I daresay it would pain them to settle Dolly's debts frequently," +Wandel smiled.</p> + +<p>"Then," George said, slowly, "he is fairly sure to come to you—that is, +if this keeps up."</p> + +<p>"Why," Wandel asked, "should I encourage Dolly to be charitable to rich +wine agents and under-dressed females?"</p> + +<p>George shook his head.</p> + +<p>"If he asks you for help don't send him to the money lenders. Send him +discreetly to me. If I didn't have what he'd want, I daresay I could get +it."</p> + +<p>Wandel stared, lighting another cigarette.</p> + +<p>"I'd like to keep him from the money lenders," George said, easily.</p> + +<p>He didn't care whether Wandel thought him a forgiving fool or a +calculating scoundrel. Goodhue and Wandel had long since seen that he +had been put up at a number of clubs. The two had fancied they could +control Dalrymple's resentments. George, following his system, preferred +a whip in his own hand. He harboured no thought of revenge, but he did +want to be able to protect himself. He would use every possible means. +This was one.</p> + +<p>"We'll see," Wandel said. "It's too bad great men don't get along with +little wasters."</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>More than once George was tempted to follow Sylvia, trusting to luck to +find means of being near her. Such a trip might, indeed, lead to profit +if the off chance should develop. Still that could be handled better +from this side, and it was, after all, a chance. He must trust to her +coming back as she had gone. His place for the present was with Blodgett +and Mundy.</p> + +<p>The chance, however, was at the back of his head when he encountered +Allen late one hot night in a characteristic pose in Times Square. Allen +still talked, but his audience of interested or tolerant college men had +been replaced by hungry, ragged loafers and a few flushed, well-dressed +males of the type that prefers any diversion to a sane return home. +Allen stood in the centre of this group. His arms gestured broadly. His +angular face was passionate. From the few words George caught his +sympathy for these failures was beyond measure. He suggested to them the +beauties of violence, the brilliancies of the social revolution. The +loafers commented. The triflers laughed. Policemen edged near.</p> + +<p>"Free liquor!" a voice shrilled.</p> + +<p>Allen shook his fist, and continued. The proletariat would have to take +matters into its own hands.</p> + +<p>"Fine!" a hoarse and beery listener shouted, "but what'll the cops say +about it?"</p> + +<p>The edging policemen didn't bother to say anything at first. They +quietly scattered the scarecrows and the laggards. They indicated the +advisability of retreat for the orator. Then one burst out at Allen.</p> + +<p>"God help the proletariat if I have to take it before McGloyne at the +station house."</p> + +<p>And George heard another sneer:</p> + +<p>"Social revolution! They've been trying to throw Tammany out ever since +I can remember."</p> + +<p>George got Allen away. The angular man was glad to see him.</p> + +<p>"You look overworked," George said. "Come have a modest supper with me."</p> + +<p>Allen was hungry, but he managed to grumble discouragement over his +food.</p> + +<p>"They laugh. They'll stop listening for the price of a glass of beer."</p> + +<p>"Maybe," George said, kindly, "they realize it's no good trying to help +them."</p> + +<p>"They've got to be helped," Allen muttered.</p> + +<p>"Then," George suggested, "put them in institutions, but don't expect me +nor any one else to approve when you urge them to grab the leadership of +the world. You must have enough sense to see it would mean ruin. I know +they're not all like this lot, but they're all a little wrong or they +wouldn't need help."</p> + +<p>"It's because they've never had a chance," Allen protested.</p> + +<p>It came to George that Allen had never had a chance either, and he +wondered if he, too, could be led aside by the price of a glass of beer.</p> + +<p>"You all want what the other fellow's got," he said. "From that one +motive these social movements draw the bulk of their force. A lot for +nothing is a perfect poor man's creed."</p> + +<p>"You're a heathen, Morton."</p> + +<p>"That is, a human being," George said, good naturedly. "You're another, +Allen, but you won't acknowledge it."</p> + +<p>Because he believed that, George took the other's address. Allen was +loyal, aggressive, and extraordinarily bright, as he had proved at +Princeton. It might be convenient to help him. Besides, he hated to see +a man he knew so well waste his time and look like a fool.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>By late July the off chance had pretty thoroughly defined itself except +to the blind. Blodgett, however, was still skeptical. He thought +George's plans were sound, provided a war should come. But there +wouldn't be any war. His correspondents were optimistic.</p> + +<p>"Have I your permission to use Mundy in his off time?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"As far as I'm concerned," Blodgett said, "Mundy can play parchesi in +his off time."</p> + +<p>George telephoned Lambert Planter and sent a telegram to Goodhue. He +took them to luncheon and had Mundy there, too. He outlined his plans +for the formation of the firm of Morton, Planter, and Goodhue.</p> + +<p>"He's called the turn of the cards," Mundy offered.</p> + +<p>Such cards as he possessed George placed on the table. He furnished the +idea, and the preliminary organization, and what money he had. He took, +therefore, the major share of the profits. The others would give what +time to the business they could, but it was their money he wanted, and +the credit their names would give the firm. Mundy and he had made lists +of buyers and sellers. No man in the Street was better equipped than +Mundy to pick such a force. If Lambert and Goodhue agreed, these men +could be collected within a week. Some would go to Europe. Others would +scatter over the United States. It would cost a lot, but it meant an +immeasurable amount in return, for the war was inevitable.</p> + +<p>Goodhue and Lambert were as skeptical as Blodgett, but they agreed to +give him what he needed to get his organization started. By that time, +he promised them, they would see how right he was, and then he could use +more of their money.</p> + +<p>"It's the nearest I've ever come to gambling," he thought as he left +them. "Gambling on a war!"</p> + +<p>Because of his confidence, before a frontier had been crossed he had +bought or contracted for large quantities of shoes and cloths and +waterproofing. He had taken options on stock in small and wavering +automobile concerns, and outlying machine shops and foundries, some of +them already closed down, some struggling along without hope.</p> + +<p>"If the war lasts a month," he told his partners, "those stocks will +come from the bottom of nothing to the sky."</p> + +<p>Goodhue became thoroughly interested at last. He cancelled his vacation +and installed himself in the offices George had rented in Blodgett's +building. With the men Mundy had picked, and under Mundy's tutelage, he +took charge of the routine. George went to Blodgett the first of August.</p> + +<p>"I want to quit," he said. "I've got a big thing. I want to give it all +my time."</p> + +<p>Blodgett mopped his face. His grin was a little sheepish.</p> + +<p>"I want to invest some money in your firm," he jerked out.</p> + +<p>"I can use it," George said.</p> + +<p>"You've got Goodhue there," Blodgett went on in a complaining way, "and +Mundy's working nights for you. Don't desert an old man without notice. +I'll give you plenty of time upstairs. Other things may come off here. I +can use you."</p> + +<p>"If you want to pay me when you know my chief interest is somewhere +else," George said, "it's up to you."</p> + +<p>"When I think I'm getting stung I'll let you know," Blodgett roared.</p> + +<p>George sent for Allen, and urged him to go to London to open an office +with an expert Lambert had got from his father's marble temple. Allen +would be a check on the more experienced men whose scruples might not +stand the temptations of this vast opportunity. Allen said he couldn't +do it; couldn't abandon the work he had already commenced.</p> + +<p>"There'll be precious little talk of socialism," George said, "until +this thing is over. It's a great chance for a man to study close up the +biggest change the world has ever undergone. Those fellows will want +everything, and I'll give them everything I can lay my hands on. I'm +ahead of a lot of jobbers here. I'll pay you well to see I don't get +robbed on that side. Come on. Take a shot at hard facts for a change."</p> + +<p>Allen gasped at the salary George mentioned. He hesitated. He went. +George was glad to have helped him. He experienced also an ugly sense of +triumph. He felt that he wanted to tell Squibs Bailly right away.</p> + +<p>Sylvia and her mother, he heard later, had come home out of the turmoil, +unacquainted with the discomforts of people who had travelled without +the Planter prestige. Whether the war was to blame or not, she had +returned without a single rumour touching fact. He didn't see her right +away, because she clung to Oakmont. More and more, as his success +multiplied, keeping pace with the agony in Europe, he longed to see her. +All at once a return to Oakmont was, in a sense, forced upon him, but he +went without any thought of encountering Sylvia, hoping, indeed, to +avoid her.</p> + +<p>It was like his mother to express her letter with telegraphic bluntness +without, however, going to the expense of actually wiring. Where he had +expected her customary stiff gratitude for money sent he found a +scrawled announcement of his father's death, and her plans for the +funeral the following afternoon.</p> + +<p>"Of course you won't come," she ended.</p> + +<p>Yet it seemed to him that he should go, to arrange her future. This was +the moment to snap the last enslaving tie between the Mortons and +Oakmont. There was, of course, the chance of running into Sylvia, or +some visitor who might connect him with the little house. Suppose +Dalrymple, for example, should be staying with the Planters as he often +did? George shrugged his shoulders. Things were coming rather rapidly to +him. Besides, it was extremely unlikely that any one from the great +house would see the Morton ceremony. The instincts of those people +would be to avoid such sights.</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>About his return there was a compelling thrill. He drove from the +station in one of the cheap automobiles that had made his father +practically a pensioner of the Planters. With an incredulous +appreciation that he had once accepted its horizon as the boundary of +his life, he examined the familiar landscape and the scar made upon it +by the village. Curtly he refused to satisfy the driver's curiosity. He +had some business at the little house on the Planter estate.</p> + +<p>There, through the nearly stripped trees, it showed, almost audibly +confessing its debt to the Planter carpenters, painters, and gardeners. +In a clouded light late fall flowers waved from masses of dead leaves. +Their gay colours gave them an appearance melancholy and apprehensive.</p> + +<p>Here he was back at last, and he wasn't going in at the great gate.</p> + +<p>He walked around the shuttered house and crossed the porch where his +father had liked to sit on warm evenings. He rapped at the door. Feet +shuffled inside. The door swayed open, and his mother stood on the +threshold. Most of the changes had come to him, but in her red eyes +sparkled a momentary and mournful importance. At first she didn't +recognize her son.</p> + +<p>"What is it?"</p> + +<p>George stooped and kissed her cheek.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry, Mother."</p> + +<p>Instead of holding out her arms she drew away, staring with fascination, +a species of terror, at his straight figure, at his clothing, at his +face that wouldn't coarsen now. When she spoke her voice suggested a +placating of this stranger who was her son.</p> + +<p>"I didn't think you'd come. I can't believe you're George—my Georgie."</p> + +<p>Over her shoulders in the shadowed house he saw the inquisitive faces of +women. It was clear that for them such an arrival was more divertive +than the sharing of a sorrow that scarcely touched their hearts.</p> + +<p>George went in. He remembered most of the faces that disclosed +excitement while fawning upon his prosperity. He received an unpleasant +impression that these poor and ignorant people concealed a dangerous +envy, that they would be glad to grasp in one moment, even of violence, +all that it had taken him years of difficult struggle to acquire. +Whether that was so or not they ought not to stand before him as if his +success were a crown. He tried to keep contempt from his voice.</p> + +<p>"Please sit down. I want to talk to my mother. Where——"</p> + +<p>With slow steps she crossed the kitchen and opened the door of the +parlour, beckoning. He followed, knowing what he would find in that +uncomfortable, gala room of the poor.</p> + +<p>He closed the door. In the half light he saw standing on trestles an +oblong box altogether too large for the walls that seemed to crowd it. +He had no feeling that anything of his father was there. He realized +with a sense of helpless regret that all that remained to him of that +unhappy man were the ghosts of such emotions as avarice, fear, and the +instinct to sacrifice one's own flesh and blood for a competence.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you look at him, George?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think he'd care to have me looking at him now."</p> + +<p>She wiped her eyes.</p> + +<p>"You are too bitter against your father. After all, he was a good man."</p> + +<p>"Why should death," he asked her, musingly, "make people seem better +than they were in life? It isn't so."</p> + +<p>"That's wicked. If your father could rise——"</p> + +<p>His attention was caught by an air of pointing the oblong box had, as if +to something infinitely farther than ambition and success, yet so close +it angered him he couldn't see or touch it. His father had gone there, +beyond the farthest horizon of all. Old Planter couldn't make trouble +for him now. He was quite safe.</p> + +<p>Over in Europe, he reflected, they didn't have enough coffins.</p> + +<p>The oblong box for the first time made him think of that war, that was +making him rich, in terms of life instead of dollars and cents. He felt +dissatisfied.</p> + +<p>"There should be more light here," he said, defensively.</p> + +<p>But his mother shook her head.</p> + +<p>He arranged a chair for her and sat near by while they discussed the +details of her departure. She let him see that she shrank from leaving +the house, against which, nevertheless, she had bitterly complained ever +since Old Planter had got it. Evidently she wanted to linger in her +familiar rut, awaiting with the attitude of a martyr whatever fate might +offer. That was the reason people had to be helped, because they +preferred vicious inertia to the efforts and risks of change. Then why +did they want the prizes of those who had had the courage to go forth +and fight? Why couldn't Squibs see that?</p> + +<p>Patiently George told her she needn't worry about money again. She had a +sister who years ago had married and moved West to a farm that was not +particularly flourishing. Undoubtedly her sister would be glad to have +her and her generous allowance. So his will overcame his mother's +reluctance to help herself. She glanced up.</p> + +<p>"Who is that?"</p> + +<p>He listened. The women in the kitchen were standing again. Light feet +crossed the floor.</p> + +<p>"Maybe somebody from the big house," his mother whispered. "They sent +Simpson last night."</p> + +<p>For a moment the entire building was as silent as the oblong box. Then +the door opened.</p> + +<p>Sylvia Planter slipped in and closed the door.</p> + +<p>George caught his breath, studying her as she hesitated, accustoming +herself to the insufficient light. She wore a broad-brimmed hat that +gave her the charm and the grace of a portrait by Gainsborough. When she +recognized him, indeed, she seemed as permanently caught as a portrait.</p> + +<p>"Miss Sylvia!" his mother worshipped.</p> + +<p>"They told me I would find you here," Sylvia said, uncertainly. "I +didn't know——"</p> + +<p>She broke off, biting her lip. George strolled around the oblong box to +the window, turning there with a slow bow. Even across that desolate, +dead shell, the obstinate distaste and the challenge were lively in her +glance.</p> + +<p>"It was very kind of you to come," he said.</p> + +<p>But he was sorry she had come. To see him in such surroundings was a +stimulation of the ugly memories he had struggled to destroy. He read +her instinct to hurt him now as she had hurt the impertinent man, +Morton, who had lived in this house.</p> + +<p>"When one of our people is in trouble——" she began, deliberately. "I +thought I might be of some help to your mother."</p> + +<p>Even over the feeling of security George had just tried to give her the +old menace reached the uneasy woman.</p> + +<p>"You—you remember him, Miss Sylvia?"</p> + +<p>"Very well," Sylvia answered. "He used to be my groom."</p> + +<p>"The title comes from you," George said, dryly.</p> + +<p>His mother's glance fluttered from one to the other. What did she +expect—Old Planter stalking in to carry out his threats?</p> + +<p>"After all these years I scarcely knew him myself."</p> + +<p>Sylvia's colour heightened. He appraised her rising temper.</p> + +<p>"Bad servants," he said, "linger in good employers' memories."</p> + +<p>"I know, Miss Sylvia," his mother burst out, "that he wasn't to come +back here, but——"</p> + +<p>She unclasped her nervous hands. One indicated the silent cause of his +disobedience. George moved toward the door. Sylvia stepped quickly +aside. He felt, like a physical wave, her desire to hurt.</p> + +<p>"At such a time," she said, "it's natural he should come back to his +home. I think my father would be glad to have him with his mother."</p> + +<p>George shrugged his shoulders, slipped out, navigated the shoals of +whispering women, and reached the clean air. He buttoned his overcoat +and shuffled through the dead leaves beneath the trees until he found +himself at the spot where Lambert and he had fought. He recalled his +hot boasts of that day. Fulfilment had seemed simple enough then. The +scene just submitted reminded him how short a distance he had actually +travelled.</p> + +<p>He knew she would pass that way on her return to the big house, so he +waited, and when he heard her feet disturbing the dead leaves he didn't +turn. She came closer than he had expected, and he heard her contralto +voice, quick and defiant:</p> + +<p>"I hadn't expected to see you. I didn't quite realize what I was saying. +I should have had more respect for any one's grief."</p> + +<p>Having said that, she was going on, but he turned and stopped her. As he +looked at her he reflected that everything had altered since that +day—she most of all. Then the woman had been a little visible in the +child. Now, he fancied, the child survived in the woman only through the +persistence of this old quarrel. He stared at her lips, recalling his +boast that no man should touch them unless it were George Morton. He was +no nearer them than he had been that day. Unless he got nearer some man +would. It was incredible that she hadn't married. She would marry.</p> + +<p>"In the sense you mean, I have no grief," he said.</p> + +<p>"Then I needn't have bothered. I once said you were a—a——"</p> + +<p>"Something melodramatic. A beast, I think it was," he answered. "If you +don't mind I'll walk on with you for a little way."</p> + +<p>"No," she said.</p> + +<p>"If you please."</p> + +<p>"You've no perception," she cried, angrily.</p> + +<p>"Don't you think it time," he suggested, "that you ceased treating me +like a groom? It isn't very convincing to me. I doubt if it is to you. I +fancy it's really only your pride. I don't see why you should have so +much where I am concerned."</p> + +<p>Her hand made a quick gesture of repulsion.</p> + +<p>"You've not changed. You may walk on with me while I tell you this: If +you were like the men I know and can be friends with you'd leave me +alone. Will you stop this persecution? It comes down to that. Will you +stop forcing me to dance with you, to listen to you?"</p> + +<p>He smiled, shaking his head.</p> + +<p>"I'll make you dance with me more than ever. I've seen very little of +you lately. I hope this winter——"</p> + +<p>She stopped, facing him, her cheeks flaming.</p> + +<p>"You see! You remind me every time I meet you of just what you are, just +what you came from, just what you said and did that day."</p> + +<p>"That is my aim," he smiled.</p> + +<p>He moved his hand in the direction of the little house.</p> + +<p>"When we're all like that will it make much difference who our fathers +and mothers were?"</p> + +<p>She shivered. She started swiftly away.</p> + +<p>"Miss Planter!"</p> + +<p>The unexpectedness of the naked command may have brought her around. He +walked to her.</p> + +<p>"When will you realize," he asked, "that it is unforgivable to turn your +back on life?"</p> + +<p>Had he really meant to suggest that she could possess life only through +him? Doubtless the sublime effrontery of that interpretation reached +her. She commenced to laugh, her colour rising. She glanced away, and +her laughter died.</p> + +<p>"You may as well understand," he said, "that I am never going to leave +you alone."</p> + +<p>She started across the leaf-strewn grass. He kept pace with her.</p> + +<p>"Are you going to force me to make a scene?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Except with your father," he said, "I don't think it would make much +difference."</p> + +<p>He felt that if she had had anything in her hands then she would have +struck at him.</p> + +<p>"It's not because I'm a beast," he said, quietly, "that I have no grief +for my father. He was through. Life had nothing to offer him. He had +nothing to offer life. Don't think I'm incapable of grief. I experienced +it the day I thought you might be dead. That was because you had so +much to offer life—rather more than life had to offer you."</p> + +<p>He saw her shrink from him but she walked on, repressing her pain and +her anger.</p> + +<p>"Since I've known intimately girls of your class," he said, "I've +realized that not all of them would have turned and tried to wound as +you did that day. Some would have laughed. Some would have been sorry +and sympathetic. I don't think many would have made such a scene."</p> + +<p>He smiled down at her.</p> + +<p>"I want you to realize it is your own fault. You started this. I'm not +scolding. I'm glad you were such a little fury. Otherwise, I might have +gone on working for your father or for somebody else's father. But +you're to blame for my persistence, so learn to put up with it. As long +as I keep the riding crop with which you tried to cut my face I'll +remember what I said I'd do, and I'll do it."</p> + +<p>She didn't answer, but if she tried to give him the impression she +wasn't listening she failed utterly.</p> + +<p>Around a curve in the path came a bent, white old man, bundled in a +heavy muffler and coat. In one hand he carried a thick cane. The other +rested on the arm of a young fellow of the private secretary stamp. +There, George acknowledged, advanced the single person with whom a scene +might make a serious difference, yet a more compelling thought crept in +and overcame his sense of danger. That was the type of man who made +wars. That man, indeed, was helping to finance this war. George was +obsessed by the dun day: by the leaves, fallen and rotten; by the memory +of the oblong box. Everything reminded him that not far away Death +marched with a bland, black triumph, greeting science as an ally instead +of an enemy.</p> + +<p>"Suppose," he mused, "America should get in this thing."</p> + +<p>At last she spoke.</p> + +<p>"What did you say? Do you see my father?"</p> + +<p>He nodded.</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't it be wiser," she asked, "to leave me alone?"</p> + +<p>"Your father," he said, "looks a good deal older."</p> + +<p>Old Planter had, in fact, gone down hill since George's last glimpse of +him in New York, or else he didn't attempt here to assume a strength he +no longer possessed. He was quite close before he gave any sign of +seeing the pair, and then he muttered to his secretary who answered with +a whisper. He limped up and took Sylvia's hand.</p> + +<p>"Where has my little girl been?"</p> + +<p>She laughed harshly.</p> + +<p>"To a rendezvous in the forest. You shouldn't let me go out alone."</p> + +<p>Planter glanced from clouded eyes at George. His lips between the white +hair smiled amiably.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe I remember——"</p> + +<p>"It's one of Lambert's business friends," Sylvia said, hastily. "Mr. +Morton."</p> + +<p>The old man shifted his cane and held out his hand.</p> + +<p>"Lambert," he joked, "says he's going to make more money through you +than I can hope to leave him. You seem to have got the jump on a lot of +shrewd men. I'll see you at dinner? Lambert isn't coming to-night?"</p> + +<p>George briefly clasped the hand of the big man.</p> + +<p>"I must go back to town this afternoon."</p> + +<p>"Then another time."</p> + +<p>Planter shifted his cane and leant again on his secretary.</p> + +<p>"Let's get on, Straker. Doctor's orders."</p> + +<p>"Why," George asked when Sylvia and he were alone, "didn't you spring at +the chance?"</p> + +<p>"I prefer to fight my own battles," she said, shortly.</p> + +<p>"Don't you mean," he asked, quizzically, "that you're a little ashamed +of what you did that day?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>"I was a frightened child. I have changed."</p> + +<p>"Isn't it," he laughed, "a little because I, too, have changed? It never +occurred to your father to connect me with the Mortons living on his +place."</p> + +<p>Again she shook her head, turning away. He held out his hand.</p> + +<p>"I must go back. Let's admit we've both changed. Let us be friends."</p> + +<p>She didn't answer. She made no motion to take his hand.</p> + +<p>"One of the promises I made that day," he reminded her, "was to teach +you not to be afraid of my touch."</p> + +<p>"Does it amuse you to threaten me?" she asked.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he reached out, caught her right hand before she could avoid +him, and gave it a quick pressure.</p> + +<p>"Of course you're right," he laughed. "Actions are more useful than +threats."</p> + +<p>While she stared, flushed and incredulous, at the hand he had pressed, +George walked swiftly away, tingling with life, back to the house of +death.</p> + + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p>At the funeral he submitted to the amazed scrutiny of the country +people. They couldn't hurt him, because they impinged not at all on his +world; but he was relieved when the oblong box had been consigned to the +place reserved for it, and he could, after arranging the last details of +his mother's departure, take the train back to New York.</p> + +<p>Blodgett didn't even bother to ask where he had been. He was content +these days to let George go his own way. He hadn't forgotten that the +younger man had seen farther off than he the greatest opportunity for +money making the world had ever offered the greedy. He personally was +more interested in the syndicating of foreign external loans. The +Planters weren't far from the head of that movement, and George rather +resented his stout employer's working hand in hand with the Planters. +George longed to ask him how often he was trying to appear graceful at +Oakmont these days.</p> + +<p>The firm of Morton, Planter, and Goodhue had grown so rapidly that it +took practically all of George's and Lambert's time. Mundy, to whom +George had given a small interest, asked Blodgett if he couldn't leave +to devote himself entirely to the offices upstairs.</p> + +<p>"Go to it," Blodgett agreed, good naturedly. "Draw your profits and your +salary from Morton after this."</p> + +<p>George mulled over the sacrifice. Did it mean that Blodgett was so close +to the Planters that a merger was possible?</p> + +<p>"There's no use," he told Blodgett. "I'm earning practically nothing in +your office, because I'm never here. I want to resign."</p> + +<p>"Run along, sonny," Blodgett said. "Your salary is a small portion of +the profits your infant firm is bringing me. I like you around the +office once a day. Old Planter hasn't fired his boy, has he, and he's +upstairs all the time, and he's taken over some of the old man's best +clerks."</p> + +<p>"He's Mr. Planter's son," George reminded him.</p> + +<p>"And ain't you like a good son to me," the other leered, "making money +for papa Blodgett?"</p> + +<p>"Why did you let Mundy go so peacefully?" George asked, suspiciously.</p> + +<p>"Because," Blodgett said, "he's been here a good many years, and he can +make more money this way. Didn't want to stand in his light, and I had +somebody in view."</p> + +<p>But George wouldn't credit Blodgett with such altruism. Why was the man +so infernally good natured, exuding an oily content? Goodhue hinted at a +reason one day when they were talking of Sinclair and his lack of +interest in the office.</p> + +<p>"I've heard rather privately," Goodhue said, "that Sinclair got pretty +badly involved a few months ago. If it hadn't been for Blodgett he'd +have gone on the rocks a total wreck. Josiah puffed up and towed him +away whole. Naturally Sinclair and his lady are grateful. I daresay this +winter Blodgett's receiving invitations he's coveted, and if he gives +any parties himself he'll have some of the people he's always wanted."</p> + +<p>George hid his disapproval. Blodgett didn't even have a veneer. Money +was all he could offer. And was Sinclair a great fool, or Blodgett the +cleverest man in Wall Street, that Sinclair didn't know who had involved +him and why?</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, Blodgett did appear at several dances, wobbling +about the room to the discomfort of slender young things, getting +generally in everyone's way. George hated to see him attempting to dance +with Sylvia Planter. Sylvia seemed rather less successful in avoiding +him than she did in keeping out of George's way. Until Blodgett's +extraordinary week-end in February, indeed, George didn't have another +chance to speak to her alone.</p> + +<p>"Of course you'll come, George," Blodgett said. "If this weather holds +there'll be skating and sleighing—horses always, if you want 'em; and a +lot of first-class people."</p> + +<p>"Who?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"How about another financial chick—one of your partners?"</p> + +<p>"Lambert Planter?"</p> + +<p>The puffy face expanded.</p> + +<p>"And the Sinclairs, because I'm a bachelor, and——"</p> + +<p>But, since he could guess Sylvia would be there, George didn't care for +any more names. He wondered why Lambert or his sister should go. Had her +attitude toward the fat, coarse man conceivably altered because of his +gambolling at Oakmont? While he talked business with Mundy, Lambert, and +Goodhue, George's mind was distracted by a sense of imponderable loss. +Was it the shadow of what Sylvia had lost by accepting such an +invitation?</p> + +<p>He didn't go until Saturday afternoon—there was too much to occupy him +at the office. This making money out of Europe's need had a good deal +constricted his social wanderings. It was why he hadn't frequently seen +Dalrymple close enough for annoyance; why he had met Betty only briefly +a very few times. He hadn't expected to run into either of them at +Blodgett's, but both were there. Betty was probably Lambert's excuse for +rushing out the night before.</p> + +<p>George felt sorry for Mrs. Sinclair. Still against the corpulent +crudities of her host she could weigh the graces of his guests. It +pleased George that her greeting for him should be so warm.</p> + +<p>The weather, too, had been considerate of Blodgett, refraining from +injuring his snow or ice. A musical and brassy sleigh met George at the +station. Patches of frosty white softened the lines of the house and +draped the self-conscious nudity of the sculpture in the sunken garden.</p> + +<p>"And it'll snow again to-night, sir," the driver promised, as if even +the stables pulled for the master's success.</p> + +<p>Everyone was out, but it was still early, so George asked for a horse +and hurried into his riding clothes. He had been working rather too hard +recently. The horse a groom brought around was a good one, and by no +means overworked. George was as eager as the animal to limber up and go. +Off they dashed at last along a winding bridle-path, broken just enough +to give good footing. The war, and his share of helping the allies—at a +price; his uncomfortable fear that the Baillys didn't like him to draw +success from such a disaster; his disapproval of Sylvia's coming +here—all cleared from his head as he galloped or trotted through the +sharp air.</p> + +<p>One thing: Blodgett hadn't spoiled these woodland bridle-paths; yet +George had a sensation of always looking ahead for a nude marble figure +at a corner, or an urn elaborately designed for simple flowers, or some +iron animals to remind a hunter that Blodgett knew what a well-bred +forest was for. Instead he saw through the trees ice swept clear of snow +across which figures glided with joyful sounds.</p> + +<p>"Some of his flashy guests," George thought.</p> + +<p>He rode slowly to the margin of the pond, which shared the colour of the +sky. Several of the skaters cried greetings. He recognized Dalrymple +then, skating with a girl. Dalrymple veered away, waving a careless +hand, Lambert came on, fingers locked with Betty's, and scraped to a +halt at the pond's edge.</p> + +<p>"So the war's stopped for the week-end at last?" Lambert called.</p> + +<p>"I wondered if you'd come at all," Betty cried.</p> + +<p>George dismounted, smothering his surprise.</p> + +<p>"A men and youths' general furnisher," he said, "has to stick pretty +much to the store. I never dreamed of seeing you here, Betty."</p> + +<p>Perhaps Lambert caught George's real meaning.</p> + +<p>"She's staying with Sylvia," he explained, "so, of course, she came."</p> + +<p>George mounted and rode on, his mood suddenly as sunless as the +declining afternoon. Those two still got along well enough. Certainly it +was time for a rumour to take shape there. He had a sharp appreciation +of having once been younger. Suppose, because of his ambition, he should +see all his friends mate, leaving him as rich as Blodgett, and, like +him, unpaired? He quickened the pace of his horse. It was inconceivable. +No matter what Sylvia did he would never slacken his pursuit. In every +other direction he had forged ahead. Eventually he would in that one. +Then why did it hurt him to picture Betty gone beyond his reach?</p> + +<p>He crossed the Blodgett boundaries, and entered a country road as +undisturbed and enticing as the private bridle-paths had been. He took +crossroads at random, keeping only a sense of direction, trying to +understand why he was sorry he had to be with Betty when he had come +only to be near Sylvia.</p> + +<p>The thickening dusk warned him, and he chose a road leading toward +Blodgett's. First he received the horseman's sense of something ahead of +him. Then he heard the muffled tread of horses in the snow, and +occasionally a laugh.</p> + +<p>"More of Josiah's notables," he hazarded.</p> + +<p>He put spurs to his horse, and in a few minutes saw against the snow +three dark figures ambling along at an easy trot. When he had come +closer he knew that two of the riders were men, the other a woman. It +was easy enough to identify Blodgett. A barrel might have ridden so if +it had had legs with which to balance itself; and that slender figure +was probably the trapped Sinclair. George hurried on, his premonition +assuming ugly lines of reality. Even at that distance and from the rear +he guessed that the graceful woman riding between the two men was +Sylvia. Why had she chosen an outing with the ridiculous Blodgett? +Sinclair, no man possessed sufficient charm to offset the disadvantages +of such a companionship.</p> + +<p>George, when he was sure, reined in, surprised at his reflections. +Blodgett, heaven knew, had been good to him, and he had once liked the +man. Why, then, had he turned so viciously against him? Adjectives his +mind had recently applied to Blodgett flashed back: "Coarse," "fat," +"ridiculous." Was it just? Why did he do it in spite of himself?</p> + +<p>Sinclair turned and saw him. The party reined in, Sylvia, as one would +have expected, impatiently in advance of the others. Her nod and +something she said were lost in the men's cheery greetings. Since she +was in advance, and edging on, as if to get farther away from him, +George's opportunity was plain. The road wasn't wide enough for four +abreast. If he could move forward with her Blodgett and Sinclair would +have to ride together.</p> + +<p>"Since I'm the last," he interrupted them, "mayn't I have first place?"</p> + +<p>Quite as a matter of course he put his horse through and reined in at +her side. They started forward.</p> + +<p>"You ride as well as ever," he commented.</p> + +<p>She shot a glance at him. Calmly he studied the striking details of her +face. Each time he saw her she seemed more desirable. How was he to +touch those lips that had filled his boy's heart with bursting thoughts? +For the first time since that day they rode together, only now he was at +her side, instead of heeling like a trained dog. In his man's fashion he +was as well clothed as she. When they got back he would enter the great +house with her instead of going to the stables. Whether she cared to +acknowledge it or not he was of her kind—more so than the millionaire +Blodgett ever could be. So he absorbed her beauty which fired his +imagination. Such a repetition seemed ominous of a second climax in +their relations.</p> + +<p>Her quick glance, however, disclosed only resentment for his intrusion. +He excused it.</p> + +<p>"You see, I couldn't very well ride behind you."</p> + +<p>She turned away.</p> + +<p>"Hurry a little," Blodgett called.</p> + +<p>It was what George wished, as she wished to crawl, never far in advance +of the others.</p> + +<p>"Come," he said, and flecked her horse with his crop.</p> + +<p>"Don't do that again!"</p> + +<p>He had gathered his own horse, and was galloping. Hers insisted on +following. When George pulled in to keep at her side they were well in +advance of the others. Now that he was alone with her he found it +difficult to speak, and evidently she would limit his opportunity, for +as he drew in she spurred her horse. He caught her, laughing.</p> + +<p>"You may as well understand that I'll never ride behind you again."</p> + +<p>She pressed her provocative lips together. So in silence, except for the +crunching and scattering of the snow, they tore on through the dusk, +rounding curves between hedges, rising to heights above bare, white +stretches of landscape, dipping into hollows already won by the night. +And each moment they came nearer the house.</p> + +<p>In the night of the hollows he battled his desire to reach over and +touch her, and cry out:</p> + +<p>"Sylvia! You've got to understand!"</p> + +<p>And in one such place her horse stumbled, and she pulled in and bent low +over her saddle, and said, as if he had really spoken:</p> + +<p>"I can't understand——"</p> + +<p>Her outline was blurred, but her face was like a light in that shadowed +valley. He didn't speak until they were up the hill and the wind had +caught them.</p> + +<p>"What?" he asked then.</p> + +<p>Was it the glow, offered by the white earth rather than the sky, that +made him fancy her lips quivered?</p> + +<p>"Why you always try to hurt me."</p> + +<p>He thought of her broken riding crop, of her attempts to hurt him every +time he had seen her since the day she had tried to cut him with it. A +single exception clung to his memory—the night of Betty's dance, years +ago, when she had failed to remember him. Her words, therefore, carried +a thrill, a colour of surrender, since from the very first she had made +him attack for his own defence.</p> + +<p>"That's an odd thing for you to say."</p> + +<p>There were lights ahead, accents in the closing night for Blodgett's +huge and ugly extravagance. They rode slowly up the drive.</p> + +<p>"Will you ever stop following me? Will you ever leave me alone?"</p> + +<p>He stared at her, answering softly:</p> + +<p>"It is impossible I should ever leave you alone."</p> + +<p>At the terrace he sprang down, tossed his reins to a groom, and went to +her, raising his hands. For a moment she looked at him, hesitating. +There were two grooms. So she took his hands and leapt down. It was a +quick, uncertain touch her fingers gave him.</p> + +<p>"Thanks," she said, and crossed the terrace at his side.</p> + +<p>That moment, he reflected, was in itself culminating, yet he couldn't +dismiss the feeling that their relations approached a larger climax. All +the better, since things couldn't very well go on as they were. Was it +that fleeting contact that had altered him, or her companionship in the +gray night? He only knew as he walked close to her that the bitterness +in his heart had diminished. He was willing to relinquish the return +blow if she would ease the hurt she had given him. He told himself that +she had never been nearer. An odd fancy!</p> + +<p>The others rode up as they reached the door, and the hall was noisy with +people just returned from the pond, so that their solitude was +destroyed. While he bathed and dressed he tried to understand just what +had happened. The alteration in his own heart could only be accounted +for by a change in hers. Perhaps his mood was determined by her +unexpected wonder that he should always try to hurt. He couldn't drive +from his mind the definite impression of her having come nearer.</p> + +<p>"Winter sentiment!" he sneered, and hurried, for it was late.</p> + + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p>Lambert dropped in and lounged in a satin-covered chair while George +wrestled with his tie. He gave Lambert the freshest news from the +office, but his mind wasn't on business, nor, he guessed, was Lambert's.</p> + +<p>"Blodgett does one rather well," Lambert said, glancing around the room.</p> + +<p>George agreed.</p> + +<p>"Only a marquise might feel more at ease in this room than a mere male."</p> + +<p>He turned, smiling.</p> + +<p>"I'm always afraid the furniture won't hold. Why should he have raised +such a monster?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe," Lambert offered, "to have it ready for a wife."</p> + +<p>"Who would marry him?" George flashed.</p> + +<p>"Nearly any girl," Lambert said. "So much money irons out a lot of fat. +Then, when all's said and done, he's amusing and generous. He always +tries to please. Why? What's made you scornful of Josiah?"</p> + +<p>"There are some things," George said, "that one oughtn't to be able to +buy with money."</p> + +<p>Lambert arose, walked over to George, put his hands on his shoulders, +and stared at him quizzically.</p> + +<p>"You're a curious brute."</p> + +<p>"I know what you mean," George said, "but let me remind you that money +was just one of three things I started for."</p> + +<p>Lambert's grasp tightened.</p> + +<p>"And in a way you've got them all."</p> + +<p>George shook off Lambert's grasp.</p> + +<p>In a way!</p> + +<p>"Let's go down."</p> + +<p>In a way! It was rather cooling. It reminded him, too, that Squibs +Bailly remained unpaid; and there was Sylvia, only a trifle nearer, and +that, perhaps, in an eager imagination. Certainly he had forced some +success, but would he actually ever complete anything? Would he ever be +able to say I have acquired an exterior exactly as genuine as that one +inherits, or I am a great millionaire, or I have proved myself worthy of +all Squibs has given me, or I am Sylvia Planter's husband? Of course he +had succeeded, but only in a way. Where was his will that he couldn't +conquer altogether?</p> + +<p>As he came down the stairs he saw Sylvia in a dazzling gown standing in +front of the great fireplace surrounded by a group which included +Dalrymple and Rogers who had managed an invitation and had just arrived +with Wandel. Wandel brought excuses from Goodhue. It was like Goodhue, +George thought, to avoid such a party.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple smirked and chatted. George left Lambert and went straight to +them. Sylvia could always be depended upon to be gracious to Dalrymple. +She glanced at George and nodded. Although she continued to talk to +Dalrymple she didn't turn away. George thought, indeed, that he detected +a slight movement as if to make room for him. It was as if he had been +any man of her acquaintance coming up. Then he had been right?</p> + +<p>"Josiah said we'd have you," Dalrymple drawled. "Why didn't you skate? +Anything to get on a horse, what? Freezing pleasure this weather."</p> + +<p>George smiled at Sylvia.</p> + +<p>"Not with the right horse and companionship."</p> + +<p>Any one could see that Dalrymple had already swallowed an antidote for +whatever benefit the day's fresh air and exercise had given him. Still +in the weak face, across which the firelight played, George read other +traits, settled, in a sense admirable; more precious than any +inheritance a son could expect from a washerwoman mother and a labouring +father. Then what was it Dalrymple had always coveted? What had made him +rude to the poor men at Princeton? Something he hadn't had. Money. +America, George reflected, could breed people like that. There was more +than one way of being a snob. He wondered if Dalrymple would ever +submerge his pride enough to come to him for money. He might go to +Blodgett first, but George wasn't at all sure Blodgett would find it +worth his while to buy up the young man.</p> + +<p>Blodgett just then joined them. The white waistcoat encircling his +rotund middle was like an advance agent, crying aloud: "The great Josiah +is arriving just behind me."</p> + +<p>"Everybody having a good time?" he bellowed.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Sinclair, sitting near by, looked up, but her husband smiled +indulgently. George watched Sylvia. Blodgett put the question to her.</p> + +<p>"That was a fine ride, wasn't it? I'm always a little afraid for the +horse I ride, though; might bend him in the middle."</p> + +<p>George couldn't understand why she gave that friendly smile he coveted +to Blodgett.</p> + +<p>"I'd give a lot to ride like this young man," Blodgett went on, patting +George's back. He preened himself. "Still we can't all be born in the +saddle."</p> + +<p>The thing was so obvious George laughed outright. Even Sylvia conceded +its ugly, unintentional humour. A smile drew at the corners of her +mouth. If she could enjoy that she was, indeed, for the moment nearer.</p> + +<p>Two servants glided around with trays.</p> + +<p>Blodgett gulped the contents of his glass and smacked his lips.</p> + +<p>"That fellow of mine," he boasted, "has his own blend. Not bad."</p> + +<p>Sylvia drank hers with Dalrymple, while Betty over there shook her head. +Probably it was his ungraceful inheritance that made George dislike a +glass in Sylvia's fingers. Dalrymple slipped away.</p> + +<p>"Dividends in the smoking-room!" Blodgett roared.</p> + +<p>"Dalrymple's drawing dividends," George thought.</p> + +<p>The procession for the dining-room formed and disbanded. Blodgett had +Mrs. Sinclair and Sylvia at either hand. It was natural enough, but +George resented the arrangement, particularly with Dalrymple next to +Sylvia on the other side. Betty sat between Dalrymple and Lambert. +George was nearly opposite, flanked by fluffy clothes and hair; and +straightway each ear was choked with fluffy chatter—the theatre; the +opera, from the side of sartorial criticism; the east coast of +Florida—"but why should I go so far to see exciting bathing suits out +of season and tea tables wabbling under palm trees?"—a scandal or +two—that is such details as were permissible in his presence. He +divided his ears sufficiently to catch snatches from neighbouring +sections of the table.</p> + +<p>"Of course, we'll keep out of it."</p> + +<p>It was Wandel, speaking encouragingly to a pretty girl. Out of what? +Confound this chatter! Oh! The war, of course. It was the one remark of +serious import that reached him throughout the dinner, and the country +faced that possibility, and an increasing unrest of labour, and grave +financial questions. The diners might have been people who had fled to a +high mountain to escape an invasion, or happy ones who lived on a peak +from which the menace was invisible. But it wasn't that. At other social +levels, he knew, there was the same closing of the shutters, the same +effort to create an enjoyable sunlight in a cloistered room. On the +summit, he honestly believed, men did more and thought more. Perhaps +where sensible men gathered together the curtains weren't drawn against +grave fires in an abnormal night. Then it was the women. Did all men, +like Wandel, choose to keep such things from the women? Did the women +want them kept? Hang it! Then let them have the vote. Make them talk.</p> + +<p>"You're really not going to Palm Beach, Mr. Morton?"</p> + +<p>"I've too much to do."</p> + +<p>"Men amuse me," the young lady fluffed. "They always talk about things +to do. If one has a good time the things get done just the same."</p> + +<p>God! What a point of view! Yet he wasn't one to pass judgment since he +was more interested in the winning of Sylvia than he was in the winning +of the war.</p> + +<p>He watched her as he could, talking first to Blodgett then to Dalrymple. +The brilliant Sylvia Planter had no business sitting between two such +men. The fact that Blodgett had got the right people stared him in the +face, but even so the man wasn't good enough to be Sylvia Planter's +host. Nor did George like the way she sipped her wine. She seemed +forcing herself to a travesty of enjoyment. Betty, on the other hand, +drank nothing. He questioned if she was sorry Sylvia had brought her. +She seemed glad enough, at least, to be with Lambert. He appeared to +absorb her, and, in order to listen to him, she left Dalrymple nearly +wholly to Sylvia. Once or twice she glanced across and smiled at George, +but her kindliness had an air of coming from a widening distance. George +was trapped—a restless giant tangled in a snarl of fluff.</p> + +<p>He sighed his relief when the women had gone. He didn't remain long +behind, wandering into the deserted hall where he stood frowning at the +fire. He heard a reluctant step on the stairs and swung around. Sylvia +walked slowly down, a cloak about her shoulders. In a sort of +desperation he raised his hand.</p> + +<p>"This party has got on my nerves."</p> + +<p>He couldn't read the expression in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"It's stifling in here," she said.</p> + +<p>She walked the length of the hall, opened the door, and went through to +the terrace.</p> + +<p>George's heart quickened. She was out there alone. What had her eyes +meant? He had never seen them just like that. They had seemed without +challenge.</p> + +<p>There was a coat closet at the rear of the hall. He ran to it, got a cap +and somebody's overcoat, and followed her out.</p> + +<p>She sat on the railing, far from the house. The only light upon her was +the nebulous reflection from the white earth. He hurried to her, his +heart beating to the rhythm of nearer—nearer—nearer——</p> + +<p>She stirred.</p> + +<p>"As usual with you," she said, "I am unfortunate. I didn't think you +would follow me. I came here because I wanted to be alone. I wanted to +think. Can you appreciate that?"</p> + +<p>He sat on the railing close to her.</p> + +<p>"You never want me. I have to grasp what opportunities I can."</p> + +<p>He waited for her to rise and wander away. He was prepared to urge her +to remain. She didn't move.</p> + +<p>"I can't always be running away from you," she said.</p> + +<p>She stared straight ahead over the garden, nearly phosphorescent with +its snow.</p> + +<p>"Nearer, nearer, nearer," went through his head.</p> + +<p>"It has been a long time since I've seen you," he said, "but even so I +wish you hadn't come here."</p> + +<p>"Why did you come?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Because I thought I should find you."</p> + +<p>"Why did you think that?"</p> + +<p>"I'd heard Blodgett had been a good deal at Oakmont. I guessed if +Lambert came you would, too."</p> + +<p>"It is impertinent you should interest yourself in my movements. +Why—why do you do it?"</p> + +<p>"Because everything you do absorbs me. Why else do you suppose I took +the trouble at Betty's dance years ago to tell you who I was?"</p> + +<p>She drew back without answering. Her movement caught his attention. The +change in her manner, the white night, made him bold.</p> + +<p>"I've often wondered," he said, "why you didn't remember me that day in +Princeton, or that night. It hadn't been long. Don't you see it was an +acknowledgment that I wasn't the old George Morton even then?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," she answered with a little laugh, "because I remembered you +perfectly well."</p> + +<p>"Remembered me!" he cried. "And you danced with me, and said you didn't +remember, and let me take you aside, and——"</p> + +<p>He moved swiftly nearer until his face was close to hers, until he +stared into her eyes that he could barely see.</p> + +<p>"Why did you do that?"</p> + +<p>She didn't answer.</p> + +<p>"Why do you tell me now?" he urged with an increasing excitement.</p> + +<p>Such a confession from her had the quality of a caress! He felt himself +reaching up to touch the summit.</p> + +<p>"Why? You've got to answer me."</p> + +<p>She arose with easy grace and stood looking down at him.</p> + +<p>"Because," she said, "I want you to stop being ridiculous and +troublesome; and, really, the whole thing seems so unimportant now that +I am going to be married."</p> + +<p>He cried out. He sprang to his feet. He caught her hands, and crushed +them as if he would make them a part of his own flesh so that she could +never escape to accomplish that unbearable act.</p> + +<p>"Sylvia! Sylvia!"</p> + +<p>She fought, gasping:</p> + +<p>"You hurt! I tell you you hurt! Let me go you—you——Let me go——"</p> + + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p>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?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"You hurt!" she whispered. "Oh, how you hurt!"</p> + +<p>"Please tell me who it is."</p> + +<p>She turned, and, her hands still raised, started across the terrace. He +followed.</p> + +<p>"Tell me!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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.</p> + +<p>"She shan't do it. Somehow I'll stop her."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The young lady at the piano crashed to a brief vacation. The chatter, +following a perfunctory applause, rose gratefully.</p> + +<p>"Fine! Fine!" Blodgett roared. "Your next stop ought to be Carnegie +Hall."</p> + +<p>"She ought to play in a hall," someone murmured unkindly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"What's up, great man?" he wanted to know.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple, too, glanced curiously at George over his glass. "Nothing +exceptional that I know of," George snapped and left the room.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>He met guests fleeing from drawing-room to library, as if driven by the +tangled furies of a Hungarian dance.</p> + +<p>"Will that girl never stop playing?" he thought.</p> + +<p>Betty came up to him.</p> + +<p>"Talk to me, George."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Now," she said, directly, "what is it, George?"</p> + +<p>"What's what?" he asked with an attempt at good-humour.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Why not tired?" he suggested, listlessly. "You may not know it, but +I've been pretty hard at work."</p> + +<p>She nodded quickly.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Scold. I deserve it," he said. "But I've written."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"I don't know," he answered. "I think so."</p> + +<p>It was his first doubt. He looked at her moodily.</p> + +<p>"You're not one to draw the long bow, Betty. Honestly, aren't you a +little cross with me on account of the Baillys?"</p> + +<p>"Not even on my own account."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Haven't seen her," Lambert said, and doubled a bid.</p> + +<p>"Miss Alston?" Blodgett applied to Betty.</p> + +<p>"Where should she be?" Betty answered.</p> + +<p>"Got me puzzled," Blodgett muttered. "Responsibility. If anything +happened!"</p> + +<p>Betty laughed.</p> + +<p>"What could happen to her here?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Guess I'll send Mrs. Sinclair upstairs," Blodgett said, gropingly.</p> + +<p>He hurried out of the room. Betty rose.</p> + +<p>"I suppose I ought to go."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense," George objected. "She isn't the sort to come down ill all at +once."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I'll wait here," Betty said to Mrs. Sinclair. "I mean, if anything +should be wrong, if Sylvia should want me."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Sinclair nodded, disappearing in the upper hall.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Betty—have you heard anything of her getting married?"</p> + +<p>She glanced at him, surprised.</p> + +<p>"Who? Sylvia?"</p> + +<p>He nodded.</p> + +<p>"Only," she answered, "the rumours one always hears about a very popular +girl. Why, George?"</p> + + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>There was a curious light in her eyes, reminiscent of something he had +seen there the night of his confession.</p> + +<p>"You've just remarked," she laughed, softly, "that rumours seldom +materialize."</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>"Where is Sylvia?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"In her room with a headache," Mrs. Sinclair answered. "She may come +down later."</p> + +<p>"Headaches," Wandel said, "cover a multitude of whims."</p> + +<p>George didn't like his tone. Wandel always gave you the impression of a +vision subtle and disconcerting.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Must have her own way," Blodgett interrupted. "Bridge! Let's cut in or +make another table. George?"</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>"What are you thinking about, George?"</p> + +<p>"Would you have come here, Betty, of your own wish?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Blodgett."</p> + +<p>"What about the old dear?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Isn't that why everyone likes him," she asked, "because he's so +completely unaffected?"</p> + +<p>George understood he was on thin ice. He didn't deviate.</p> + +<p>"You mean he's all the more admirable because he hasn't plastered +himself with veneer?"</p> + +<p>Her white cheeks flushed. She was as nearly angry as he had ever seen +her.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>She half stretched out her hand.</p> + +<p>"Why do you try to quarrel with me, George?"</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't for the world," he denied, warmly.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>He smiled a little. She was right, and he must never lose his sense of +will, his confidence of success.</p> + +<p>She started to speak, then hesitated. She wouldn't meet his glance.</p> + +<p>"Why," she asked, "did you tell me that night?"</p> + +<p>"Because," he answered, uncomfortably, "you were too good a friend to +impose upon. I had to give you an opportunity to drive me away."</p> + +<p>"I didn't take it," she said, quickly, "yet you went as thoroughly as if +I had."</p> + +<p>She spread her hands.</p> + +<p>"You make me feel as if I'd done something awkward to you. It isn't +fair."</p> + +<p>Smiling wistfully, he touched her hand.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Her long lashes lowered slowly over her eyes.</p> + +<p>"There is. There always will be, George."</p> + + +<h3>X</h3> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"You've been with Dalrymple all evening," George said, significantly, to +Wandel.</p> + +<p>"My dear George," Wandel answered, easily, "I observe the habits of my +fellow creatures. Be they good or bad I venture not to interfere."</p> + +<p>"An easy creed," George said. "You're not your brother's keeper."</p> + +<p>"Rather not. The man that keeps himself makes the world better."</p> + +<p>George had a disturbing fancy that Wandel accused him.</p> + +<p>"You don't mean that at all," he said. "When will you learn to say what +you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," Wandel replied, sipping, "when I decide not to enter +politics."</p> + +<p>"Your shot," Blodgett called, and Wandel strolled to the table.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple didn't play, his accuracy having diminished to the point of +laughter. He edged across to George.</p> + +<p>"Old George Morton!" he drawled. "Young George Croesus! And all that."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He passed over the money, observing that the other moved so as to screen +the transaction from those about the table.</p> + +<p>"Little night-cap with me?" Dalrymple suggested as if by way of payment.</p> + +<p>George laughed.</p> + +<p>"Haven't you already protected the heads of the party?"</p> + +<p>Dalrymple made a wry face.</p> + +<p>"Do their heads a lot more good than mine."</p> + +<p>The game ended.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple turned away shouting.</p> + +<p>"Bones! Bones!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Coming in, George?" Blodgett roared.</p> + +<p>"Thanks. I'm off to bed."</p> + +<p>But he waited, curious as to the destination of the small loan he had +just made.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>He gathered in the money he had won.</p> + +<p>"Shooting fifty this time."</p> + +<p>"Why not shoot?" Dalrymple asked George. "'Fraid you couldn't talk to +'em?"</p> + +<p>"Thing doesn't interest me."</p> + +<p>"No sport, George Morton."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"How much have you got there?" George asked quietly.</p> + +<p>With a slightly startled air Dalrymple ran over his money.</p> + +<p>"Pretty nearly three. Why?"</p> + +<p>"Call it three," George said.</p> + +<p>He gathered the dice from the table. The others drew back, leaving, as +it were, the ring clear.</p> + +<p>"I'll throw you just once," George said, "for three hundred. High man to +throw. On?"</p> + +<p>"Sure," Dalrymple said, thickly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Stung, old George Morton! Never come a ten again."</p> + +<p>"There'll come another ten," George promised.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Sixes and eights fell, and other numbers, but for half-a-dozen throws no +seven or ten.</p> + +<p>"Come you seven!" Dalrymple sang.</p> + +<p>"You've luck, George," Lambert commented. "I wouldn't lay against you +now. I'll go you fifty, Driggs, on his ten."</p> + +<p>"Done!"</p> + +<p>The next throw the dice turned up six and four.</p> + +<p>"The very greatest of men," Wandel said, ruefully.</p> + +<p>While George put the money in his pocket Dalrymple straightened, +frowning.</p> + +<p>"Double or quits! Revenge!"</p> + +<p>"I said once," George reminded him. "I'm off to bed."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Save you running upstairs. How much do you owe me now?"</p> + +<p>"Couple hundred."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Now that's white of you," Dalrymple condescended, and went, a trifle +unsteadily, back to the table.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>"I can't always be running away from you."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + +<h3>XI</h3> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Who's for church?" Blodgett roared.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"How late did you play?" George asked Blodgett.</p> + +<p>"Until, when I looked at my watch, I thought it must be last evening. +These young bloods are too keen for Papa Blodgett."</p> + +<p>"Get into you?" George laughed.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Why?" George asked, shortly. "When he wrote them he knew they had to be +redeemed."</p> + +<p>Blodgett grinned.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Daresay he'll be grateful," George said, dryly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"I hope you're feeling better."</p> + +<p>"Better! I haven't been ill," she flashed.</p> + +<p>Betty helped him out.</p> + +<p>"Last night Mrs. Sinclair told us you had a headache."</p> + +<p>"You ought to know, Betty, that means I was tired."</p> + +<p>But George noticed she no longer looked at him. She hurried on.</p> + +<p>"Dolly!" he heard her laugh. "You must have sat up rather late."</p> + +<p>"Trying to forget my worry about you, Sylvia. Guess it gave me your +headache."</p> + +<p>George shrugged his shoulders and edged away, measuring his chances of +seeing her alone. They were slender, for as usual she was a magnet, yet +luck played for him and against her after luncheon, bringing them at the +same moment from different directions to the empty hall. She wanted to +hurry by, as if he were a disturbing shadow, but he barred her way.</p> + +<p>"I suppose I should say I'm sorry I hurt you last night. I'll say it, if +you wish, but I'm not particularly sorry."</p> + +<p>She showed him her hands then, spread them before him. They trembled, +but that was all. They recorded no marks of his precipitancy.</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't expect you to be sorry. After that certainly you will never +speak to me again."</p> + +<p>"Will you tell me now who it is?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Her temper blazed.</p> + +<p>"I ought always to know what to expect from you."</p> + +<p>She ran back to the door through which she had entered.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Dolly!"</p> + +<p>Dalrymple met her on the threshold.</p> + +<p>"Take me for a walk," she said. "It won't hurt you."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple indicated George.</p> + +<p>"Morton coming?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head and ran lightly upstairs.</p> + +<p>"No, I'm not going," George said. "She's right. The fresh air will do +you good."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," Dalrymple answered, petulantly. "I'm quite capable of +prescribing for myself."</p> + +<p>He went out in search of his hat and coat.</p> + +<p>George watched him, letting all his dislike escape. Continually they +hovered on the edge of a break, but Dalrymple wouldn't quite permit it +now. George was confident that the seed sown last night would flower.</p> + +<p>He was glad when Mundy telephoned before dinner about some difficulties +of transportation that might have been solved the next day. George +sprang at the excuse, however, refused Blodgett's offer of a car to +town, and drove to the station.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple and Sylvia hadn't returned.</p> + + +<h3>XII</h3> + +<p>In town Goodhue, too, read his discontent.</p> + +<p>"You look tired out, George," he said the next morning. "Evidently +Blodgett's party wasn't much benefit."</p> + +<p>"I'm learning to dislike parties," George answered. "You were wise to +duck it. What was the matter? Didn't fancy the Blodgett brand of +hospitality?"</p> + +<p>"Promised my mother to spend the week-end at Westbury. I'd have enjoyed +it. I'm really growing fond of Blodgett."</p> + +<p>There it was again, and you couldn't question Goodhue. Always he said +just what he meant, or he kept his opinions to himself. Every word of +praise for Blodgett reached George as a direct charge of disloyalty, of +bad judgment, of narrow-mindedness. His irritation increased. He was +grateful for the mass of work in which he was involved. That chained his +imagination by day, but at night he wearily reviewed the past five +years, seeking his points of weakness, some fatal omission.</p> + +<p>Perhaps his chief fault had been too self-centred a pursuit of Sylvia. +Because of her he had repressed the instincts to which he saw other men +pandering as a matter of course. Dalrymple did, yet she preferred him, +perhaps to the point of making a gift of herself. He had avoided even +those more legitimate pleasures of which the dice had appealed to him as +a type. What was the use of it? Why had he done it? Yet even now, and +still because of her, when you came to that, he had no desire to turn +aside to the brighter places where plumed creatures flutter fatefully. +It was a species of tragedy that he had to keep himself for one who +didn't want him.</p> + +<p>It stared at him at breakfast from the page of a newspaper. It was +amazing that the journal saw nothing grotesque in such a union; found +it, to the contrary, sensible and beneficial, not only to the persons +involved, but to the entire country.</p> + +<p>Planter, the article pointed out, was no longer capable of bringing a +resistless energy to his house which was a notable stone in the +country's financial structure. Should any chance weaken that the entire +building would react. His son was at present too young and inexperienced +to watch that stone, to keep it intact. Later, of course—but one had to +consider the present. To be sure there were partners, but after the +fashion of great egoists Mr. Planter had avoided admitting any +outstanding personality to his firm. It was a happy circumstance that +Cupid, and so forth—for the senior partner of Blodgett and Sinclair was +more than an outstanding personality in Wall Street. Some of his recent +achievements were comparable with Mr. Planter's earlier ones. The +dissolution of his firm and his induction into the house of Planter and +Company were prophesied.</p> + +<p>George continued to eat his breakfast mechanically. At least it wasn't +Dalrymple, yet that resolution would have been less astonishing. Josiah +Blodgett, fat, middle-aged, of no family, married to the beautiful and +brilliant Sylvia Planter! But was it grotesque? Wasn't the paper right? +He had had plenty of proof that his own judgment of Blodgett was +worthless. He crumpled the paper in his hand and stood up. His judgment +was worth this: he was willing to swear Sylvia Planter didn't love the +man she had elected to marry.</p> + +<p>What did other people think?</p> + +<p>Wandel was at hand. George stopped on his way out. The little man was +still in bed, sipping coffee while he, too, studied that disturbing +page; yet, when he had sent his man from the room, he didn't appear to +find about it anything extraordinary.</p> + +<p>"Good business all round," he commented, "although I must admit I'm +surprised Sylvia had the common-sense to realize it. Impulsive sort, +didn't you think, George, who would fly to some fellow because she'd +taken a fancy to him? Phew! Planter plus Blodgett! It'll make her about +the richest girl in America, why not say the world? Some households are +uneasy this morning. Well! When you come down to it, what's the +difference between railroads and mills? Between mines and real estate? +One's about as useful as the others."</p> + +<p>"It's revolting," George said.</p> + +<p>Wandel glanced over his paper.</p> + +<p>"What's up, great man? Nothing of the sort. Blodgett has his points."</p> + +<p>"As usual, you don't mean what you say," George snapped.</p> + +<p>"But I do, my dear George."</p> + +<p>"Blodgett's not like the people he plays with."</p> + +<p>"Isn't that a virtue?" Wandel asked. "Perhaps it's why those people like +him."</p> + +<p>"But do they really?"</p> + +<p>"You're purposely blind if you don't see it," Wandel answered. "Why the +deuce don't you?"</p> + +<p>George feared he had let slip too much. With others he would have to +guard his interest closer, and he would delay the final break he had +quite decided upon with Blodgett.</p> + +<p>"Just the same," he muttered, ill at ease, preparing to leave, "I'd like +Lambert's opinion."</p> + +<p>"You don't fancy this has happened," Wandel said, "without Lambert's +knowing all about it?"</p> + +<p>George left without answering. At least he knew. It was simpler, +consequently, to discipline himself. His manner disclosed nothing when +he made the necessary visit to Blodgett. The round face was radiant. The +narrow eyes burned with happiness.</p> + +<p>"You're a cagy old Brummell," George said. "I've just seen it in the +paper with the rest of the world. When's it coming off?"</p> + +<p>Blodgett's content faded a trifle.</p> + +<p>"She says not for a long time yet, but we'll see. Trust Josiah to hurry +things all he can."</p> + +<p>"Congratulations, anyway," George said. "You know you're entitled to +them."</p> + +<p>But he couldn't offer his hand. With that he had an instinct to tear the +happiness from the other's face.</p> + +<p>"You bet I am," Blodgett was roaring. "Any fool can see I'm pleased as +punch."</p> + +<p>George couldn't stomach any more of it. He started out, but Blodgett, +rather hesitatingly, summoned him back. George obeyed, annoyed and +curious.</p> + +<p>"A good many years ago, George," Blodgett began, "I was a damned idiot. +I remember telling you that when Papa Blodgett got married it would be +to the right girl."</p> + +<p>"The convenient girl," George sneered. "Don't you think you're doing +it?"</p> + +<p>"Now see here, George. None of that. You forget it. I'm sorry I ever +thought or said such stuff. You get it through your head just what this +is—plain adoration."</p> + +<p>He sprang to his feet in an emotional outburst that made George writhe.</p> + +<p>"I don't see why God has been so good to me."</p> + + +<h3>XIII</h3> + +<p>George escaped and hurried upstairs. Lambert was there, but he didn't +mention the announcement, and George couldn't very well lead him. No one +who did talk of it in his presence, however, shared his bitter +disapproval. Most men dwelt as Wandel did on the material values of such +a match, which, far from diminishing Sylvia's brilliancy, would make it +burn brighter than ever.</p> + +<p>Occasionally he saw Sylvia and Blodgett together. For him she had that +air of seeking an unreal pleasure, but she was always considerate of +Blodgett, who seemed perpetually on the point of clasping her publicly +in his arms. A recurrent contact was impossible for George. He went to +Blodgett finally, and over his spirited resistance broke the last tie.</p> + +<p>"My remaining on your pay-roll," he complained, "is pure charity. I +don't want it. I won't have it. God knows I'm grateful for all you've +done for me. It's been a lot."</p> + +<p>"Never forget you've done something for Blodgett," the stout man said, +warmly. "There's no question but you've earned every penny you've had +from me. We've played and worked together a long time, George. I don't +see just because you've grown up too fast why you've got to make Papa +Blodgett unhappy."</p> + +<p>George had no answer, but he didn't have to see much of the beaming beau +after that, nor for a long time did he encounter Sylvia at all +intimately. Lambert, himself, unwittingly brought them together in the +spring.</p> + +<p>"Why not run down to Oakmont with me?" he said, casually, one Friday +morning. "Father's always asking why you're never around."</p> + +<p>"Your father might be pleased to know why," George said.</p> + +<p>"Dark ages!" Lambert said. "We're in the present now. Come ahead."</p> + +<p>The invitation to enter the gates! But it brought to George none of the +glowing triumph he had anticipated. He knew why Lambert had offered it, +because he considered Sylvia removed from any possible unpleasant +aftermath of the dark ages. The man Morton didn't need any further +chastisement; but he went, because he knew what Lambert didn't, that the +man Morton wasn't through with Sylvia yet; that he was going to find out +why she had chosen Blodgett when, except on the score of money, she +might have beckoned better from nearly any direction; that he was +curious why she had told the man Morton first of all.</p> + +<p>They rolled in at the gate. There he had stood, and there she, when she +had set her dog on him. Then around the curve to the great house and in +at the front door with an aging Simpson and a younger servant to compete +for his bag and his coat and hat. How Simpson scraped—Simpson who had +ordered him to go where he belonged, to the back door. What was the +matter with him that he couldn't experience the elation with which the +moment was crowded?</p> + +<p>Mrs. Planter met him with her serene manner of one beyond human +frailties. You couldn't expect her to go back and remember. Such a +return to her would be beyond belief.</p> + +<p>"You've not been kind to us, Mr. Morton. You've never been here before."</p> + +<p>And that night she had walked through the doorway treating him exactly +as if he had been a piece of furniture which had annoyingly got itself +out of place.</p> + +<p>Lambert's eyes were quizzical.</p> + +<p>Old Planter wasn't at all the bear, cracking cumbersome jokes about the +young ferret that had stolen a march on the sly old foxes of Wall +Street. So that was what his threats amounted to! Or was it because +there was nothing whatever of the former George Morton left?</p> + +<p>He examined curiously the bowed white head and the dim eyes in which +some fire lingered. He could still approximate the emotions aroused by +that interview in the library. He felt the old instinct to give this man +every concession to a vast superiority. In a sense, he was still afraid +of him. He had to get over that, for hadn't he come here to accomplish +just that against which Old Planter had warned him?</p> + +<p>"Where," Lambert asked, "is the blushing Josiah?"</p> + +<p>George caught the irony of his voice, but his mother explained in her +unemotional way that Sylvia and Blodgett were riding.</p> + +<p>Certainly all along those early days had been in Lambert's mind, for he +led George to the scene of their fight. He faced him there, and he +laughed.</p> + +<p>"You remember?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?" George said. "I was born that day."</p> + +<p>"Morton! Morton!" Lambert mused.</p> + +<p>George swung and caught Lambert's shoulders quickly. There was more than +sentiment in his quick, reminiscent outburst. It seemed even to himself +to carry another threat.</p> + +<p>"You call me Mr. Morton, or just George, as if I were about as good as +you."</p> + +<p>Lambert laughed.</p> + +<p>"We've had some fair battles since then, haven't we, George? You've done +a lot you said you would that day."</p> + +<p>"I've scarcely started," George answered. "I'm a dismal failure. Perhaps +I'll brace up."</p> + +<p>"You're hard to satisfy," Lambert said.</p> + +<p>George dug at the ground with his heel.</p> + +<p>"All the greater necessity to find ultimate satisfaction," he grumbled.</p> + +<p>Lambert glanced at him inquiringly.</p> + +<p>"I suppose," George continued, "I ought to thank you and your sister for +not reminding your parents what I was some years ago, for not blurting +it out to a lot of other people."</p> + +<p>"You've shown me," Lambert said, "it would have been vicious to have put +any stumbling blocks in your way. Driggs is right. He usually is. You're +a very great man."</p> + +<p>But George shook his head, and accompanied Lambert back to the house +with the despondency of failure.</p> + +<p>Sylvia and Blodgett were back, lounging with Mr. and Mrs. Planter about +a tea table which servants had carried to a sunny spot on the lawn. At +sight of George Sylvia's colour heightened. Momentarily she hesitated to +take his offered hand, then bowed to the presence of the others.</p> + +<p>"You didn't tell me, Lambert, you were bringing any one."</p> + +<p>Blodgett's welcome was cordial enough to strike a balance.</p> + +<p>"Never see anything of you these days, George. He makes money, Mrs. +Planter, too fast to bother with an old plodder like me. Thank the Lord +I've still got cash in his firm."</p> + +<p>That he should ever call that quiet, assured figure mother-in-law! Mrs. +Planter, however, showed no displeasure. She commenced to chat with +Lambert. Sylvia, George reflected, might with profit have borrowed some +of her mother's serenity. Still she managed to entertain him over the +tea cups as if he had been any casual, uninteresting guest.</p> + +<p>That hour, nevertheless, furnished George an ugly ordeal, for Blodgett's +attentions were perpetual, and Sylvia appeared to appreciate them, +treating him with a consideration that let through at least that +affection the man had surprisingly drawn from so many of his +acquaintances.</p> + +<p>A secretary interrupted them, hurrying from the house with an abrupt +concern stamped on his face, standing by awkwardly as if not knowing how +to commence.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Straker?" Mr. Planter asked.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Brown's on the 'phone, sir. I think you'd better come. He said he +didn't want to bother you until he was quite sure. There seems no doubt +now."</p> + +<p>"Of what, Straker?" Mr. Planter asked. "Wouldn't it have kept through +tea time?"</p> + +<p>The secretary seemed reluctant to speak. The women glanced at him +uneasily. Lambert started to rise. In spite of his preoccupation George +had a suspicion of the truth. All at once Blodgett half expressed it, +bringing his fist noisily down on the table.</p> + +<p>"The Huns have torpedoed an American boat!"</p> + +<p>Straker blurted out the truth.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, Mr. Blodgett. It's the <i>Lusitania</i>, but apparently the losses +are serious."</p> + +<p>For a moment the silence was complete. Even the servants forgot their +errands and remained immobile, with gaping faces. An evil premonition +swept George. There were many Americans on the <i>Lusitania</i>. He knew a +number quite well. Undoubtedly some had gone down. Which of his friends? +One properly asked such questions only when one's country was at war. +The United States wasn't at war with Germany. Would they be now? How was +the sinking of the <i>Lusitania</i> going to effect him?</p> + +<p>Old Planter, Blodgett, and Lambert were already on their feet, starting +for the door. Mrs. Planter rose, but unhurriedly, and went close to her +husband's side. In that movement George fancied he had caught at last +something warm and human. Probably she had weighed the gravity of this +announcement, and was determined to wheedle the old man from too much +excitement, from too great a temper, from too thorough a preoccupation +with the changes bound to reach Wall Street from this tragedy.</p> + +<p>"I want to talk to Brown, too, if you please," Blodgett roared.</p> + +<p>They crowded into the hall, all except Sylvia and George who had risen +last. He had measured his movements by hers. They entered the library +together while the others hurried through to Mr. Planter's study where +the telephone stood, anxious to speak with Brown's voice. She wanted to +follow, but he stopped her by the table where his cap had rested that +night, from which he had taken her photograph.</p> + +<p>"You might give me a minute," he said.</p> + +<p>She faced him.</p> + +<p>"What do you want? Why did you come here, Mr. Morton?"</p> + +<p>"For this minute."</p> + +<p>"You've heard what's happened," she said, scornfully, "and you can +persist in such nonsense."</p> + +<p>"Call it anything you please," he said. "To me such nonsense happens to +be vital. It's your fault that I have to take every chance, even make +one out of a tragedy like that."</p> + +<p>He nodded toward the study door through which strained voices vibrated.</p> + +<p>"Children, too!—Vanderbilt!—More than a thousand!—Good God, Brown!"</p> + +<p>And Blodgett's roar, throaty with a new ferocity:</p> + +<p>"We'll fight the swine now."</p> + +<p>George experienced a fresh ill-feeling toward the man, who impressed him +as possessing something of the attributes of such animals. He glanced at +Sylvia's hands.</p> + +<p>"You're not going to marry him."</p> + +<p>She smiled at him pityingly, but her colour was fuller. He wondered why +she should remain at all when it would be so easy to slip through the +doorway to the protection of Blodgett and the others. Of course to hurt +him again.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you love him. I'm sure you don't. You shan't throw +yourself away."</p> + +<p>Her foot tapped the rug. He watched her try to make her smile amused. +Her failure, he told himself, offered proof that he was right.</p> + +<p>"One can no longer even be angry with you," she said. "Who gave you a +voice in my destiny?"</p> + +<p>"You," he answered, quickly, "and I don't surrender my rights. If I can +help it you're not going to throw away your youth. Why did you tell me +first of all you were going to be married?"</p> + +<p>She braced herself against the table, staring at him. In her eyes he +caught a fleeting expression of fright. He believed she was held at last +by a curiosity more absorbing than her temper.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>Old Planter's bass tones throbbed to them.</p> + +<p>"Nothing can keep us out of the war now."</p> + +<p>The words came to George as from a great distance, carrying no +tremendous message. In the whole world there existed for him at that +moment nothing half so important as the lively beauty of this woman +whose intolerance he had just vanquished.</p> + +<p>"Your youth belongs to youth," he hurried on, knowing she wouldn't +answer his question. "I've told you this before. I won't see you turn +your back on life. Fair warning! I'll fight any way I can to prevent +it."</p> + +<p>She straightened, showing him her hands.</p> + +<p>"You're very brave. You fight by attacking a woman, by trying behind his +back to injure a very dear man. And you've no excuse whatever for +fighting, as you call it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have," he said, quickly, "and you know perfectly well that I'm +justified in attacking any man you threaten to marry."</p> + +<p>"You're mad, or laughable," she said. "Why have you? Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because long ago I told you I loved you. Whether it was really so then, +or whether it is now, makes no difference. You said I shouldn't forget."</p> + +<p>He stepped closer to her.</p> + +<p>"You said other things that gave me, through pride if nothing else, a +pretty big share in your life. You may as well understand that."</p> + +<p>Her anger quite controlled her now. She raised her right hand in the old +impulsive gesture to punish his presumption with the maximum of +humiliation; and this time, also, he caught her wrist, but he didn't +hold it away. He brought it closer, bent his head, and pressed his lips +against her fingers.</p> + +<p>He was startled by the retreat of colour from her face. He had never +seen it so white. He let her wrist go. She grasped the table's edge. She +commenced to laugh, but there was no laughter in her blank, colourless +expression. A feminine voice without accent came to them:</p> + +<p>"Sylvia! How can you laugh?"</p> + +<p>He glanced up. Mrs. Planter stood in the study doorway. Sylvia +straightened; apparently controlled herself. Her colour returned.</p> + +<p>"It was Mr. Morton," she explained, unevenly. "He said something so +absurdly funny. Perhaps he hasn't grasped this tragedy."</p> + +<p>The others came in, a voluble, horrified group.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter with you, George?" Blodgett bellowed. "Don't you +understand what's happened?"</p> + +<p>"Not quite," George said, looking at Sylvia, "but I intend to find out."</p> + + +<h3>XIV</h3> + +<p>To find out, George appreciated at once, would be no simple task. +Immediately Sylvia raised new defences. She seemed abetted by this +incredible happening on a gray sea.</p> + +<p>"I shall go," Lambert said. "How about you, George?"</p> + +<p>"Why should I go?" George asked. "I haven't thought about it yet."</p> + +<p>The scorn in Sylvia's eyes made him uneasy. Why did people have to be so +impulsive? That was the way wars were made.</p> + +<p>During the days that followed he did think about it too absorbingly for +comfort, weighing to the penny the sacrifice his unlikely going would +involve. An inherent instinct for a fight could scarcely be satisfied at +such a cost. Patriotism didn't enter his calculations at all. He +believed it had resounding qualities only because it was hollow, being +manufactured exactly as a drum is made. Surely there were enough +impulsive and fairly useless people to do such a job.</p> + +<p>Then without warning Wandel confused his apparently flawless logic. +Certainly Wandel was the least impulsive of men and he was also capable +of uncommon usefulness, yet within a week of the sinking he asked George +if he didn't want to move to his apartment to keep things straight +during a long absence.</p> + +<p>"Where are you going, Driggs?"</p> + +<p>"I've been drifting too long," Wandel answered. "Unless I go somewheres, +do something, I'll become as mellow as Dolly. I've not been myself since +the business started. I suppose it's because I happen to be fond of the +French and the British and a few ideas of theirs. So I'm going to drive +an ambulance for them."</p> + +<p>George fancied Wandel's real motive wasn't so easily expressed. He +longed to know it, but you couldn't pump Wandel.</p> + +<p>"You're an ass," was all he said.</p> + +<p>"Naturally," Wandel agreed. "Only asses go to war."</p> + +<p>"Do you think it will help for you to get a piece of shell through your +head?"</p> + +<p>"Quite as much as for any other ass."</p> + +<p>"Why don't you say what you mean?" George asked, irritably.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you ask that," Wandel drawled, "because you don't understand +what I mean to say."</p> + +<p>"I won't take care of your apartment," George snapped. "I won't have any +hand in such a piece of foolishness."</p> + +<p>With Goodhue, however, he went to the pier to see Wandel off; absorbed +with the little man the sorrowful and apprehensive atmosphere of the +odorous shed; listened to choked farewells; saw brimming eyes; shared +the pallid anticipations of those about to venture forth upon an +unnatural sea; touched at last the very fringe of war.</p> + +<p>"Why is he doing it?" George asked as Goodhue and he drove across town +to the subway. "I've never counted Driggs a sentimentalist."</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure," Goodhue answered, "this doesn't prove he isn't. He's +always had an acute appreciation of values. Don't you remember? We used +to call him 'Spike'."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>George let himself drift with events, but Wandel's departure increased +his uneasiness. Suppose he should be forced by circumstances to abandon +everything; against his better judgment to go? Automatically his +thoughts turned to Squibs. He recalled his advice.</p> + +<p>"Don't let your ideas smoulder in your head. Come home and talk them +over."</p> + +<p>He sent a telegram and followed it the next day. The Baillys met him at +the station, affectionately, without any reproaches for his long +absence. The menace was in the air here, too, for Mrs. Bailly's first +question, sharply expressed, was:</p> + +<p>"You're not going, if——"</p> + +<p>"I don't want to go," he answered.</p> + +<p>Bailly studied him, but he didn't say anything.</p> + +<p>That afternoon there was a boat race on Lake Carnegie. The Alstons drove +the Baillys and George down some hospitable resident's lane to an +advantageous bank near the finish line. They spread rugs and made +themselves comfortable there, but the party was subdued. Squibs and Mr. +Alston didn't seem to care to talk. Betty asked Mrs. Bailly's question, +received an identical answer, and fell silent, too. Only Mrs. Alston +appeared to detect no change in the world, remaining cheerfully imperial +as if alarms couldn't possibly approach her abruptly.</p> + +<p>Even to George such a scene, sharing one planet with the violences of +Europe, appeared contradictory. The fancifully garbed undergraduates, +who ran along the bank; the string of automobiles on the towpath +opposite; the white and gleaming pleasure boats in the canal; the shells +themselves, with coloured oar-blades that flashed in the sunlight; most +of all the green frame for this pleasantly exciting contest had an air +of telling him that everything unseen was rumour, dream stuff; either +that, or else that the seen was visionary, while in those remote places +existed the only material world, the revolting and essential realities.</p> + +<p>Bailly at last interrupted his revery, with his long, thin arm making a +gesture that included the athletes; the running, youthful partisans.</p> + +<p>"How many are we going to lose or get back with twisted minds?"</p> + +<p>"Keep quiet," his wife said in a panic.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Alston laughed pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"Don't worry. Woodrow will keep us out of it."</p> + + +<h3>XV</h3> + +<p>Back in the little study Bailly expressed his doubt.</p> + +<p>"He may do it now, but later——"</p> + +<p>"Remember you're not going, George," Mrs. Bailly cried.</p> + +<p>"I think not."</p> + +<p>She patted his hand, while Bailly looked on with his old expression of +doubt and disapproval. When Mrs. Bailly had left them, George told the +tutor of Wandel's surprising venture, asking his opinion.</p> + +<p>"It's hard to form one," Bailly admitted. "He's always puzzled me. Would +it surprise you if I said I think he at least has grafted on his brain +some of Allen's generous views?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, come, sir. You can't make war an ideal expression of the +brotherhood of man. Far better that all men should be suspicious +strangers."</p> + +<p>Bailly drew noisily at his pipe.</p> + +<p>"It often pleases you to misunderstand," he said. "Wandel, I fancy, +would take Allen's theories and make something more practical of them. +Understand I am a pacifist—thorough-paced. War is folly. War is +dreadful. It cannot be conceived in a healthy brain. But when a fact +rises up before you you'd better face it. Wandel probably does. The +Allens probably don't—don't realize that we must win this war as the +only alternative to the world pacing of an autocratic foot that would +crush social progress like a serpent, that would boot back the +brotherhood of man, since you seem to enjoy the phrase, unthinkable +years."</p> + +<p>"After admitting that," George asked, quickly, "you can still tell me +that I ought to accept the point of view of your rotten, illogical +Socialists?"</p> + +<p>"Even in this war," Bailly confessed, "most socialists are pacifists. +No, they're not an elastic crowd. It amuses me that a lot of the lords +of the land, leading an unthinking portion of the proletariat, will +permit them to carry on their work in spite of themselves."</p> + +<p>"I despise such theorists," George burst out. "They are unsound. They +are dangerous."</p> + +<p>Bailly smiled.</p> + +<p>"Just the same, the very ones they want to reform are going to give them +the opportunity to do it."</p> + +<p>"They're all like Allen," George sneered, "purchasable."</p> + +<p>Bailly shook his head, waved his pipe vehemently.</p> + +<p>"Virtue's flaws don't alter its really fundamental quality."</p> + +<p>"Then you agree all Socialists are knaves or fools," George stormed.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps, George," Bailly said, patiently, "you'll define a +conservative for me. There. Never mind. Somewhere in between we may find +an honest generosity, a wise sympathy. It may come from this war—a huge +and wise balance of power of the right, an honest recognition of men as +individuals rather than as members of classes. Perhaps your friend +Wandel is on the track of something of the sort. I like to think it is +really what the war is being fought for."</p> + +<p>"The war," George said, "is being fought for men with fat paunches and +pocket-books."</p> + +<p>"Then you're quite sure you don't want to go?"</p> + +<p>"Why should I as long as my stomach and my pocket-book are comfortable? +But I'm not sure whether I'll go or not. That's what worries me."</p> + +<p>"You've made," Bailly said, testily, "enough out of the war to warrant +your giving it something."</p> + +<p>George grinned. It was quite like old times.</p> + +<p>"Even myself, on top of all the rest I might make out of it by staying +back?"</p> + +<p>"You're not as selfish as you'd have me believe," Bailly cried.</p> + +<p>George quoted a phrase of Wandel's since Bailly seemed just now to +approve of the adventurer.</p> + +<p>"The man that keeps himself makes the world better."</p> + +<p>Bailly drove him out of the room to dress for dinner.</p> + +<p>"I won't talk to you any more," he said. "I won't curse the loiterer at +the base until I am sure he isn't going to climb."</p> + + +<h3>XVI</h3> + +<p>At least George wouldn't have to decide at once. When it became clear +that for the present Mrs. Alston's optimism was justified he breathed +easier. With Goodhue, Lambert, and Mundy he applied himself unreservedly +to his work. Consequently he didn't visit much, didn't see Sylvia again +until the fall when he met her at a dinner at the Goodhues'. She shrank +from him perceptibly, but there was no escape. He studied her with an +easier mind. No date for her wedding had been set. Until that moment +should come there was nothing he could do. What he would be able to +accomplish then was problematical. Something. She shouldn't throw +herself away on Blodgett.</p> + +<p>"It must be comforting," he heard her say to Goodhue, "to know if +trouble comes your wonderful firm will be taken care of."</p> + +<p>George guessed she had meant him to hear that.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure I hope so," Goodhue answered her, "but what do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"I heard Mr. Morton say once he didn't think he'd care to go to war. +Didn't I, Mr. Morton?"</p> + +<p>Goodhue, clearly puzzled by her manner, laughed.</p> + +<p>"Give us something more useful, Sylvia. He's a born fighter."</p> + +<p>"I believe I said it," George answered her. "There might be problems +here I couldn't very well desert."</p> + +<p>Her eyes wavered. He recalled her hysterical manner that evening at +Oakmont. She still sought chances to hurt him. In spite of Blodgett, +then, she recognized a state of contest between them. He smiled +contentedly, for as long as that persisted his cause was alive.</p> + + +<h3>XVII</h3> + +<p>It languished, however, during the winter as did Blodgett's hopes of a +speedy wedding. The Planters' Fifth Avenue home remained closed, because +of Mr. Planter's health. Sylvia and her mother went south with him. +Blodgett made a number of flying trips, deserting his affairs to that +extent to be with Sylvia. George was satisfied for the present to let +things drift.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple certainly had drifted with events. He had taken no pains to +hide the shock of Sylvia's engagement. George of all people could +understand his disappointment, his helpless rage; but Dalrymple hadn't +bothered him, and he had about decided he never would.</p> + +<p>One spring day, quite without warning, he appeared in George's office. +It was not long after the Planters' return to Oakmont. What did he want +here? Was there any point spending money on him as matters stood?</p> + +<p>He looked at Dalrymple, a good deal surprised, reading the dissipation +recorded in his face, the nervousness exposed by the mobile hands. All +at once he understood why he had come at last. Dalrymple had wandered +too far. The patience of his friends had been exhausted. Perhaps Wandel +had taken George's hint. At any rate, he had let himself in for it.</p> + +<p>"An opportunity to make a little money," Dalrymple was mumbling +uneasily. "Need capital. Not much. You said at Blodgett's—just happened +to remember it, and was near——"</p> + +<p>"How much?" George demanded, stopping his feeble lies.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple, George suspected, because of his manner, asked for less than +half what he had come to get.</p> + +<p>"What say to a couple thousand? Make it five hundred more if you can. +Not much in the way of security."</p> + +<p>"Never mind the security."</p> + +<p>George pressed a button, and directed the clerk who responded to draw up +a note.</p> + +<p>"Got to sign something?" Dalrymple asked, suspiciously.</p> + +<p>George smiled.</p> + +<p>"Do you mind my keeping a little record of where my money goes—in place +of security?"</p> + +<p>Dalrymple was quite red.</p> + +<p>"All right, if you insist."</p> + +<p>"I insist. Care to change your mind?"</p> + +<p>"No. Only thought it was just a little loan between—friends."</p> + +<p>The word left his tongue with difficulty. George guessed that the other +retained enough decency to loathe himself for having to use it. The +nervousness of the long fingers increased while the clerk prepared the +note and George wrote the check. George put a pen in the unsteady hand.</p> + +<p>"Sign here, please."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple obeyed with a signature, shaky, barely legible.</p> + +<p>"Nice of you to do me a favour. Appreciate it. Thanks."</p> + +<p>To George it would have been worth that money to find out just how +Sylvia's extended engagement had affected Dalrymple. Was it responsible +for his speeding up on the dangerous path of pleasure? Of that he could +learn only what the other chose to disclose, probably nothing. But what +was he waiting for now that he had the money? Why were his fingers +twitching faster than ever?</p> + +<p>"Didn't see Lambert when I came in," he managed.</p> + +<p>"I daresay he's about," George said. "Want him?"</p> + +<p>Dalrymple raised his hand.</p> + +<p>"That's just it," he whispered. "Rather not see Lambert. Rather this +little transaction were kept sub rosa. You understand. No point +Lambert's knowing."</p> + +<p>"Why not?" George asked, coolly, feeling himself on the edge of the +truth.</p> + +<p>"I'm a little off the Planters," Dalrymple said.</p> + +<p>"Since when?"</p> + +<p>Dalrymple's face became redder than ever. For a moment his nervousness +abandoned him. He seemed to stiffen with violent thoughts.</p> + +<p>"Don't like buying and selling of women in any family. Not as decent as +slavery."</p> + +<p>George rose quietly. He hadn't expected just this.</p> + +<p>"Be careful," he warned. "What are you talking about?"</p> + +<p>"What the whole town talks about," Dalrymple burst out. "You know her. I +ask you. Hasn't she enough without selling herself, body and soul? No +better than an unmentionable——"</p> + +<p>George sprang. He didn't stop to tell himself that Dalrymple was +unaccountable, in a sense, out of his head. He didn't dare stop, because +he knew if Dalrymple finished that sentence he would try to kill him. +Dalrymple's mouth fell open, in fact, before the unexpected attack. He +couldn't complete the sentence, didn't try to; drew back against the +desk instead; grasped a convenient ink container; threw it; called +shrilly for help.</p> + +<p>George shook the streaming black liquid from his face. With his stained +hands he grasped Dalrymple. His fingers tightened with a feeling of +profound satisfaction. No masks now! Finally the enmity of years was +unleashed. He had Dalrymple where he had always wanted him.</p> + +<p>"One more word——You been saying that kind of thing——"</p> + +<p>The hurrying of many feet in the outer office recalled him. The +impulsive George Morton crept back beneath the veneer. He let Dalrymple +go, drew out his handkerchief, looked distastefully at the black stains +on his clothing.</p> + +<p>Lambert and Goodhue closed the door on the curious clerks.</p> + +<p>"What in heaven's name——"</p> + +<p>It was Lambert who had spoken. Goodhue merely shrugged his shoulders, as +if he had all along expected such a culmination.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple, fingering his throat spasmodically, sank in a chair. His face +infused. His breath came audibly.</p> + +<p>"Caught him harder than I realized," George reflected. He spoke aloud +with his whimsical smile.</p> + +<p>"Looks as if I'd lost my temper. I don't often do it."</p> + +<p>He had no regret. He was happy. He believed himself nearer Sylvia than +he had ever been. He felt in grasping Dalrymple's throat as if he had +touched her hands.</p> + +<p>He failed to give its true value, consequently, to Lambert's angry +turning on him after Dalrymple's shaking accusation.</p> + +<p>"Sorry, Lambert. Had to—to do what I could. He—he was rotten +impertinent about—about—Sylvia."</p> + + +<h3>XVIII</h3> + +<p>Goodhue caught Lambert's arm. In a flash George read the meaning of +Dalrymple's charge. Naturally he was the one to do something of the +sort, had to try it. He had been afraid of Lambert's knowing of the +loan. How much less could he let Lambert learn why George had +justifiably shut his mouth.</p> + +<p>"Keep quiet," George warned Lambert. "Dicky! Can you get him out of +here. He needs attention. I'm not a doctor. He hasn't been himself since +he came."</p> + +<p>But Lambert wouldn't have it.</p> + +<p>"Repeat that, Dolly," he commanded.</p> + +<p>George walked to Dalrymple.</p> + +<p>"You'll not say another word."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple stood up, weaving his fingers in and out; as it were, clasping +his hands to George.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry, Morton. Damn sorry. Forget—forget——"</p> + +<p>His voice wandered into a difficult silence, as if he had seen this way, +too, a chance of implicating himself with Sylvia's brother; but his eyes +continued to beg George. They were like the eyes of an animal, caught in +a net, beseeching release.</p> + +<p>Goodhue gave him his hat. He took it but drew away from the other's +touch on his arm.</p> + +<p>"Don't think I'm not all right," he said in a frightened voice. "Took me +by surprise, but I'm all right—quite all right. Going home."</p> + +<p>He glanced at Lambert and again at George, then left the room, pulling +at his necktie, Goodhue anxiously at his heels.</p> + +<p>"What about it?" Lambert asked George sharply.</p> + +<p>George sat down, still trying to rid himself of the black souvenirs of +the encounter.</p> + +<p>"Don't be a fool. I said nothing about your sister—nothing whatever."</p> + +<p>He couldn't get rid of Dalrymple's begging eyes, yet why should he spare +him at all?</p> + +<p>"The rest of it," he went on, easily, "is between Dalrymple and me."</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure," Lambert challenged.</p> + +<p>He reminded George of the younger Lambert who had advanced with a whip +in his hand.</p> + +<p>"See here," he said. "You can't make me talk about anything I don't care +to. I've told you I didn't mention your sister. I couldn't to that +fellow."</p> + +<p>Lambert spread his hands.</p> + +<p>"What is there about you and Sylvia—ever since that day? I believe you, +but I tried to give you a licking for her sake once, and I'd do it +again."</p> + +<p>George laughed pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"You make me feel young."</p> + +<p>Clearly Lambert meant to warn him, for he went on, still aggressive:</p> + +<p>"I care more for her than anybody in the world."</p> + +<p>The laughter left George's face.</p> + +<p>"Anybody?"</p> + +<p>Lambert was self-conscious now.</p> + +<p>"Just about. See here. What are you driving at?"</p> + +<p>George yawned.</p> + +<p>"I must wash up. I've a lot of work to do."</p> + +<p>"I'd like to know what went on here," Lambert said.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you ask Dalrymple, then?"</p> + +<p>"Dolly isn't all bad," Lambert offered as he left. "He's been my friend +a good many years."</p> + +<p>"Then by all means keep him," George answered, "and keep him to +yourself; but when he comes around hang on to the ink pots."</p> + + +<h3>XIX</h3> + +<p>His apparent good humour didn't survive the closing of the door. His +dislike of Dalrymple fattened on his memory of the incident. It had left +a sting. He hadn't stopped the man in time. Selling herself! Was she? +She appeared to his mind, no longer intolerant, rather with an air of +shame-faced apology for all the world. That was what hurt. He hadn't +stopped Dalrymple in time.</p> + +<p>But there was no sale yet, nothing whatever, except an engagement which, +after a year, showed no symptoms of fruition. Blodgett was aware of it, +and couldn't hide his anxiety. Evidently he wanted to talk about it, did +talk about it to George when he met him in the hall not long after +Dalrymple's visit.</p> + +<p>"Why don't you ever run down to Oakmont with Lambert?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Only Blodgett would have put such a question, and perhaps even he +designed it merely as an entrance to his favourite topic. George evaded +with a fairly truthful account of office pressure.</p> + +<p>"Old Planter asks after you," Blodgett went on, uncomfortably. "Admires +you, because you've done about what he had at your age, and it was +easier then. Old man's not well. That's tough on Josiah."</p> + +<p>"Tough?"</p> + +<p>Blodgett mopped his face with a brilliant handkerchief. His rotund +stomach rose and fell with a sigh.</p> + +<p>"His gout's worse—all sorts of complications. She's the apple of his +eye. Guess you know that. Won't desert him now. Wants to wait till he's +better, or—or——"</p> + +<p>He added naïvely:</p> + +<p>"Hope to heaven he bucks up soon."</p> + +<p>George watched Blodgett's hopes dwindle, for Old Planter didn't buck up, +nor did he grow perceptibly worse. From time to time he visited his +marble temple, but for the most part men went to him at Oakmont; +Blodgett, of course, with his double errand of business and romance, +most frequently of all. And Sylvia did cling to her father, but George's +satisfaction increased, for he agreed with Wandel: she was capable of a +feeling far more powerful than filial devotion. Blodgett, clearly, had +failed to arouse it.</p> + +<p>Her sense of duty, however, kept her nearly entirely away from George; +for Lambert, either because Sylvia had spoken to him, or because he +himself had sensed a false step, failed to repeat his invitation to +Oakmont. The row with Dalrymple, although that had not been mentioned +again, made it unlikely that he ever would.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple had dropped out of sight. George heard vaguely that he was +taking a rest cure in the northern part of the state. He couldn't fancy +meeting him again without desiring to add to the punishment he had +already given. The man was impossible. He had sneaked from that room, +leaving the note in George's hands, the check in his own pocket. And the +check had been cashed. No madness of excitement could account for that.</p> + +<p>It wasn't until summer that he ran into him, and with a black temper saw +Sylvia at his side. If she only knew! She ought to know. It increased +his bad humour that he couldn't tell her.</p> + +<p>He regretted the necessity that had made such a meeting possible. It +had, however, for a long time impressed him. Even flabby old Blodgett +had noticed, and had advised less work and more play. To combat his +feeling of staleness, the relaxing of his long, carefully conditioned +muscles, George had forced himself to play polo at a Long Island club +into which he had hurried because of his skill at the game, or to take +an occasional late round of golf, which he didn't care for particularly +but which he managed very well in view of his inexperience. It was while +he was ordering dinner with Goodhue one night at the Long Island club +that Sylvia and Dalrymple drove up with the Sinclairs. The older pair +came straight to the two, while Sylvia and Dalrymple followed with an +obvious reluctance.</p> + +<p>"We spirited her away for the night," Mrs. Sinclair explained.</p> + +<p>She turned to Sylvia.</p> + +<p>"My dear, I'll see that you don't cloister yourself any more. Your +father's going on for years."</p> + +<p>Yet it occurred to George, as he looked at her, that her cloistering had +accomplished no change. The alteration in Dalrymple, on the other hand, +was striking. George, as he met him with a difficult ease of manner, +quite as if nothing had happened, couldn't account for it; for the +light-headed look had gone from Dalrymple's eyes, and much of the stamp +of dissipation from his face. His hands, too, were quiet. Was it +credible he had forgotten the struggle in George's office? No. He had +cashed the check; yet his manner suggested a blank memory except, +perhaps, for its too-pronounced cordiality.</p> + +<p>There was nothing for it but a dinner together. The Sinclairs expected +it, and couldn't be made to understand why it should embarrass any one. +Dalrymple really helped matters. His mind worked clearly, and he could, +George had to acknowledge, exert a certain charm when he tried. +Moreover, he didn't drink, even refusing the cocktail a waiter offered +him just before they went inside.</p> + +<p>As always George disliked speaking to Sylvia in casual tones of +indifferent topics. She met him at first pleasantly enough on that +ground—too pleasantly, so that he found himself waiting for some +acknowledgment that she had not forgotten; that she still believed in +their quarrel. It came at last rather sharply through the topic that was +universal just then of General Wood's civilian training camps at +Plattsburgh. Lambert had gone. Goodhue would follow the next month, +having agreed to that arrangement for the sake of the office. Even +Blodgett was there. Sylvia took a great pride in the fact, pointed it at +George.</p> + +<p>"Although," she laughed, "I'm told he's not popular with his tent mates. +I hear he has a telephone fastened to his tent pole. I don't know +whether that's true. He's never mentioned it. But I do know he has three +secretaries in a house just off the reservation. Of course it's a +sacrifice for him to be at Plattsburgh at all."</p> + +<p>George stared at her. There was no question. Her voice, her face, +expressed a tolerant liking for the man. The engagement had lasted +considerably more than a year, and now she had an air of giving a public +reminder of its ultimate outcome. Or was it for him alone, as her +original announcement had been?</p> + +<p>"I'm off next month," Goodhue said. "Lambert writes it's good fun and +not at all uncomfortable."</p> + +<p>"I'll be with you, Dicky," Dalrymple put in. "Beneficial affair, besides +duty, and all that."</p> + +<p>George experienced relief at the very moment he resented her attack +most. It was still worth while trying to hurt him.</p> + +<p>"Practically everyone has gone or is going. It's splendid. When are you +booked for, Mr. Morton?"</p> + +<p>Even the Sinclairs had silently asked that question. They looked at him +expectantly.</p> + +<p>"I'm not going at all," he answered, bluntly.</p> + +<p>"I remember," she said. "You didn't believe in war or something, wasn't +it? But this isn't exactly war."</p> + +<p>George smiled.</p> + +<p>"Scarcely," he said. "It's hiking, singing, playing cards, rattling off +stories, largely done by some old men who couldn't get a job in the army +of Methuselah. Why should I waste my time at that?"</p> + +<p>"It's a start," Mr. Sinclair said, seriously. "We have to do something."</p> + +<p>George hid his sneer. Everywhere the spirit was growing to make any kind +of a drum that would bang.</p> + +<p>"If you don't think Wilson will keep us out of it," he asked, earnestly, +"why not get after Wilson and make him start something general, +efficient, fundamental? I've never heard of a President who wasn't +sensitive to the pressure of the country."</p> + +<p>There was no use talking that way. These people were satisfied with the +noise at Plattsburgh. He was glad when the meal ended, when he could get +away.</p> + +<p>At the automobile he managed to help Sylvia into her cloak, and he took +the opportunity to whisper:</p> + +<p>"When is the great event coming off?"</p> + +<p>She turned, looked at him, and didn't answer. She mounted to the back +seat beside Dalrymple.</p> + + +<h3>XX</h3> + +<p>George didn't see her again until winter. He heard through the desolate +Blodgett that she had gone with her parents to the Canadian Rockies.</p> + +<p>Nearly everyone seemed to flee north that summer as if in a final effort +to cajole play. The Alstons moved to Maine unusually early, and didn't +return until late fall. Betty put it plainly enough to him then.</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry to be back. Don't you feel the desire to get as far away as +possible from things, to escape?"</p> + +<p>"To escape what, Betty?"</p> + +<p>"That's just it. One doesn't know. Something one doesn't want to know."</p> + +<p>It was queer that Betty never asked why he hadn't been to Plattsburgh, +never urged a definite decision as to what he would do if——</p> + +<p>The "if" lost a little of its power with him. At times he was even +inclined to share Mrs. Alston's optimism. It was easy to drift with +Washington. Besides, he was too busy to worry about much except his +growing accumulation of profits from bloodshed. He was brought back +momentarily when Lambert and Goodhue received commissions as captains in +the reserve corps. The Plattsburgh noise still echoed. He couldn't help +a feeling of relief when people flocked back and the town became normal +again, encouraging him to believe that nothing could happen to tear him +away from this fascinating pursuit of getting rich for Sylvia while he +waited for her next move.</p> + +<p>That came with a stark brutality a few weeks after the holidays. He had +seen her only the evening before, sitting next to Blodgett at dinner +with a remote expression in her eyes that had made him hopeful. The +article in the morning newspaper, consequently, took him more by +surprise than the original announcement of the engagement had done. +Sylvia and Blodgett would be married on the fifteenth of the following +August.</p> + +<p>On top of that shock events combined to rebuke his recent confidence. +His desires had taken too much for granted. The folly of the Mrs. +Alstons and the wisdom of the Baillys and Sinclairs were forced upon +him. Wilson wasn't going to keep them out of it. George stood face to +face with the decision he had shirked when the <i>Lusitania</i> had taken her +fatal dive.</p> + +<p>It couldn't be shirked again, for the declaration of war appeared to be +a matter of days, weeks at the most. The drum was beginning to sound +with a rising resonance. Lambert and Goodhue would be among the first to +leave. Already they made their plans. They didn't seem to care what +became of the business.</p> + +<p>"What are you up to, George?" they asked.</p> + +<p>He put them off. He wanted to think it out. He didn't care to have his +decision blurred by the rattling of a drum. Yet it was patent to him if +he should go at all it would be with his partners, among the first. The +thought of such a triple desertion appalled him. Mundy was incomparable +for system and routine, but if he had possessed the rare selective +foresight demanded for the steering of a big business he would long +since have been at the helm of his own house. It would be far better, if +George had to go, to sell the stock and the mass of soaring securities +the firm had acquired; in short, to close out before competitors could +squeeze the abandoned ship from the channel.</p> + +<p>Why dwell on so wasteful an alternative? Why not turn sanely from so +sentimental a choice? It was clear enough to him that it would not long +survive the war, all this singing and shouting, this driving forth by +older people on the winds of a safe enthusiasm of countless young men +to grotesque places of death.</p> + +<p>He paced his room. That was just it. It was the present he had to +consider, and the present thoughts of people who hadn't yet returned to +their inevitable practicality, forgetfulness, and ingratitude; most of +all to the present thoughts of Sylvia. To him she had made those +thoughts sufficiently plain. Among non-combatant enthusiasts she would +be the most exigent. Why swing from choice to choice any longer? To be +as he had fancied she would wish, he had struggled, denied, kept himself +clean, sought minutely for the proper veneer; and so far he had kept his +record straight. With her it was his one weapon. He couldn't throw that +away.</p> + +<p>He stopped his pacing. He sat before his desk, his head in his hands, +listening to the cacophanous beating of drums by the majority for the +anxious marching of a few.</p> + +<p>It was settled. He had always known it would be, in just that way.</p> + + +<h3>XXI</h3> + +<p>George took his physical examination at Governor's Island with the +earliest of the candidates for the First Officers' Training Camp. As +soon as he had returned to his office he wrote to Bailly:</p> + +<p>"I'm going to your cheerful war, after all. I'll drop in the end of the +week."</p> + +<p>He summoned Lambert and Goodhue. Until then he had told them nothing +definite.</p> + +<p>"Of course," he said, "we'll have a few months, but before we leave +America everything will have to be settled. We'll have to know just +where we stand."</p> + +<p>Into the midst of their sombre discussion slipped the tinkling of the +telephone. George answered. He glanced at the others.</p> + +<p>"It's Blodgett. Wants me right away. Something important."</p> + +<p>He hurried down, wondering what was up. Blodgett's voice had vibrated +with an unaccustomed passion that had left with George an impression of +whole-hearted revolt; and when he got in the massive, over-decorated +office his curiosity grew, for Blodgett looked as if he had dressed +against time and without valet or mirror. The straggly pale hair about +the ears was rumpled. His necktie was awry. The pudgy hands shook a +trifle. George's heart quickened. Blodgett had had bad news. What was +the worst news Blodgett could have?</p> + +<p>"I know," Blodgett began, "that you and your partners have passed and +are going to Plattsburgh to become officers."</p> + +<p>All at once George caught the meaning of Blodgett's disarray, and his +hope was replaced by a mirth he had difficulty hiding.</p> + +<p>"You don't mean you've been over to Governor's Island——"</p> + +<p>Blodgett stood up.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he confessed, solemnly. "Just got back from my physical +examination. Would you believe it, George, the darned fools wouldn't +have me, because I'm too fat? Called it obese, as if it was some kind of +a disease, instead of just my natural inclination to fleshiness."</p> + +<p>One of his pudgy hands struck his chest.</p> + +<p>"Never stopped to see that my heart's all right, and that's what we +want, people whose hearts are all right."</p> + +<p>Momentarily the enmity aroused by circumstances fled from George. The +man was genuine, suffering from a devastating disappointment; but surely +he hadn't called him downstairs only to witness this outbreak.</p> + +<p>Blodgett lowered himself to his chair. He wiped his face with one of his +gay handkerchiefs. He spoke reasonably.</p> + +<p>"My place is at home. All right. I'll make it easier then for the thin +people that can go. I'm going to look after you boys. Mundy's not big +enough. I've got a man in view I can keep tabs on, and Blodgett'll +always be sitting down here seeing you don't get stung."</p> + +<p>He sighed profoundly.</p> + +<p>"Guess that'll have to be my share."</p> + +<p>George would rather have had the man curse him. It struck directly at +his pride to submit to this unmasking of his jealous opinion. He +strangled his quick impulse to reach forward, to grasp Blodgett's hand, +to beg his pardon. Instead he tried to find ways of avoiding the +generous gift.</p> + +<p>"We can't settle anything yet. A dozen circumstances may arise. The war +may end——"</p> + +<p>"When you go, George," Blodgett said, wistfully.</p> + +<p>And George knew that in the end he couldn't refuse without disclosing +everything; that his partners wouldn't let him. It added strangely +enough to his discomfort that he should leave the disappointed man with +a confident feeling that he need make no move to see Sylvia before going +to Plattsburgh. In any case, the camp ought to be over before the +fifteenth of August.</p> + +<p>His partners were pleased enough by his recital, and determined to +accept Blodgett's offer.</p> + +<p>"He's the most generous soul that ever lived," Goodhue said, warmly.</p> + +<p>Lambert agreed, but George thought he detected a troubled light in his +eyes.</p> + +<p>Blodgett's generosity continued to worry George, to accuse him. After +all, Blodgett had accomplished a great deal more than he. With only one +of the necessities he had made friends, had become engaged to Sylvia +Planter. No. There was something besides that. He had had an unaffected +personality to offer, and—he had said it himself—a heart that was all +right.</p> + +<p>George asked himself now if Blodgett had helped him in the first place, +not because he had been Mr. Alston and Dicky Goodhue's friend, but +simply because he had liked him. He was inclined to believe it. He had +reached the point where he admitted that many people had been friendly +and useful to him because he had what Blodgett lacked, an exceptional +appearance, a rugged power behind acquired graces. Squibs, he realized, +had put his finger on that long ago. He was glad he was going down. The +tutor would give him his usual disciplinary tonic.</p> + +<p>But it was a changed Squibs that met George; a nearly silent Squibs, who +spoke only to praise; a slightly apprehensive Squibs. George tried to +reassure Mrs. Bailly.</p> + +<p>"Three months at Plattsburgh, then nobody knows how much longer to whip +our division into shape. The war will probably be over before we get +across."</p> + +<p>But she didn't believe it, nor did her husband.</p> + +<p>"You'll be in it, George, before the war's over. Do you know, you're +nearer paying me back than you've ever been."</p> + +<p>George was uncomfortable before such adulation.</p> + +<p>"Please don't think," he protested, "that I'm going over for any tricky +ideals or to save a lot of advanced thinkers from their utter folly."</p> + +<p>"Then what are you going for?" Bailly asked.</p> + +<p>George was surprised that he lacked an answer.</p> + +<p>"Oh, because one has to go," he evaded.</p> + +<p>Bailly's smile was contented.</p> + +<p>"What better reason could any man want?"</p> + +<p>They had an air of showing him about Princeton as if he must absorb its +beauties for the last time. Their visit to the Alstons was shrouded with +all the sullen accompaniments of a permanent farewell. George was +inclined to smile. He hadn't got as far as weighing his chances of being +hit; the present was too crowded, stretched too far; included Betty, for +instance, and Lambert whom he was surprised to find in the Tudor house, +prepared to remain evidently until he should leave for Plattsburgh. The +Alstons misgivings centred rather obviously on Lambert. George, when he +took Betty's hand to say good-bye that evening, felt with a desolate +regret that for the first time in all their acquaintance her fingers +failed to reach his mind.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="PART_IV" id="PART_IV"></a>PART IV</h2> + +<h3>THE FOREST</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>"Profession?"</p> + +<p>"Member of the firm of Morton, Planter, and Goodhue."</p> + +<p>Slightly startled, a fairly youthful product of West Point twisted on +the uncomfortable orderly room chair, and glanced from the name on +George's card to the tall, well-built figure in a private's uniform +facing him. George knew he looked like a soldier, because some confiding +idiot had blankly told him so coming up on the train; but he hadn't the +first knowledge to support appearances, didn't even know how to stand at +attention, was making an effort at it now since it was clearly expected +of him, because he had sense enough to guess that the pompous, slightly +ungrammatical young man would insist during the next three months on +many such tributes.</p> + +<p>"I see. You're <i>the</i> Morton."</p> + +<p>George was pleased the young man was impressed. He experienced again the +feelings with which he had gone to Princeton. He was being weighed, not +as skilfully as Bailly had done it, but in much the same fashion. He had +a quick thought that it was going to be nice to be at school again.</p> + +<p>"Any special qualifications of leadership?"</p> + +<p>The question took George by surprise. He hesitated. A reserve officer, +sitting by to help, asked:</p> + +<p>"Weren't you captain of the Princeton football team a few years ago?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but we were beaten."</p> + +<p>"You must learn to say, 'sir,' Mr. Morton, when you address an officer."</p> + +<p>George flushed. That was etching his past rather too sharply. Then he +smiled, and amused at the silly business, mimicked Simpson's servility.</p> + +<p>"Very well, sir. I'll remember, sir."</p> + +<p>The West Point man was pleased, he was even more impressed, because he +knew football. He made marks on the card. When George essayed a salute +and stepped aside for the next candidate he knew he wasn't submerged in +this mass of splendid individualities which were veiled by the +similarity of their uniforms.</p> + +<p>Lambert, Goodhue, and he were scattered among different companies. That +was as well, he reflected, since his partners already wore officers' hat +cords. The spare moments they had, nevertheless, they spent together, +mulling over Blodgett's frequent reports which they never found time +thoroughly to digest. Even George didn't worry about that, for his +confidence in Blodgett was complete at last.</p> + +<p>He hadn't time to worry about much, for that matter, beyond the demands +of each day, for Plattsburgh was like Princeton only in that it aroused +all his will power to find the right path and to stick to it. At times +he wished for the nearly smooth brain with which he had entered college. +He had acquired too many wrinkles of logic, of organization, of +efficiency, of common-sense, to survive these months without frequent +mad desires to talk out in meeting, without too much humorous +appreciation of some of the arbiters of his destiny. Regular army +officers gave him the impression of having been forced through a long, +perpetually contracting corridor until they had come out at the end as +narrow as one of the sheets of paper work they loved so well. But he got +along with them. That was his business. He was pointed out enviously as +one of the football captains. It was a football captains' camp. All such +giants were slated for company or battery commander's commissions at +least.</p> + +<p>If he got it, George wondered if he would hate a captain's uniform as +much as the private's one he wore.</p> + +<p>With the warm weather the week-ends offered sometimes a relief. Men's +wives or mothers had taken little houses in the town or among the hills, +and the big hotel on the bluff opened its doors and welcomed other wives +and mothers, and many, many girls who would become both a little sooner +than they had fancied because of this.</p> + +<p>Betty arrived among the first, chaperoned for the time by the Sinclairs. +George dined with them, asked Betty about Sylvia, and received evasive +responses. Sylvia was surely coming up later. Betty was absorbed, +anyway, in her own affairs, he reflected unhappily. He felt lost in this +huge place where nearly everyone seemed to be paired.</p> + +<p>After dinner Lambert remained with Betty and Mrs. Sinclair, but George +and Mr. Sinclair wandered, smoking, through the grove above the lake. +George had had no idea that the news, for so long half expected, would +affect him as it did.</p> + +<p>"I suppose," Sinclair muttered, "you've heard about poor Blodgett."</p> + +<p>"What?" George asked, breathlessly. "We've little time for newspapers +here."</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure," Sinclair answered, "that it's in the papers, but in town +everybody's talking about it. Sylvia's thrown him over."</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>George paused and considered the glowing end of his cigar. Instead of +vast relief he first of all experienced a quick sympathy for Blodgett. +He wanted to say something; it was expected of him, but he was occupied +with the effort to get rid of this absurd sympathy, to replace it by a +profound and unqualified satisfaction.</p> + +<p>"Why? Do you know why?" was all he managed.</p> + +<p>That was what he wanted, her private reason for this step which all at +once left the field quite open, and shifted their struggle back to its +old, honest basis. It was what he had told her would happen, must +happen. Since she had agreed at last why had she involved poor old +Blodgett at all? Had that merely been one of her defences which had +become finally untenable? Had George conceivably influenced her to its +assumption, at last to its abandonment?</p> + +<p>He stared at the opaque white light which rose like a mist from the +waters of the lake. He seemed to see, as on a screen, an adolescent +figure with squared shoulders and flushed cheeks tearing recklessly +along on a horse that wasn't sufficiently untamed to please its rider. +He replaced his cigar between his lips. Naturally she would be the most +exigent of enthusiasts. Probably that was why Blodgett had been so +pitifully anxious to crowd his bulk into the army. She had to be +untrammelled to cheer on the younger, stronger bodies. That was why she +had done it, because war had made her see that George was right by +bringing her to a stark realization of the value of the younger, +stronger bodies.</p> + +<p>Sinclair had evidently reached much the same conclusion, for he was +saying something about a whim, no lasting reason——</p> + +<p>"I've always cared for Sylvia, but it's hard to forgive her this."</p> + +<p>"After all," George said, "Blodgett wasn't her kind. She'd have been +unhappy."</p> + +<p>In the opaque light Sinclair stared at him.</p> + +<p>"Not her kind! No. I suppose he's his own kind."</p> + +<p>Temporarily George had driven forth his sympathy. Blodgett, after all, +hadn't been above some sharp tricks to win such liking and admiration. +Sinclair, of all people, suffering for him!</p> + +<p>"I mean," George said, "he'd bought his way, hadn't he, after a fashion, +to her side?"</p> + +<p>Sinclair continued to stare.</p> + +<p>"I don't quite follow. If you mean Josiah's wanted to play with pleasant +people—yes, but the only buying he's ever done is with his amazing +generosity. He's pulled me for one out of a couple of tight holes after +I'd flown straight in the face of his advice. Nothing but a superb good +nature could be so forgiving, don't you think?"</p> + +<p>George walked on, keeping step with Sinclair, saying nothing more; +fighting the old instinct to reach forward, to grasp Blodgett's hand, to +beg his pardon; realizing regretfully, in a sense, that the last support +of his jealous contempt had been swept away. He was angry at the blow to +his self-conceit. It frightened him to have that attacked. He couldn't +put up with it. He would rid himself again of this persistent sympathy +for a defeated rival. Just the same, before accepting any more favours +from Blodgett, he desired to clasp the pudgy hand.</p> + +<p>Betty didn't know any more than Sinclair, nor did she care to talk about +the break.</p> + +<p>"I can't bear to think of all the happiness torn from that cheerful +man."</p> + +<p>George studied her face in the light from the windows as they paced up +and down the verandah. There was happiness there in spite of the +perplexing doubt with which she glanced from time to time at him. There +was no question. Betty's kindness had been taken away from him. He tried +to be glad for her, but he was sorry for himself, trying to fancy what +his life would have been if he had permitted his aim to be turned aside, +if he had yielded to the temptation of an unfailing kindness. It had +never been in his nature. Why go back over all that?</p> + +<p>"One tie's broken," he said, "and another's made. We're no longer the +good friends we were, because you haven't told me."</p> + +<p>Her white cheeks flooded with colour. She half closed her eyes.</p> + +<p>"What, George?"</p> + +<p>"That the moon is made of honey. I'm really grateful to Lambert for +these few minutes. Don't expect many more. I can't see you go without a +little jealousy, for there have been times when I've wanted you +abominably, Betty."</p> + +<p>They had reached the end of the verandah and paused there in a light +that barely disclosed her wondering smile; her wistful, reminiscent +expression.</p> + +<p>"It's funny," she said with a little catch in her voice, "to look back +on two children. I suppose I felt about the great George Morton as most +girls did."</p> + +<p>"You flatter me," he said. "Just what do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"It's rather tearful one can laugh about such things," she answered. "So +long ago! The great athlete's become a soldier!"</p> + +<p>"The stable boy's become a slave," he laughed. "Oh, no. Most girls +couldn't feel much sentiment about that kind of greatness."</p> + +<p>"Hush!" she whispered. "You know the night you told me all that I +thought it was a preliminary to your confessing how abominably you +wanted me."</p> + +<p>"Now, really, Betty——"</p> + +<p>"Quite true, George."</p> + +<p>"And you ran away."</p> + +<p>"And you," she said with a little laugh, "didn't follow."</p> + +<p>"Maybe I was afraid of the dragons in the castle. If I'd followed——?"</p> + +<p>"We'd have made the dragons angels."</p> + +<p>Beneath their jesting he was aware of pain in his heart, in her eyes; a +perception of lost chances, chances that never could have been captured. +One couldn't have everything. She had Lambert. He had nothing. But he +might have had Betty.</p> + +<p>He stooped and pressed his lips to her forehead.</p> + +<p>"That's as near as I shall ever come," he thought, sorrowfully, +wondering, against his will, if it were true.</p> + +<p>"It's to wish you and Lambert happiness," he said aloud.</p> + +<p>She raised her fingers to her forehead and let them linger there +thoughtfully. She sighed, straightened, spoke.</p> + +<p>"I'm no longer a sentimental girl, but the admiration has survived, +grown, George. Never forget that."</p> + +<p>"And the kindness?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Of course," she said. "Why should that ever go?"</p> + +<p>But he shook his head.</p> + +<p>"All the kindness must be for Lambert. You wouldn't give by halves. +When, Betty?"</p> + +<p>"Let us walk back. I've left him an extraordinarily long time."</p> + +<p>"When?" he repeated.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," she answered. "After the war, if he comes home. Of +course, he wants it before. Lambert hurries one so."</p> + +<p>"It's the war," he said, gravely, "that hurries one."</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>"I've wormed it out of Betty," he said to Lambert on the way back to +barracks.</p> + +<p>He added congratulations, heartfelt, accompanied by a firm clasp of the +hand; but Lambert seemed scarcely to hear, couldn't wait for George to +finish before breaking in.</p> + +<p>"You and Betty have always been like brother and sister. She says so. +I've seen it myself."</p> + +<p>George was a trifle uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>"What of it?"</p> + +<p>"If you get a chance point out to her in your brotherly way that the +sooner she marries me the more time we'll have together outside of +heaven. I can't very well go at her on that tack. Sounds slushy, but you +know there's a good chance of my not coming home, and she insists on +waiting."</p> + +<p>With all his soul George shrank from such a task. He glanced at the +other's long, athletic limbs.</p> + +<p>"There are worse fates than widowhood for war brides," he said, +brutally.</p> + +<p>Lambert made a wry face.</p> + +<p>"All the more reason for grabbing what happiness I can."</p> + +<p>"Pure selfishness!" George charged him.</p> + +<p>"You talk like a fond parent," Lambert answered. "I believe Betty is the +only one who doesn't think in those terms. She has other reasons; +ridiculous ones. When she tells them to you you'll come on my side."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," George said, vaguely.</p> + +<p>Betty's obstinacy wasn't Lambert's only worry. Several times he opened +his mouth as if to speak, and apparently thought better of it. George +could guess the sense of those unexpressed phrases, and could understand +why Lambert should find it difficult to voice them to him. It wasn't +until they were in the sand of the company street, indeed, that Lambert +managed to state his difficulty, in whispers, so that the sleeping +barracks shouldn't be made restless. George noticed that the other +didn't mention Sylvia's name, but it was there in every word, with a +sort of apology for her, and a relief that she wasn't after all going to +marry one so much older and less graceful than herself.</p> + +<p>"I wish you'd suggest a way for me to pull out. I've thought it over. I +can't think of any pretty one, but I don't want to be under obligations +any longer to a man who has been treated so shabbily."</p> + +<p>It amused George to find himself in the position of a Sinclair, fighting +with Lambert to spare Blodgett's feelings. For Blodgett, Lambert's +proposed action would be the final humiliation.</p> + +<p>A day or two later, in fact, Lambert showed George a note he had had +from Blodgett.</p> + +<blockquote><p>"Never let this come up again," a paragraph ran. "If it made +any difference between me and the rest of the family I'd feel +I'd got more than I deserve. I know I'm not good enough for +her. Let it go at that——"</p></blockquote> + +<p>"You're right," Lambert said. "He's entitled to be met just there. I've +decided it shall make no difference to the business."</p> + +<p>George was relieved, but Lambert, it was clear, resented the situation, +blamed it on Sylvia, and couldn't wholly refrain from expressing his +disapproval.</p> + +<p>"No necessity for it in the first place. Can't see why she picked him, +why she does a lot of things."</p> + +<p>"Spoiled!" George offered with a happy grin.</p> + +<p>"Prefer to say that myself," Lambert grunted, "although God knows I'm +beginning to think it's true enough."</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>George doubted if he would see Sylvia at Plattsburgh at all, so +frequently was her visit postponed. Perhaps she preferred to cloister +herself really now, experiencing a sense of shame for the blow +circumstances had made her strike at one who had never quite earned it; +yet when she came, just before the end of camp, he detected no +self-consciousness that he could trace to Blodgett. Lambert and he +arrived at the hotel late one Saturday afternoon and saw her on the +terrace with her mother and the Alstons. For weeks George had forecasted +this moment, their first meeting since she had bought back her freedom +at the expense of Blodgett's heart; and it disappointed him, startled +him; for she was—he had never fancied that would hurt—too friendly. +For the first time in their acquaintance she offered her hand willingly +and smiled at him; but she had an air of paying a debt. What debt? He +caught the words "Red Cross," "recreation."</p> + +<p>"Rather faddish business, isn't it?" he asked, indifferently.</p> + +<p>He was still intrigued by Sylvia's manner. A chorus attacked him. Sylvia +and Betty, it appeared, were extreme faddists. Only Mrs. Planter smiled +at him understandingly from her eminent superiority. As he glanced at +his coarse uniform he wanted to laugh, then his temper caught him. The +debt she desired to pay was undoubtedly the one owed by a people. He +wanted to grasp her and shout in her ear:</p> + +<p>"You patriotic idiot! I won't let you insult me that way."</p> + +<p>"We have to do what we can," she was saying vehemently. "I wish I were a +man. How I wish I were a man!"</p> + +<p>If she were a man, he was thinking, he'd pound some sensible judgments +into her excited brain. Or was all this simply a nervous reaction from +her mental struggles of the past months, from her final escape—a +necessary play-acting?</p> + +<p>He couldn't manage a word with her alone before dinner. The party +wandered through grass-floored forest paths whose shy peace fled from +the approach of uniforms and the heavy tramp of army boots. He resented +her flood of public questions about his work, his prospects, his mental +attitude toward the whole business. Her voice was too kind, her manner +too sweet, with just the proper touch of sadness. She wasn't going to +spare him anything of the soldier's due. Since he was being fattened, +presumably for the butcher, she would turn his thoughts from the +knife——</p> + +<p>He longed for the riding crop in her fingers; he would have preferred +its blows.</p> + +<p>If he got her alone he would put a stop to such intolerable abuse, but +the chance escaped him until long after dinner, when the moon swung high +above the lake, when the men in uniform and their women were paired in +the ballroom, or on the terrace and balconies. He asked her to dance at +last and she made no difficulty, giving him that unreal and provoking +smile.</p> + +<p>"You dance well," she said when the music stopped.</p> + +<p>They were near a door. He suggested that they go outside.</p> + +<p>"While I tell you that if you offer me any more of that gruel I'll +publicly accuse you of treason."</p> + +<p>She looked at him puzzled, hesitating.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"When it comes to being killed," he answered, "I prefer the Huns to +empty kindness. It's rather more useful for the country, too. Please +come out."</p> + +<p>She shook her head. Her eyes were a little uncertain.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you will," he said. "You've let yourself in for it. I'm the victim +of one of your war charities. Let me tell you that sort of thing leads +from the dance floor to less public places. After all, the balcony isn't +very secluded. If you called for help it would come promiscuously, +immediately."</p> + +<p>She laughed. She tried to edge toward her mother. He stopped her.</p> + +<p>"Be consistent. Don't refuse a dying man," he sneered.</p> + +<p>"Dying man!" she echoed.</p> + +<p>"You've impressed me with it all evening. For the first time in your +life you've tried to treat me like a human being, and you've succeeded +in making me feel a perfect fool. Where's the pamphlet you've been +reciting from? I'll guarantee it says the next move is to go to the +balcony and be very nice and a little sentimental to the poor devil."</p> + +<p>Her head went up. She walked out at his side. He arranged chairs close +together at the railing where they seemed to sit suspended in limitless +emptiness above the lake and the mountains flattened by the moonlight. +Later, under very different circumstances, he was to recall that idea of +helpless suspension. She caught it, too, evidently, and gave it a +different interpretation. It was as if, engrossed by her own problems, +she had for the moment forgotten him.</p> + +<p>"This place is so high! It gives you a feeling of freedom."</p> + +<p>He knew very well what was in her mind.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad you can feel free. I'm glad with all my heart you are free +again."</p> + +<p>Caught by her sensations she didn't answer at once. He studied her +during that brief period when she was, in a fashion, helpless before his +eager eyes. Abruptly she faced him, as if the sense of his words had +been delayed in reaching her, or, as if, perhaps, his frank regard had +drawn her around, a little startled.</p> + +<p>"I shall not quarrel with you to-night," she said.</p> + +<p>"Good! Then you must let me tell you that while I'm sorry as I can be +for poor old Blodgett, I'm inexpressibly glad for you and for this +particular object of your charity."</p> + +<p>"It does not concern you," she said.</p> + +<p>"Enormously. I wonder if you would answer one or two questions quite +truthfully."</p> + +<p>She stirred uneasily, seemed about to rise, then evidently thought +better of it. The orchestra resumed its labours. Many figures near by +gravitated toward the ballroom, leaving them, indeed, in something very +near seclusion. And she stayed to hear his questions, but she begged him +not to ask them.</p> + +<p>"You and Lambert are friends. What you are both doing makes me want to +think of that, makes me want to make concessions, but don't +misunderstand, don't force me to quarrel with you until after this is +over."</p> + +<p>He paid no attention to her.</p> + +<p>"I suppose the war made you realize I was right about Blodgett?"</p> + +<p>"You cannot talk about that."</p> + +<p>"Has the war shown you I was right about myself?" he went on.</p> + +<p>"Are you going to make my good resolutions impossible?" she asked.</p> + +<p>Over his shoulder George saw the men in khaki guiding pretty girls about +the dance floor. The place was full of a heady concentration of pleasure +that had a beautiful as well as a pitiful side. About him the atmosphere +was frankly amorous, compounded of multiple desires of heart and mind +which strained for fulfilment before it should be too late. For him +Sylvia was a part of it—the greater part. It entered his senses as the +delightful and faint perfume which reached him from her. It became +ponderable in her dark hair; in her lips half parted; in her graceful +pose as she bent toward him attentively; in her sudden movement of +withdrawal, as if she had suddenly realized he would never give her her +way.</p> + +<p>"Isn't it time," he asked, "that you forgot some of your childish pride +and bad temper? Sylvia! When are you going to marry me?"</p> + +<p>Her laughter wasn't even, but she arose unhurriedly. She paused, indeed, +and sank back on the arm of the chair.</p> + +<p>"So even now," she said, "it's to be quarrels or nothing."</p> + +<p>"Or everything," he corrected her. "I shall make you realize it somehow, +some day. What's the use putting it off? Let's forget the ugly part of +the past. Marry me before I go to France."</p> + +<p>He was asking her what he had accused Lambert of unjustifiably wanting +Betty to do. All at once he understood Lambert's haste. He stretched out +his hand to Sylvia. He meant it—with all his heart he meant it, but she +answered him scornfully:</p> + +<p>"Is that your way of saying you love me?"</p> + +<p>The bitterness of many years revived in his mind, focusing on that +question. If he should answer it impulsively she would be in a position +to hurt him more than she had ever done. George Morton didn't dare take +chances with his impulses, and the bitterness was in his voice when he +answered:</p> + +<p>"You've never let me fancy myself at your feet in a sentimental fit."</p> + +<p>But it was difficult for him not to assume such an attitude: not to take +her hand, both of her hands; not to draw her close.</p> + +<p>"If you'd only answer me——" he began.</p> + +<p>She stood up.</p> + +<p>"Just as when I first saw you!" she cried, angrily.</p> + +<p>She controlled herself.</p> + +<p>"You shan't force me to quarrel. Come in. Let us dance once."</p> + +<p>In a sense he put himself at her feet then.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid to dance with you to-night," he whispered.</p> + +<p>She looked at him, her eyes full of curiosity. Her eyes wavered. She +turned and started across the gallery. In a panic he sprang after her.</p> + +<p>"All right. Let us dance," he said.</p> + +<p>He led her to the floor and took her in his arms, but he had an +impression of guiding an automaton about the room. Almost at once she +asked him to stop by the door leading to the gallery. He looked at her +questioningly. Her distaste for the civilian Morton was undisguised at +last from the soldier Morton. But there was more than that to be read in +her colourful face—self-distaste, perhaps; and a sort of fright, +comparable with the panic George had just now experienced on the +verandah. Her voice was tired.</p> + +<p>"I've done my best. I can't keep it up."</p> + +<p>"No more war kindness!" he said. "Good!"</p> + +<p>He watched her, her draperies arranging themselves in perplexingly +graceful folds, as she hurried with an air of flight away from him along +the gallery.</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>The evening the commissions were awarded George appreciated the +ingratitudes and cruelties of service rather more keenly than he had +done even as a youngster at Oakmont.</p> + +<p>"It's like tap day at New Haven," Lambert said, nervously.</p> + +<p>He had paused for a moment to compare notes with George. He hurried now +to his own organization for fear something might have happened during +his absence. The suspense increased, reaching even George, who all along +had been confident of success.</p> + +<p>In the dusk the entire company crowded the narrow space between the +barracks—scores of men who had been urged by passionate politicians to +abandon family, money, everything, for the discomforts, sometimes the +degradations, of this place, for the possible privilege of dying for a +cause. It had had to be done, but in the hearts of many that night was +the fancy that it might have been done rather differently. It was clear, +for instance, that the passionate and patriotic politicians hadn't +troubled to tear from a reluctant general staff enough commissions for +the size and quality of these first camps. Many of the men, therefore, +who with a sort of terror shuffled their feet in the sand, would be sent +home, to the draft, or to the questioning scorn of their friends, under +suspicion of a form of treason, of not having banged the drum quite hard +enough. And it wasn't that at all.</p> + +<p>George, like everyone else, had known for a long time there wouldn't be +enough commissions to go around. Why, he wondered now, had the fellows +chosen for dismissal been held for this public announcement of failure. +And in many cases, he reflected, there was no failure here beyond the +insolvency of a system. Among those who would go back to the world with +averted faces were numbers who hadn't really come at all within the +vision of their instructors, beyond whom they could not appeal. And +within a year this same reluctant army would be reaching out eagerly for +inferior officer material. And these men would not forget. You could +never expect them to forget.</p> + +<p>Two messengers emerged from the orderly room and commenced to thread the +restless, apprehensive groups, seeking, with a torturing slowness +finding candidates to whom they whispered. The chosen ran to the orderly +room, entered there, according to instructions, or else formed a long +line outside the window where sat the supreme arbiter, the giver, in a +way of life and death, the young fellow from West Point.</p> + +<p>Men patted George on the back.</p> + +<p>"You'll go among the first, George."</p> + +<p>But he didn't. He paced up and down, watching the many who waited for +the whisper which was withheld, waited until they knew it wouldn't +come, expressed then in their faces thoughts blacker than the closing +night, entered at last into the gloomy barracks where they sat on their +bunks silently and with bowed heads.</p> + +<p>Was that fate, through some miracle of mismanagement, reserved for him? +It couldn't be. The fellow had seen him at the start. George had forced +himself to get along with him, to impress him. Somebody touched George +on the arm. A curiously intense whisper filled his ear.</p> + +<p>"You're wanted in the orderly room, Morton."</p> + +<p>In leaving the defeated he had an impression of a difficult and +sorrowful severance.</p> + +<p>In the orderly room too many men rubbed shoulders restlessly. A relieved +sigh went up. It was as if everyone had known nothing vital could occur +before his arrival. The young West Pointer was making the most of his +moment. The war wasn't likely to bring him another half so great.</p> + +<p>Washington, he announced, had cut down the number of higher commissions +he had asked for.</p> + +<p>George's name was read among the first.</p> + +<p>"To be captain of infantry, United States Reserve—George Morton."</p> + +<p>There was something very like affection in the West Pointer's voice.</p> + +<p>"I recommended you for a majority, Mr. Morton. Stick to the job as you +have here, and it will come along."</p> + +<p>Lambert and Goodhue found him as he crowded with the rest through the +little door. They had kept their captaincies. Even Goodhue released a +little of his relief at the outcome.</p> + +<p>"Any number busted—no time to find out whether they were good or bad."</p> + +<p>The dark, hot, sandy street was full of shadowy figures, calling, +shouting, laughing neurotically.</p> + +<p>"Good fellow, but I had you on my list." "My Lord! I never expected more +than a private in the rear rank." "What do you think of Blank? Lost out +entirely." "Rotten deal." "Not the only one by several dozens." "Hear +about Doe? Wouldn't have picked him for a shave tail. Got a captaincy. +Teacher's pet."</p> + +<p>Brutally someone had turned on the barrack lights. Through the windows +the successful ones could see among the bunks the bowed and silent +figures, must have known how sacrilegious it was to project their +happiness into this place which had all at once become a sepulchre of +dead sacrifices.</p> + +<p>"I hope," George muttered to his friends, "I'll never have to see quite +so much suffering on a battlefield."</p> + + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p>It wasn't pleasant to face Blodgett, but it had to be done, for all +three of the partners had determined out of necessity to spend the +greater portion of their leaves at the office. George slipped in alone +the morning he got back to New York. Blodgett looked up as if he had +been struck, taking in each detail of the uniform and its insignia, +symbols of success. The face seemed a little less round, infinitely less +contented. Sitting back there in his office he had an air of having +sought a corner. If Sylvia didn't, he clearly appreciated the shame of +the situation. George took the pudgy hand and pressed it, but he +couldn't say anything and Blodgett seemed to understand and be grateful. +He failed, however, to hide his envy of the uniform.</p> + +<p>"I'd give my money and something besides," he said, "to be able to climb +into that."</p> + +<p>"You're lucky you can't," George answered, half meaning it.</p> + +<p>As a substitute Blodgett spoke of some dollar-a-year work in Washington.</p> + +<p>"But don't worry, George. I'll see everything here is looked after."</p> + +<p>George was glad Blodgett had so much to take care of, for it was clear +that the more work he had the better off he would be. In Blodgett's +presence he tried not to think of Sylvia and his own intentions. He +wrote her, for the first time, boldly asking, since he couldn't suggest +such a visit to Lambert, if he might see her at Oakmont. She didn't keep +him in suspense. He smiled as he read her brief reply, it had been so +obviously dictated by the Sylvia who was going to be good to soldiers no +matter how dreadful the cost.</p> + +<blockquote><p>"I thought I made you understand that what you proposed at +Plattsburgh can never become less preposterous; my response +less determined. So of course it wouldn't do for you to come. +When we see each other, as we're bound to do, before you sail, +I shall try to forget the absolute lack of any even merely +friendly ground between us. It would hurt Lambert——"</p></blockquote> + +<p>"Damn Lambert!" he muttered.</p> + +<p>But he didn't tear her letter up. He put it in the pocket of his blouse. +He continued to carry it there.</p> + +<p>Instead of going to Oakmont, consequently, he spent a Sunday at +Princeton, vastly amused at the pacifist Bailly. Minute by minute the +attenuated tutor cursed his inability to take up a gun and pop at +Germans, interspersing his regrets with:</p> + +<p>"But of course war is dreadful. It is inconceivable in a healthy +brain——" and so forth.</p> + +<p>He had found a substitute for his chief ambition. He was throwing +himself heart and soul into the efforts of the Y.M.C.A. to keep soldiers +amused and fed.</p> + +<p>"For Princeton," he explained, "has become an armed camp, a mill to +manufacture officers; nothing more. The classics are as defunct as +Homer. I had almost made a bad pun by suggesting that of them all +Martial alone survives."</p> + +<p>Before he left, George was sorry he had come, for Lambert took pains to +leave Betty alone with him as they walked Sunday evening by the lake. +More powerful than Lambert's wishes in his mind was the memory of how +Betty and he had skated here, or come to boat races, or walked like this +in his undergraduate days; and she didn't take kindly to his +interference, letting him see that to her mind a marriage with Lambert +now would be too eager a jump into the house of Planter; too +inconsiderate a request for the key to the Planter coffers.</p> + +<p>"For Lambert may not come back," she said.</p> + +<p>"That's just it," he urged, unwillingly. "Why not take what you can be +sure of?"</p> + +<p>"What difference would it make?" she asked. "Would I love Lambert any +more? Would he love me any more?"</p> + +<p>"I think so," he said.</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>"But the thought of a wife might make a difference at the front; might +make him hesitate, or give a little less. We all have to give +everything. So I give Lambert—entirely—if I have to."</p> + +<p>George didn't try to say any more, for he knew she was right; yet with +the opening of Camp Upton and the birth of the division the rather +abrupt marriages of soldiers multiplied. During the winter Officers' +House sheltered excited conferences that led to Riverhead where +licenses, clergymen, and justices of the peace could be found; and there +was scarcely a week-end that didn't see the culmination in town of a +romance among George's own friends and acquaintances.</p> + +<p>The week-ends he got were chiefly valuable to him because they offered +chances of seeing Sylvia. Few actually developed, however, for there +were not many general parties, since men preferred to cling, not +publicly, during such brief respites to those they loved and were on the +point of quitting.</p> + +<p>The Alstons had taken a house for the winter, and George caught her +there once or twice, and would rather not have seen her at all, she was +so painfully cordial, so bound up in her war work of which he felt +himself the chief victim. He began to fear that he would not see her +alone again before he sailed; that he might never be with her alone +again.</p> + +<p>He didn't care either for the pride she took in Dalrymple's presence at +the second camp.</p> + +<p>"He's sure to do well," she would say. "He's always had all sorts of +possibilities. Watch the war bring them out."</p> + +<p>Why did women like the man? There was no question that they did. They +talked now, in ancient terms, of his permanent exit from the field of +wild oats. He could be so fascinating, so thoughtful—of women. But men +didn't like him. Dalrymple's fascinating ways had caught them too +frequently, too expensively. And George didn't believe in his reform, +saw symptoms, as others did, of its true value when, at the close of the +second camp, Dalrymple got himself assigned to the trains of the +division. It was rumoured he had left Plattsburgh a second lieutenant. +It was fact that he appeared at Upton a captain. Secret intrigues in +Washington by fond parents, men whispered; but the women didn't seem to +care, for Dalrymple hadn't shown himself before any of them carrying +less than the double silver bars of a captain.</p> + +<p>George received his prophesied majority at the moment of this +disagreeable arrival. That did impress Sylvia to the point of making her +more cordial in public, more careful than before not to give him a word +in private. As the day of departure approached he grew increasingly +restless. He had never experienced a sensation of such complete +helplessness. He was bound by Upton. She could stand aside and mock him +with her studied politenesses.</p> + +<p>Blodgett ran down a number of times, to sit in George's quarters, +working with the three partners over figures. They made tentative lists +of what should be sold at the first real whisper of peace.</p> + +<p>"But there'll be no peace for a long time," Blodgett promised. "There's +a lot of money for you boys in this war yet."</p> + +<p>They laughed at him, and he looked a little hurt, apparently unable to +see anything humorous in his cheerful promise.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple was aware of these conferences, for he was frequently about +the regimental area. George wasn't surprised, when he sat alone one +night, to hear a tap on his window pane, to see Dalrymple's face at the +window.</p> + +<p>"Hesitate to disturb a major, and all that," Dalrymple said as he +entered. "Two rooms. You're lucky."</p> + +<p>"Not luck; work," George said, shortly. "What is it? Didn't come here to +envy my rank, did you?"</p> + +<p>Although he was in far better shape nervously and physically than he had +been that day in George's office, Dalrymple bore himself with much the +same confused and hesitant manner. It recalled to George the existence +of the note which the other had made no effort to redeem.</p> + +<p>"You know," Dalrymple began, vaguely, "there's a lot of—what do you +call it—bunk—about this hurrah for the dear old soldier business. Fact +is, the more chance there is of a man's getting blown up the nastier +some people become."</p> + +<p>George laughed shortly.</p> + +<p>"You mean when you owe them money."</p> + +<p>"As Driggs used to say," Dalrymple answered, "'you're a very penetrating +person.'"</p> + +<p>He hesitated, then went on with an increasing difficulty:</p> + +<p>"You're one of the people I owe money to."</p> + +<p>Wandel had taken George's hint, evidently. George was sorry he had ever +let it drop. But was he? Mightn't it be as well in the end? In spite of +all this talk of people's leaving their bones in France, there was a +fair chance that both Dalrymple and he would bring theirs, unaltered, +back to America.</p> + +<p>"Don't worry," George said. "I shan't press you."</p> + +<p>"Handsome enough," Dalrymple thanked him in a voice scarcely above a +whisper. "But everybody isn't that decent. It's this talk of the +division sailing that's turned them nasty."</p> + +<p>George fingered a pamphlet about poison gases. He didn't much blame +debtors for turning nasty.</p> + +<p>"You want to borrow some more money from me," he said.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple's face lightened.</p> + +<p>"If you'd be that good; but it's a lot."</p> + +<p>"Why," George asked, quietly, "don't you go to someone you're closer +to?"</p> + +<p>Dalrymple flushed. He wouldn't meet George's eyes.</p> + +<p>"Dicky would give it me," he said, "but I can't ask him; I've made him +too many promises. So would Lambert, but it would be absurd for me to go +to him."</p> + +<p>"Why absurd?" George asked, quietly.</p> + +<p>"Wholly impossible," was all Dalrymple would say. "Quite absurd."</p> + +<p>There came back to George his ugly sensations at Blodgett's, and he knew +he would give Dalrymple a lot of money now, as he had given him a +little then, and for precisely the same reason.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid I've been a bit hard on my friends," Dalrymple admitted. "As +a rule they've dried up."</p> + +<p>"So you come to one who isn't a friend?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"Now see here, Morton, that's scarcely fair."</p> + +<p>"You haven't forgotten that day in my office," George accused him, "when +you made a brutal ass of yourself."</p> + +<p>"Said I was sorry. Don't you ever forget anything?"</p> + +<p>Dalrymple was angry enough himself now, but his worry apparently forced +him on.</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't have come to you at all, only Driggs said—and you said +yourself once, and you can spare it. I know that. See here. Unless +somebody helps me these people will go to Division Headquarters or +Washington. They'll stop my sailing. They'll——"</p> + +<p>"Don't cry," George interrupted. "You want money, and you don't give a +hang where it comes from. That's it, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>"I have to have money," Dalrymple acknowledged.</p> + +<p>"Then you ought to have sense enough to know the only reason I'd give it +to you. Do you think I'd care if they held you in this country for your +silly debts? What you borrow you have to pay back in one way or another. +Don't make any mistake. If I give you money it's to be able to make you +pay as I please. You've always had a knife out for me. I don't mind +putting one in my own hands. If you want money on those terms come to my +office with your accounts Saturday afternoon. We'll see what can be +done."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple was quite white. He moistened his lips. As he left he +muttered:</p> + +<p>"I can't answer back. I have to have money. You've got me where you +want."</p> + + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p>Dalrymple's necessities turned out to be greater than George had +imagined. They measured pretty accurately the extent of his +reformation. George got several notes to run a year in return for +approximately twenty thousand dollars.</p> + +<p>"Remember," he said at the close of the transaction, "you pay those back +when and how I say."</p> + +<p>"I wouldn't have come to you if I could have helped it," Dalrymple +whined. "But don't forget, Morton, somebody will pull me out at a pinch. +I'm going to work to pay you if I live. I'm through with nonsense. Give +me a chance."</p> + +<p>George nodded him out, and sent for his lawyer. In case of his death +Dalrymple's notes would go back to the man. Everything else he had +divided between his mother and the Baillys. He wrote his mother a long +letter, telling her just what to do. Quite honestly he regretted his +inability to get West to say good-bye. The thought of bringing her to +New York or Upton had not occurred to him.</p> + +<p>For during these days of farewells everyone flocked to Upton, sitting +about the hostess houses all day and evening for an occasional chat with +their hurried men. Then they let such moments slip by because of a +feeling of strangeness, of dumb despair.</p> + +<p>The Alstons and the Baillys were there, and so, of course, was Sylvia, +with her mother, more minutely guarded than she had ever been. His few +glimpses of her at luncheon or supper at Officers' House increased the +evil humour into which Dalrymple had thrown him. Consequently he looked +at her, impressing upon his morose mind each detail of her beauty that +he knew very well he might never study again. The old depression of +complete failure held him. She was going to let him go without a word. +Even this exceptional crisis was without effect upon her intolerant +memory. He would leave her behind to complete a destiny which he, +perhaps, after all, had affected only a very little.</p> + +<p>With the whispered word that there would be no more meetings at +Officers' House, that before dawn the regiment would have slipped from +Upton, George turned to his packing with the emotions of a violently +constricted animal. He wouldn't even see her again. When Lambert came to +confer with him about some final dispositions he watched him like such +an animal, but Lambert let him see that he, too, was at a loss. He had +sent word by an orderly that he couldn't get to Officers' House that +evening.</p> + +<p>"I couldn't make it any plainer. If they've any sense they'll know and +hunt me up."</p> + +<p>They were wise, and a little of George's strain relaxed, for they found +Lambert in his quarters, and they made it clear that they had come to +say good-bye to George, too. After many halting efforts they gave up +trying to express themselves.</p> + +<p>"The Spartans were better at this sort of thing," Bailly said at the +last as he clasped George's hand.</p> + +<p>"Every Hun I kill or capture, sir, I'll think of as your Hun."</p> + +<p>Without words, without tears, Mrs. Bailly kissed his lips. George tried +to laugh.</p> + +<p>Betty wouldn't say good-bye, wouldn't even shake hands.</p> + +<p>"I shan't think of killing," she said. "Just take care of yourselves, +and come back."</p> + +<p>George stared at her, alarmed. He had never seen her so white. Lambert +followed her from the room. The Baillys went out after them. Why did +Mrs. Planter linger? There she stood near the door, looking at George +without the slightest betrayal of feeling. He had an impression she was +going to say:</p> + +<p>"We've really quite enjoyed Upton."</p> + +<p>At least she held Sylvia a moment longer, Sylvia who had said nothing, +who had not met his eyes, who had seemed from the first anxious to +escape from this plank room littered with the paraphernalia of battle. +Mrs. Planter held out her hand, smiling.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, Major. One doesn't need to wish you success. You inspire +confidence."</p> + +<p>He was surprised at the strength of her white hand, felt it draw him +closer, watched her bend her head, heard her speak in his ear so low +that Sylvia couldn't hear—a whisper intense, agonized, of a quality +that seemed like a white-hot iron in his brain:</p> + +<p>"Take care of my son. Bring him back to me."</p> + +<p>She straightened, releasing his hand.</p> + +<p>"Come, Sylvia," she said, pleasantly.</p> + +<p>Without looking back she went out.</p> + +<p>"Good luck, Major," Sylvia said, and prepared to follow.</p> + +<p>Quickly George reached out, caught her arm, and drew her away from the +door.</p> + +<p>"You're not going to say good-bye like this."</p> + +<p>In her effort to escape, in her flushed face, in her angry eyes, he read +her understanding that no other man she knew could have done just this, +that it was George Morton's way. Why not? He had no time for veneer now. +It was his moment, probably his last with her.</p> + +<p>With her free hand she reached behind her to steady herself against the +table. Her fingers touched the gas mask that lay there, then stiffened +and moved away. Some of the colour left her face. Her arm became passive +in his grasp.</p> + +<p>"Let me go. How do you want me to say good-bye?"</p> + +<p>He caught her other arm.</p> + +<p>"Give me something to take. Oh, God, Sylvia! Let me have my kiss."</p> + + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p>Never since he had walked out of the great gate with Sylvia's dog at his +heels to a wilful tutoring of his body and brain had George yielded to +such untrammelled emotion, to so unbounded a desire. This moment of +parting, in which he had felt himself helpless, had swept it all +away—the carefully applied manner, the solicitous schooling of an +impulsive brain, the minute effort to resemble the class of which he had +imagined himself a part. Temporarily he was back at the starting point, +the George Morton who had lifted Sylvia in his arms, blurting out +impossible words, staring at her lips with an abrupt and narrow +realization that sooner or later he would have to touch them.</p> + +<p>Sylvia's quick action brought some of it back, but he had no remorse, no +feeling of reversion, for the moment itself was naked, inimical to +masquerade.</p> + +<p>"Lambert!" she called.</p> + +<p>Her voice didn't suggest fright or too sharp a hurry. Looking at her +face he could understand how much her control had cost, for her +expression was that of the girl Sylvia, filled with antipathy, +abhorrence, an inability to believe. It appeared to tell him that if he +had ever advanced toward her at all, he had just now forced himself back +to his own side of the vast space dividing them.</p> + +<p>"Don't be a fool," he whispered. "I could take it, but you have to +give."</p> + +<p>Her lips were pressed tight as if in a defence against the possible +approach of his. They both heard a quick step outside. He let her arms +go, and turned to the door where Dalrymple stood, unquestionably good to +look upon in his uniform. He frowned at this picture which might have +suggested to him a real intimacy between George Morton and Sylvia +Planter.</p> + +<p>"Lambert's gone on with Betty and the others. What's up?"</p> + +<p>Sylvia's voice wasn't quite steady.</p> + +<p>"The Major can't leave the area. I want somebody to take me to Officers' +House."</p> + +<p>George nodded. He had quite recovered his control, and he knew he had +failed, that there was nothing more to be done. The thought of the +doubtful days ahead was like a great burden on his soul.</p> + +<p>"I've one more word for the Major," she said at the door, motioning +Dalrymple on.</p> + +<p>George went close to her.</p> + +<p>"It's only this," she said. "I'm sorry it had to come at the last +minute."</p> + +<p>He laughed shortly.</p> + +<p>"It was the last minute that made it. I'm not sorry."</p> + +<p>Her face twisted passionately, as if she were on the point of angry +tears.</p> + +<p>"I hope I shall never see you again. Do you understand that?"</p> + +<p>"Quite," he said, dryly. "To George on going to the wars!"</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean just that," she cried, angrily.</p> + +<p>"It's your only chance," he said, "and I can understand how you can wish +I shouldn't come back."</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean it," she repeated.</p> + +<p>"Don't count too heavily on it," he went on. "I can't imagine dying +before having had what I have always wanted, have always sooner or later +intended to get. If I come back I shall have it."</p> + +<p>Without another word she turned and left him. He watched her walk side +by side with Dalrymple out of the area.</p> + + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p>There were moments on the voyage, in the training area in Flanders, even +at the front, when he was sorry he had tried to take something of Sylvia +with him to battle; for, as it was, he had of her nothing whatever +except a wish that she should never see him again. There was a deep +irony, consequently, in his official relations with her brother, for it +was Lambert who saluted him, who addressed him perpetually as "sir," who +wanted to know if the major would approve of this, that, or the other. +It was grotesque. He wanted to cry aloud against this necessary +servility of a man whose sister couldn't abide the inferiority of its +object.</p> + +<p>And he hated war, its waste, its bad management, its discomforts, its +dangers. Was it really true he had involved himself in this filth +because of Sylvia? Then that was funny. By gad, he would see her again! +But he watched his chances dwindle.</p> + +<p>While the battalion was in reserve in Lorraine Lambert and he ran into +Dalrymple at the officers' club beneath division headquarters in +Baccarat. George saw him first.</p> + +<p>"The intrepid warrior takes his ease," he muttered.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple left three staff men he was with and hurried across the room.</p> + +<p>"New York must be a lonesome place," he said. "Everybody here. Had a +letter from Sylvia, Lambert."</p> + +<p>Why should she write to him? Far from women's eyes he was back at it. +One of the staff men, in fact, wandered over and whispered to George.</p> + +<p>"Either you chaps from the trains? Somebody ought to take him to his +billet. General or chief-of-staff might drift through. Believe he'd slap +'em on the shoulder."</p> + +<p>"Not a bad idea," George said, contemptuously.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple didn't even try to be cordial to him, knowing George wasn't +likely to make trouble as long as they were in France. Lambert took care +of him, steered him home, and a few days later told George with +surprised laughter that the man had been transferred to a showy and +perfectly safe job at G.H.Q.</p> + +<p>"Papa, and mama, and Washington!" Lambert laughed.</p> + +<p>"Splendid thing for the war," George sneered.</p> + +<p>But he raved with Lambert when Goodhue was snatched away by a general +who chose his aides for their names and social attainments.</p> + +<p>"Spirit's all through the army," Goodhue complained, bitterly. "Why +doesn't it occur to them to get the right men for the right places?"</p> + +<p>He sighed.</p> + +<p>"Suppose we'll get through somehow, but there'll be too much mourning +sold at home."</p> + +<p>All along that had been in George's mind, and, in his small way, he did +what he could, studying minutely methods of accomplishing his missions +at the minimum cost to his battalion; but on the Vesle he grew +discouraged, seeing his men fall not to rise; or to be lifted to a +stretcher; or to scramble up and stagger back swathed with first-aid +rolls, dodging shells and machine-gun spirts; or, and in some ways that +was hardest of all to watch, to be led by some bandaged ones, blinded +and vomiting from gas.</p> + +<p>He had no consecutive sleep. He never got his clothes off. He snatched +food from a tin can. He suffered from the universal dysentery. He was +under constant fire. He lay in shallow funk holes, conferring with his +company and platoon commanders. At best he sat in the cellar of a +smashed house, poring, by the light of a candle, over maps and +complicated orders. Most of the time he wore a gas mask which had the +advantage, however, of shutting out the stifling odour of decay. He +never had time to find out if he was afraid. He reached a blessed state +of indifference where getting hit appeared an inevitable and restful +prospect.</p> + +<p>Driggs Wandel arrived surprisingly on the day the Germans were falling +back to the Aisne, at a moment when most of the artillery fire was +coming from the American side, when it was possible to sit on a sunny +bank outside the battalion dugout breathing only stale souvenirs of last +night's gas shells.</p> + +<p>"<i>Bon jour</i>, most powerful and disreputable of majors!"</p> + +<p>George held out his hand.</p> + +<p>"Bring any chocolate, Driggs? Sit down, you idiot. Jerry's never seen +such a nice new uniform."</p> + +<p>Suddenly he lost his temper. Why the devil couldn't he get some pleasure +out of this extraordinary reunion? Why did he have to greet Wandel as if +he had seen him daily since their parting more than three years ago on a +dusky pier in New York? He had heard that Wandel, with the declaration +of war, had left the ambulance for a commission in the field artillery. +He saw him now wearing the insignia of a general staff major.</p> + +<p>"Just attached to your corps headquarters," Wandel said. "Didn't want +the job, would rather have been a fighting man with my pretty guns. +Suppose some fool of a friend of the family brought the usual influence +without consulting me."</p> + +<p>"Glad to see you, Driggs," George muttered, "although I don't seem able +to tell you so. How did you get here?"</p> + +<p>"Guide from regimental headquarters. Wanted to see how the submerged +heroes live. Nasty, noisy, smelly spot to be heroic in."</p> + +<p>"A picnic to-day."</p> + +<p>"I've always suspected," Wandel said, "that picnics were unhealthy."</p> + +<p>"Better have come," George grinned, "any other day we've been here the +past few weeks."</p> + +<p>Wandel laughed.</p> + +<p>"Don't think I didn't pick my day. The general staff takes no +unnecessary risks. Tell me, my George, when did you shave last? When did +you wash your pretty face last? When did you take your swank clothes off +last?"</p> + +<p>"I think when I was a very little boy," George sighed.</p> + +<p>Wandel became abruptly serious, turned so, perhaps, by a large shell +fragment, still warm, which he had picked up. As he fingered it he +stared at George.</p> + +<p>"I know," George said, "that I point a moral, but even little boys would +be glad to be made clean if they got like this. Don't rub it in."</p> + +<p>"To the contrary," Wandel said, thoughtfully, "I'm going back over a lot +of years. I'm remembering how that most extraordinary man, Freshman +George Morton, looked. I'm thinking that I've always been right about +you."</p> + +<p>The warm sun, the diminution of racket, this sudden companionship, had +drawn George a little from his indifferent, half-dazed condition. He, +too, could look back, and without discomfort. On the Vesle it was only +death that counted. Birth didn't amount to a hill of beans, or money, or +education, except in that it made a man an officer. So George answered +frankly:</p> + +<p>"All along you've guessed a lot about me, Driggs."</p> + +<p>"Known, George."</p> + +<p>"Would you mind telling me how?"</p> + +<p>"It would be a pleasure to point out to you," Wandel drawled, "that a +lot of people aren't half as big fools as you've credited them with +being. You looked a little what you were at first. You've probably +forgotten that when you matriculated you put down a place of residence, +a record easily available for one who saw, as I did, means of using you. +Even a fool could have guessed something was up the night Betty was good +enough to make herself a part of the <i>beau monde</i>. I gathered a lot from +Lambert then."</p> + +<p>"Yet," George said, almost indifferently, "you went on being a friend."</p> + +<p>"Your political manager, George," Wandel corrected. "I'm not sure it +would have gone much further if it hadn't been for Dicky."</p> + +<p>George was thoroughly aroused at last.</p> + +<p>"Did Dicky know?"</p> + +<p>"Not mere facts," Wandel answered. "What difference did they make? But +he could see what you had started from, how great the climb you were +taking. That's why he liked and admired you, because of what you were, +not because of what you wanted people to think you were. That's really +what first attracted me to you, and it amused me to see you fancying you +were getting away with so much more than you really were."</p> + +<p>"Extraordinary!" George managed. "Then the heights are not so well +guarded?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes—guarded," Wandel said, "but not against great men."</p> + +<p>George kicked at the ground with his heel.</p> + +<p>"Funny how unimportant it all seems here," he muttered.</p> + +<p>It wasn't only the surroundings that made it seem unimportant; it was +his remembrance of Sylvia who had known more than Wandel, more than +anybody, yet had never opened the gate.</p> + +<p>"You've taken all my conceit away," he went on. "Once it might have made +me want to put myself out. Now I'm quite content to let Jerry do it."</p> + +<p>Wandel's voice warmed, was less affected than George had ever heard it.</p> + +<p>"What are you talking about? You've won a great victory. You should +carry laurels on your brow. You've climbed to the top. You've defined +for us all a possible socialism."</p> + +<p>George smiled.</p> + +<p>"A hell of a thing to talk about here! But tell that to Squibs, will +you, little man, when you get back? We've had some rare battles over +it."</p> + +<p>Wandel hurried on.</p> + +<p>"You've made yourself one of us, if it's any satisfaction. You're as +good as the best of us—of the inheritors."</p> + +<p>George folded his arms on his knees and bowed his head. Wandel's voice +was startled.</p> + +<p>"What's up?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe I'm crying," George mumbled. "Ought to be, because I'm so filthy +tired, and I know you're wrong, Driggs. I'm rotten inside. I haven't +even started to climb."</p> + +<p>But when he looked up there were no tears in his eyes, and his dirty +face had altered with its old whimsical smile.</p> + +<p>"Besides, it's enough to make me cry to know you wouldn't say all this +unless you were certain I'm going to be killed."</p> + +<p>"Hope not," Wandel laughed, "but picnics are full of germs. What's +this?"</p> + +<p>A grimy figure approached like a man fantastically imitating some +animal. His route was devious as if he were perpetually dodging +something that miraculously failed to materialize. He stopped, +straightened reluctantly, and saluted George.</p> + +<p>"Captain sent me on, sir. I've located Jerry opposite at——"</p> + +<p>He rattled off some coordinates. George looked him over.</p> + +<p>"How did you find that out?" he snapped.</p> + +<p>"Ran across Jerry——"</p> + +<p>The dirty young man recited jerkily and selflessly a story of fear and +risks overcome, of cunning stealth, of passionate and promiscuous +murder——</p> + +<p>"Report back," George said.</p> + +<p>When he had gone George called for his adjutant and turned to Wandel.</p> + +<p>"Before anything happens to me," he said, "I'll recommend that dirty +young assassin for a citation."</p> + +<p>Wandel laughed in a satisfied way.</p> + +<p>"I'm always right about you, great man. Don't you see that? Never think +about your own citation——"</p> + +<p>George stared at him, uncomprehending.</p> + +<p>"Citation! A thousand citations for a bed!"</p> + +<p>He watched Wandel uneasily when, at the heels of a guide, he dodged down +the slope in search of Lambert, calling back:</p> + +<p>"Don't swallow any germs."</p> + +<p>"That's very fine, Driggs," he thought, "but why all that and not the +rest? I'd give a good deal to guess what you know about me and Sylvia +Planter."</p> + + +<h3>X</h3> + +<p>George hoped Wandel would find Lambert. Day by day he had dreaded bad +news. Other officers and men got hit every hour; why not himself or +Lambert? For he had never forgotten Mrs. Planter's unexpected and +revealing whisper. It had shown him that even beneath such exteriors +emotion lurks as raw, as desirous, as violent as a savage's. The rest, +then, was habit which people inherited, or acquired, or imitated with +varying success. It had made him admire her all the more, had forced on +him a wish to obey her, but what could he do? It was not in him to play +favourites. One man's life was as good as another's; but he watched +Lambert as he could, while in his tired brain lingered a feeling of fear +for that woman's son.</p> + +<p>During the peaceful days dividing the Aisne and the Argonne he looked at +Lambert and fingered his own clothing, stained and torn where death had +nearly reached, with a wondering doubt that they could both be whole, +that Mrs. Planter in her unemotional way could still welcome guests to +Oakmont. And he recalled that impression he had shared with Sylvia on +the bluff above Lake Champlain of being suspended, but he no longer felt +free. He seemed to hang, indeed, helplessly, in a resounding silence +which at any moment would commence giving forth unbearable, Gargantuan +noises; for, bathed and comfortable, eating in leisure from a mess-kit, +he never forgot that this was a respite, that to-morrow or the next day +or the day after the sounding board would reverberate again, holding him +a deafened victim.</p> + +<p>Wandel caught up with them one evening in the sylvan peace that preceded +the fatal forest uproar. The Argonne still slumbered; was nearly silent; +offered untouched trees under which to loaf after a palatable cold +supper. The brown figures of enlisted men also lounged near by, +reminiscing, wondering, doubtless, as these officers did, about New +York which had assumed the attributes of an unattainable paradise.</p> + +<p>George hadn't been particularly pleased to see Wandel. What Wandel knew +made more difference in this quiet place, and George had a vague, shamed +recollection of having accused himself of being rotten inside, of not +having even started to climb.</p> + +<p>"Must have had a touch of shell shock without knowing it," he mused as +he stared through the dusk at the precise, clean little man.</p> + +<p>Indifferently he listened to Lambert's good-natured raillery at the +general staff, then he focussed his attention, for Lambert's voice had +suddenly turned serious, his hand had indicated the lounging figures of +the enlisted men.</p> + +<p>"With all your ridiculous fuss and feathers at nice headquarters +châteaux, I don't suppose you ever get to know those fellows, Driggs."</p> + +<p>"I don't see why not," Wandel drawled.</p> + +<p>"Do you love them, everyone?"</p> + +<p>"Can't say that I do, but then my heart is only a small organ."</p> + +<p>"I do," Lambert said, warmly. "And you'll find George does. You can't +help it when you see them pulling through this thing. They're real men, +aren't they, George?"</p> + +<p>George yawned.</p> + +<p>"Are they any more so," he asked, dryly, "than they were when they lived +in the same little town with you? I mean, if all you say about them is +true why did you have to wait for war to introduce you to unveil their +admirable qualities?"</p> + +<p>Lambert straightened.</p> + +<p>"It's wrong," he said, defiantly, "that I should have waited. It's wrong +that I couldn't help myself."</p> + +<p>"And you once tried to take a horse whip to me," George whispered in his +ear.</p> + +<p>It was Lambert's absurd earnestness that worried him. Did Lambert, too, +have a touch of shell shock? Wandel was trying to smooth out his +doubts.</p> + +<p>"I think what you mean to say is that war, aside from military rank, is +a great leveller. We can leave that out altogether. You know the +professional officer's creed: 'Good Colonel, deliver us.' 'We beseech ye +to hear us, good General,' and so on up to the top man, who begs the +Secretary of War, who prays to the President, who, one ventures to hope, +gets a word to God. You mean, Lambert, that out here it never occurs to +you to ask these men who their fathers were, or what preps they went to, +or what clubs they're members of. It's the war spirit—aside from +military rank—this sham equality. Titled ladies dine with embarrassed +Tommies. Your own sister dances with doughboys who'd be a lot happier if +she'd leave them alone. It's in the air, beautiful, gorgeous, hysterical +war democracy which declares that all men are equal until they're +wounded; then they're superior; or until they're dead; then they're +forgotten."</p> + +<p>George grunted.</p> + +<p>"You're right, Driggs. It won't survive the war."</p> + +<p>"Paper work!" Wandel sneered.</p> + +<p>"It ought to last!" Lambert cried. "I hope it does."</p> + +<p>"Pray that it doesn't," Wandel said. "I fancy the real hell of war comes +after the war is over. We'll find that out, if we live. As for me, even +now when we're all beloved brothers, I'd give a good deal to be sitting +in a Fifth Avenue club looking out on lesser men."</p> + +<p>"I would, too," George said, fervently.</p> + +<p>Lambert spoke with abysmal seriousness.</p> + +<p>"I'd rather have some of the splendid lesser men sitting on the same +side of the window with me."</p> + +<p>George stared at him. What had happened to this aristocrat who had once +made a medieval gesture with a horse whip? Certainly he, the plebeian +victim of that attack, had no such wish. Put these men on the same side +of a club window, or a factory window, for that matter, and they'd drag +the whole business down to their level, to eternal smash fast enough. +Why, hang Lambert! It amounted to visualizing his sister as a slattern. +He smiled with a curious pride. Reddest revolution couldn't make her +that. She wouldn't come down off her high horse if a dozen bayonets +were at her throat. What the deuce was he thinking about? Why should he +be proud of that? For, if he lived, he was going to drag her off +himself, but he wouldn't make her a slattern.</p> + +<p>"You talk like Allen," he said, "and you haven't even his excuse."</p> + +<p>"I've seen the primeval for the first time," Lambert answered.</p> + +<p>"I'll admit it has qualities," Wandel yawned. "Anyway, I'm off."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Planter came back to George's mind, momentarily as primeval as a +man surrendered to the battle lust. What one saw, except in +self-destructive emergencies, he told himself, was all veneer. Ages, +epochs, generations, merely determined its depth. The hell after war! +Did Wandel mean there was danger then of an attempt to thin the veneer? +Was Lambert, of all people, going to assist the Allens to plane it away?</p> + +<p>"It would mean another dark ages," he mused.</p> + +<p>His own little self-imposed coat he saw now had gone on top of a far +thicker one without which he would have been as helpless as a bushman or +some anthropoidal creature escaped from an unexplored country.</p> + +<p>He laughed, but uncomfortably. Those two had made him uneasy, and +Squibs, naturally, was at Lambert's folly. There had been a letter a day +or two ago which he had scarcely had time to read because of the demands +of an extended movement and the confusion of receiving replacements and +re-equipping the men he had. He read it over now. "Understanding," +"Brotherhood."</p> + +<p>"You are helping to bring it about, because you are helping to win this +war."</p> + +<p>In a fit of irritation he tore the letter up. What the devil was he +fighting the war for?</p> + +<p>The question wouldn't let him asleep. Lambert, Wandel, and Squibs +between them had made him for the first time in his life thoroughly, +uncomfortably, abominably afraid—physically afraid—afraid of being +killed. For all at once there was more than Sylvia to make him want to +live. He didn't see how he could die without knowing what the deuce he +was fighting this man's war for, anyway.</p> + + +<h3>XI</h3> + +<p>He hadn't learned any more about it when Lambert and he were caught on +the same afternoon a week later.</p> + +<p>In the interminable, haggard thicket the attack had abruptly halted. +Word reached George that Lambert's company was falling back. To him that +was beyond belief if Lambert was still with his men. He hurried forward +before regimental headquarters had had a chance to open its distant +mouth. There were machine-gun nests ahead, foolish stragglers told him. +Of course. Those were what he had ordered Lambert to take. The company +was disorganized. Little groups slunk back, dragging their rifles as if +they were too heavy. Others squatted in the underbrush, waiting +apparently for some valuable advice.</p> + +<p>George found the senior lieutenant, crouched behind a fallen log, +getting the company in hand again through runners.</p> + +<p>"Where's Captain Planter?"</p> + +<p>The lieutenant nodded carelessly ahead.</p> + +<p>"Hundred yards or so out there. He ran the show too much himself," he +complained. "Bunch of Jerries jumped out of the thicket and threw potato +mashers, then crawled back to the guns. When the captain went down the +men near him broke. Sort of thing spreads like a pestilence."</p> + +<p>"Dead?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"Don't know. Potato mashers!"</p> + +<p>"Why haven't you found out?" George asked, irritably.</p> + +<p>The complaining note increased in the other's voice.</p> + +<p>"He's at the foot of that tree. Hear those guns? They're just zipping a +few while they wait for someone to get to him."</p> + +<p>"Pull your company together," George said with an absurd feeling that he +spoke to Mrs. Planter. "I'll go along and see that we get him and those +nests. They're spoiling the entire afternoon."</p> + +<p>The lieutenant glanced at him, startled.</p> + +<p>"I can do it——"</p> + +<p>"You haven't," George reminded him.</p> + +<p>He despatched runners to the flank companies and to regimental +headquarters announcing that he was moving ahead. When the battalion +advanced, like a lot of fairly clever Indians, he was in the van, making +straight for the tree. He had a queer idea that Mrs. Planter quietly +searched in the underbrush ahead of him. The machine guns, which had +been trickling, gushed.</p> + +<p>"You're hit, sir," the lieutenant said.</p> + +<p>George glanced at his right boot. There was a hole in the leather, but +he didn't feel any pain. He dismissed the lieutenant's suggestion of +stretcher bearers. He limped ahead. Why should he assume this risk for +Lambert? Sylvia wouldn't thank him for it. She wouldn't thank him for +anything, but her mother would. He had to get Lambert back and complete +his task, but he was afraid to examine the still form he saw at last at +the base of the tree, and he knew very well that that was only because +Lambert was his friend. He designated a man to guide the stretcher +bearers, and bent, his mind full of swift running and vicious tackles, +abrupt and brutal haltings of this figure that seemed to be asleep, that +would never run again.</p> + +<p>Lambert stirred.</p> + +<p>"Been expecting you, George," he said, sleepily.</p> + +<p>"Anything besides your leg?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"Guess not," Lambert answered. "What more do you want? Thanks for +coming."</p> + +<p>George left him to the stretcher bearers and hurried on full of envy; +for Lambert was going home, and George hadn't dared stop to urge him to +forget that dangerous nonsense he had talked the other night. Nonsense! +You had only to look at these brown figures trying to flank the spouting +guns. Why did they have to glance continually at him? Why had they +paused when he had paused to speak to Lambert? Same side of the window! +But a few of them stumbled and slept as they fell.</p> + +<p>He had just begun to worry about the blood in his right boot when +something snapped at the bone of his good leg, and he pitched forward +helplessly.</p> + +<p>"Some tackle!" he thought.</p> + +<p>Then through his brain, suddenly confused, flashed an overwhelming +gratitude. He couldn't walk. He couldn't go forward. He wouldn't have to +take any more risks beyond those shared with the stretcher bearers who +would carry him back. Like Lambert, he was through. He was going +home—home to Sylvia, to success, to the coveted knowledge of why he had +fought this war.</p> + +<p>The lieutenant, frightened, solicitous, crawled to him, summoning up the +stretcher bearers, for the advance had gone a little ahead, the German +range had shortened to meet it.</p> + +<p>"How bad, sir?"</p> + +<p>George indicated his legs.</p> + +<p>"Never learned how to walk on my hands."</p> + +<p>The lieutenant straightened, calling out cursing commands. George +managed to achieve a sitting posture. By gad! This leg hurt! It made him +a little giddy. Only once before, he thought vaguely, had he experienced +such pain. What was the trouble here? The advance had halted, probably +because the word had spread that he was down.</p> + +<p>What was it Lambert had said about putting the rank and file on the same +side of the window? The rank and file wanted an officer, and the higher +the officer the farther it would go. That was answer enough for Lambert, +Squibs, Allen——And he would point it out to them all, for the +stretcher bearers had come up, had lifted him to the stretcher, were +ready to start him back to decency, to safety——</p> + +<p>Thank God there wasn't any multitude or an insane trainer here to order +him about.</p> + +<p>"They've stopped again," the lieutenant sobbed. "Some of them are coming +back."</p> + +<p>That sort of thing did spread like a pestilence, but there was nothing +George could do about it. He had done his job. Good job, too. Soft +billet now. Decency. Sylvia. No Green. No multitude——</p> + +<p>"You make a touchdown!"</p> + +<p>And he became aware at last of the multitude—raving higher officers in +comfortable places; countless victims of invasion, waiting patiently to +go home; myriads in the cities, intoxicated with enthusiasm and wine, +tumbling happily from military play to patriotic bazaar; but most +eloquent of all in that innumerable company were the silent and cold +brown figures lying about him in the underbrush.</p> + +<p>His brain, a little delirious, was filled with the roaring from the +stands. The crowd was commanding him to get ahead somehow, to wipe out +those deadly nests, to let the regiment, the army, tired nations, sweep +on to peace and the end of an unbelievable madness.</p> + +<p>Once more he glanced through blurred eyes at his clothing and saw +livery, and this time he had put it on of his own free will. He seemed +to hear Squibs:</p> + +<p>"World lives by service."</p> + +<p>"I'm in the service," he thought. "Got to serve."</p> + +<p>It impressed him as quite pitiful that now he would never know just why.</p> + +<p>"Where you going?" he demanded of the stretcher bearers who had begun to +carry him back.</p> + +<p>They tried to explain, hurrying a little. He threatened them with his +revolver.</p> + +<p>"Turn around. Let's go—with the battalion."</p> + +<p>The lieutenant saw, the men saw, these frightened figures running with +loping steps, carrying a stretcher which they jerked and twitched so +that the figure lying on it with arm raised, holding a revolver, +suffered agonies and struggled not to be flung to the ground. And the +lieutenant and the men sprang to their feet, ran forward, shouted:</p> + +<p>"Follow the Major!"</p> + +<p>The German gunners, caught by surprise, hesitated, had trouble, +therefore, shortening their ranges; and as panic spreads so does the +sudden spirit of victory.</p> + +<p>"Same side of the window!" George grumbled as the bearers set him down +behind the captured guns.</p> + +<p>"Just the same," he rambled, "fine fellows. Who said they weren't fine +fellows?"</p> + +<p>He wanted to argue it angrily with a wounded German propped against a +shattered tree, but the lieutenant interrupted him, bringing up a +medical orderly, asking him if he had any instructions. George answered +very pleasantly:</p> + +<p>"Not past me, Mr. Planter! Rank and file myself!"</p> + +<p>The lieutenant glanced significantly at the medical orderly. He looked +sharply at George's hair and suddenly pointed.</p> + +<p>"They nicked him in the head, too."</p> + +<p>The orderly knelt and examined the place the lieutenant had indicated.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, sir. That's quite an old scar."</p> + + +<h3>XII</h3> + +<p>"Lost a leg or two?" Allen asked.</p> + +<p>"Not yet. Don't think I shall. Planter's not so lucky, but he'll get +home sooner."</p> + +<p>Allen brought George his one relief from the deadly monotony of the base +hospital. He had sent for him because he wanted his opinion as to the +possibility of an armistice. Blodgett, however, hadn't waited for the +result of the conference. The day Allen arrived a letter came from him, +telling George not to worry.</p> + +<p>"King Ferdy along about the last of September whispered I'd better begin +to unload. It's a killing, George."</p> + +<p>With his mind clear of that George could be amused by Allen. The friend +of the people wore some striking clothes from London tailors and +haberdashers. He carried a cunning little cane. He had managed something +extremely neat in moustaches. He spoke with a perceptible West End +accent. But in reply to George's sneering humour he made this +astonishing remark:</p> + +<p>"It isn't nearly as much fun being a top-hole person as I thought it was +going to be."</p> + +<p>"You're lucky to have found it out," George said, "for your job's about +over. Of course I could get you something in Wall Street."</p> + +<p>"Doubt if I should want it," Allen said. "I've always got my old job."</p> + +<p>George whistled.</p> + +<p>"You mean you'd go back to long hair, cheap clothes, and violent words?"</p> + +<p>"Why not? I only took your offer, Morton, because I was inclined to +agree with you that in the outside world's anxiety to look at what was +going on over the fence people'd stop thinking. Russia didn't stop +thinking, and after the armistice you watch America begin to use its +brain."</p> + +<p>"You mean the downtrodden," George sneered.</p> + +<p>"That's the greater part of any country," Allen said, his acquired +accent forgotten, his perfectly clean hands commencing to gesture.</p> + +<p>But George wouldn't listen to him, got rid of him, turned to the wall +with an ugly feeling that he had gone out of his way to nurture one of +the makers of the hell after war.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="PART_V" id="PART_V"></a>PART V</h2> + +<h3>THE NEW WORLD</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>George crushed his uneasy thoughts, trying to dwell instead on the idea +that he was going back to the normal, but all at once he experienced a +dread of the normal, perhaps, because he was no longer normal himself. +Could he limp before Sylvia with his old assurance? Would people pity +him, or would he irritate them because he had a disability? And snatches +of his talks at the front with Wandel etched themselves sharply against +his chaotic recollections of those days. Was Wandel fair? Was it, +indeed, the original George Morton people had always liked? Here, apart +from the turmoil, he didn't believe it, didn't dare believe it. Those +people wouldn't have cared for him except for his assumption of +qualities which he had chosen as from a counter display. Yet was it the +real George Morton that made him in superlative moments break the traces +of his acquired judgments, as he had done at New Haven, in the Argonne, +to dash selflessly into the service of others? Rotten inside, indeed! +Even in the hospital he set out to crush that impulsive, dangerous part +of him.</p> + +<p>But the nearer he drew to home the more he suffered from a depression +that he could only define as homesickness—homesickness for the old +ways, the old habits, the old thoughts; and the memory of his temerity +with Sylvia at the moment of their parting was like a great cloud +threatening the future with destructive storm.</p> + +<p>Lambert, wearing a contrivance the doctors had given him in place of +what the country had taken away, accompanied by Betty and the Baillys, +met the transport. Betty and Mrs. Bailly cried, and George shook his +heavy stick at them.</p> + +<p>"See here! I'm not going to limp like this always."</p> + +<p>Bailly encircled him with his thin arms.</p> + +<p>"You're too old to play football, anyway, George."</p> + +<p>George found himself wanting Betty's arms, their forgetfulness, their +understanding, their tenderness.</p> + +<p>"When are you two going to be married?" he forced himself to ask.</p> + +<p>Betty looked away, her white cheeks flushing, but Lambert hurried an +answer.</p> + +<p>"As soon as you're able to get to Princeton. You're to be best man."</p> + +<p>"Honoured."</p> + +<p>So Lambert's crippling hadn't made any difference to Betty, but how did +Sylvia take it? He wanted to ask Lambert where she was, if anything had +happened to her, any other mad affair, now that the war was over, like +the one with Blodgett; but he couldn't ask, and no one volunteered to +tell him, and it wasn't until his visit to Oakmont, on his first leave +from the hospital, that he learned anything whatever about her, and that +was only what his eyes in a moment told him.</p> + +<p>Lambert drove over and got George, explaining that his mother wanted to +see him.</p> + +<p>"She'd have come to the dock," he said, "but Father these days is rather +hard to leave."</p> + +<p>George went reluctantly, belligerently, for since his landing his +feeling of homesickness had increased with the realization that his +victorious country was more radically altered than he had fancied. The +ride, however, had the advantage of an uninterrupted talk with Lambert +which developed gossip that Blodgett, stuffed with business, hadn't yet +given him.</p> + +<p>Goodhue and Wandel, for instance, were still abroad, holding down showy +jobs at the peace conference. Dalrymple, on the other hand, had been +home for months.</p> + +<p>"Most successful war," Lambert told George. "Scarcely smelled fire, but +got a couple foreign decorations, and a promotion—my poor old leg +wasn't worth it, or yours, George, but what odds now? And as soon as the +show stopped at Sedan he was trotting back. Can't help admiring him, +for that sort of thing spells success, and he's steady as a church. Try +to realize that, and take a new start with him, for he's really likeable +when he keeps to the straight and narrow. Prohibition's going to fit in +very well, although I believe he's got himself in hand."</p> + +<p>George stared at the ugly, familiar landscape, trying not to listen, +particularly to the rest. Why should the Planters have taken Dalrymple +into the marble temple?</p> + +<p>"A small start," Lambert was saying, "but if he makes the grade there's +a big future for him there. I fancy he's anxious to meet you halfway. +How about you, George?"</p> + +<p>"I'll make no promises," George said. "It depends entirely on +Dalrymple."</p> + +<p>Lambert didn't warn him, so he didn't expect to find Dalrymple enjoying +the early spring graces of Oakmont. He managed the moment of meeting, +however, without disclosing anything. Dalrymple, for the time, was quite +unimportant. It was Sylvia he was anxious about, Sylvia who undoubtedly +nursed a sort of horror of what he had ventured to do and say at Upton. +Everyone else was outside, as if making a special effort to welcome him. +Where was she?</p> + +<p>He resented the worshipful attentions of the servants.</p> + +<p>"I'm quite capable of managing myself," he said, as he motioned them +aside and lowered himself from the automobile.</p> + +<p>He disliked old Planter's heartiness, although he could see the physical +effort it cost, for the once-threatening eyes were nearly dark; and the +big shoulders stooped forward as if in a constant effort to escape a +pursuing pain; and the voice, which talked about heroes and the +country's debt and the Planters' debt, quavered and once or twice broke +altogether, then groped doubtfully ahead in an effort to recover the +propelling thought.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Planter, at least, spared him any sentimental gratitude. She was +rather grayer and had in her face some unremembered lines, but those +were the only changes George could detect. As far as her manner went +this greeting might have followed the farewell at Upton after only a day +or so.</p> + +<p>"I hope your wound isn't very painful."</p> + +<p>"My limping," he answered, "is simply bad habit. I'm overcoming it."</p> + +<p>"That's nice. Then you'll be able to play polo again!"</p> + +<p>"I should hope so, as long as ponies have four good legs."</p> + +<p>He wished other people could be like her, so unobtrusively, unannoyingly +primeval.</p> + +<p>As he entered the hall he saw Sylvia without warning, and he caught his +breath and watched her as she came slowly down the stairs. He tried to +realize that this was that coveted moment he had so frequently fancied +the war would deny him—the moment that brought him face to face with +Sylvia again, to witness her enmity, to desire to break it down, to want +her more than he had ever done.</p> + +<p>She came straight to him, but even in the presence of the others she +didn't offer her hand, and all she said was:</p> + +<p>"I was quite sure you would come back."</p> + +<p>"You knew I had to," he laughed.</p> + +<p>Then he sharpened his ears, for she was telling her brother something +about Betty's having telephoned she was driving over to take Lambert, +Dalrymple, and herself to Princeton.</p> + +<p>No. The war had changed her less than any one George had seen. She was +as beautiful, as unforgiving, as intolerant; and he guessed that it was +she and not Betty who had made the arrangement which would take her away +from him.</p> + +<p>"George will come, too," Lambert began.</p> + +<p>"Afraid I'm not up to it," George refused, dryly.</p> + +<p>At Betty's wedding, however, she would have to be with him, for it +developed during this nervous chatter that they would share the honours +of the bridal party.</p> + +<p>So, helplessly, he had to watch her go, and for a moment he felt as if +he had had a strong tonic, for she alone had been able to give him an +impression that the world hadn't altered much, after all.</p> + +<p>The reaction came in the quiet hours following. He was at first +resentful that Mrs. Planter should accompany him on the painful walk the +doctors had ordered him, like Old Planter, to take daily. He had wanted +to go back to the little house, highest barrier of all which Sylvia +would never let him climb. Then, glancing at the quiet woman, he squared +his shoulders. Suppose Wandel had been right! Here was a test. At any +rate, the war was a pretty large and black background for so tiny a high +light. Purposefully, therefore, he carried out his original purpose. By +the side of Mrs. Planter he limped toward the little house. They didn't +say much. It wasn't easy for him to talk while he exercised, and perhaps +she understood that.</p> + +<p>Even before the clean white building shone in the sun through the trees +he heard a sound that made him wince. It was like a distant drum, badly +played. Then he understood what it was, and his boyhood, and the day of +awakening and revolt, submerged him in a hot wave of shame. He could see +his mother rising and bending rhythmically over fine linen which emerged +from dirty water, making her arms look too red and swollen. He glanced +quickly at Mrs. Planter to whose serenity had gone the upward effort of +many generations. Just how appalling, now that war had mocked life so +dreadfully, now that a pitiless hand had a moment ago stripped all +pretence from the world, was the difference between them?</p> + +<p>It was the woman at the tub, curiously enough, who seemed trying to tell +him, trying to warn him to keep his mouth shut. Then the house was +visible through the trees. He raised his stick.</p> + +<p>"I wanted to see it again," he said, defiantly, "because I was born +there. I lived there."</p> + +<p>She paused and stared with him, without saying anything, without any +change of expression. After a time she turned.</p> + +<p>"Have you looked enough? Shall we go back, George?"</p> + +<p>He nodded, glancing at her wonderingly. After all, he had had very +little love in his life. Mrs. Bailly, Betty——</p> + +<p>He had never dreamed of such gratitude as this. Lambert, home with his +war madness fresh upon him, must have told her, as an example of what a +man might do. But was her action all gratitude? Rather wasn't it a +signpost at the parting of two ages?</p> + +<p>If that were so, he told himself, the world had left Sylvia hopelessly +behind.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>The memory of that unguarded moment remained in his mind uncomfortably. +He carried it finally from the hospital to his musty apartment, where he +stripped off his uniform and looked in the glass, for the first time in +nearly two years his own master, no man's servant.</p> + +<p>Was he his own master as long as he could commit such sentimental +follies, as long as he could suspect that he had told Wandel the truth +on the Vesle? This nostalgia must be the rebound from the war, of which +he had heard so much, which made men weak, or lazy, or indifferent.</p> + +<p>He continued to stare in the glass, angry, amazed. He had to overcome +this homesick feeling. He had to prepare himself for harder battles than +he had ever fought. He had had plenty of warning of the selfishness that +was creeping over the world like a black pestilence. Where was his own +self-will that had carried him so far?</p> + +<p>He locked himself, as it were, in his apartment. He sat down and called +on his will. With a systematic brutality he got himself in hand. He +reviewed his aims: to make more money, to get Sylvia. He emerged at +last, hard and uncompromising, ready for the selfish ones, and went down +town. Blodgett greeted him with a cheer.</p> + +<p>"Miracles! For the first time since you got back you look yourself +again."</p> + +<p>"I am," George answered, "all but the limp. That will go some day +maybe."</p> + +<p>He wanted it to go. He desired enormously to rid himself of the last +reminder of his service.</p> + +<p>Lambert was definitely caught by the marble temple, but Goodhue and he +would stay together, more or less tied to Blodgett, to accept the +opportunities George foresaw for dragging money by sharp reasoning from +the reconstruction period. He applied himself to exchange. From their +position they could run wild in the stock market at little risk, but +there were big things to be made out of exchange, about which the +cleverest men didn't seem to know anything worth a penny in any +currency.</p> + +<p>Everyone noticed his recovery, and everyone congratulated him except +Bailly. When George went down to Betty's wedding the long tutor met him +at the station, crying out querulously:</p> + +<p>"What's happened to you?"</p> + +<p>George laughed.</p> + +<p>"Got over the war reaction, I guess."</p> + +<p>"What the deuce did you go to war for at all then?" Bailly asked.</p> + +<p>"Haven't found that out myself yet," George answered, "but I know I +wouldn't go to another, even if they'd have me."</p> + +<p>He grimaced at his injured foot.</p> + +<p>"And they're going to give you some kind of a medal!" Bailly cried.</p> + +<p>"I didn't ask for it," George said, "but I daresay a lot of people, you +among them, went down to Washington and did."</p> + +<p>Bailly was a trifle uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>"See here," George said. "I don't want your old medal, and I don't +intend to be scolded about it. I suppose I've got to rush right out to +the Alstons."</p> + +<p>"Let's stop at the club," Bailly proposed. "People want to see you. +We'll fight the war over with the veterans."</p> + +<p>"Damn the war!" George said.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bailly, when he paused for a moment at the house in Dickinson +Street, attacked him, and quite innocently, from a different direction.</p> + +<p>"It was the wish of my life, George, that you should have Betty, and you +might have had. I can't help feeling that."</p> + +<p>"You're prejudiced," George laughed.</p> + +<p>He went to the Alstons, nevertheless, almost unwillingly, and he delayed +his arrival until the last minute. The intimate party had gathered for a +dinner and a rehearsal that night. The wedding was set for the next +evening.</p> + +<p>The Tudor house had an unfamiliar air, as though Betty already had taken +from it every feature that had given it distinction in George's mind. +And Betty herself was caught by all those detailed considerations that +surround a girl, at this vital moment of her life, with an atmosphere +regal, mysterious, a little sacred. So George didn't see her until just +before dinner, or Sylvia, who was upstairs with her. Lambert and +Blodgett were about, however, and so was Dalrymple. George was glad +Lambert had asked Blodgett to usher; he owed it to him, but he was +annoyed that Dalrymple should have been included in the party, for it +was another mark, on top of his presence in the marble temple, of a +tightening bond of intimacy between him and the Planters. George +examined the man, therefore, with an eager curiosity. He looked well +enough, but George remained unconvinced by his apparent reformation, +suspecting its real purpose was to impress a willing public, for he had +studied Dalrymple during many years without uncovering any real +strength, or any disposition not to answer gladly to every appeal of the +senses. At least he was restless, rising from his chair too often to +wander about the room, but George conceded with a smile that his own +arrival might be responsible for that. The matter of the notes hadn't +been mentioned, but they existed undoubtedly even in Dalrymple's +careless mind, which must have forecasted an uncomfortable day of +payment.</p> + +<p>Lambert seemed sure enough of his friend.</p> + +<p>"Dolly's sticking to the job like a leech," he said to George when they +went upstairs to dress.</p> + +<p>"I've no faith in him," George answered, shortly.</p> + +<p>"You're an unforgiving brute," Lambert said.</p> + +<p>George hastened away from the subject.</p> + +<p>"I'm not chameleon, at least," he admitted with a smile, "which reminds +me. I don't see any of your dearly beloved brothers of the ranks in your +bridal party. Have you put private Oscar Liporowski up for any of your +clubs yet?"</p> + +<p>"Unforgiving and unforgetting!" Lambert laughed.</p> + +<p>"Then you acknowledge that talk in the Argonne was war madness?"</p> + +<p>"By no means," Lambert answered, suddenly serious. "Let me get married, +will you? I can't bother with anything else now. Sylvia, whose mind +isn't filled with romance, threatens to become the socialist of the +family."</p> + +<p>George stared at him.</p> + +<p>"What are you talking about?"</p> + +<p>"About what Sylvia's talking about," Lambert answered.</p> + +<p>"Now I know you're mad," George said.</p> + +<p>Lambert shook his head.</p> + +<p>"But I don't take her very seriously. It's a nice game to seek beauties +in Bolshevism. It's played in some of the best houses. You must have +observed it—how wonderfully it helps get through a tea or a dinner."</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>George went to his own room, amused and curious. Could Sylvia talk +communism, even parrot-like, and deny him the rights of a brother? He +became more anxious than before to see her. He shrank, on the other +hand, from facing Betty who was about to take this enormous step +permanently away from him. Out of his window he could see the tree +beneath which he had made his confession in an effort to kill Betty's +kindness. If he had followed her to the castle then Lambert wouldn't be +limping about exposing a happiness that made George envious and +discontented. It was a reminder with a vengeance that his friends were +mating. Was he, like Blodgett, doomed to a revolting celibacy?</p> + +<p>Blodgett, as far as that went, seemed quite to have recovered from the +blow Sylvia had given his pride and heart. With his increasing fortune +his girth had increased, his cheeks grown fuller, his eyes smaller.</p> + +<p>He was chatting, when George came down, with Old Planter, who sat +slouched in an easy chair in the library, and Mr. Alston. It was evident +that the occasion was not a joyous one for Betty's father.</p> + +<p>"I've half a mind to sell out here," George heard him say, "and take a +share in a coöperative apartment in town. Without Betty the house will +be like a world without a sun."</p> + +<p>Blodgett, George guessed, was tottering on the threshold of expansive +sympathy. He drew back, beckoning George.</p> + +<p>"Here's your purchaser, Alston. I never knew a half back stay single so +long. And now he's a hero. He's bound to need a nest soon."</p> + +<p>Mr. Alston smiled at him.</p> + +<p>"Is there anything in that, George?"</p> + +<p>George wanted to tell Blodgett to mind his own business. How could the +man, after his recent experience, make cumbersome jokes of that colour?</p> + +<p>"There was a time," Mr. Alston went on, "when I fancied you were going +to ask me for Betty. The thought of refusing used to worry me."</p> + +<p>George laughed uncomfortably.</p> + +<p>"So you would have refused?"</p> + +<p>"Naturally. I don't think I could have said yes to Lambert if it hadn't +been for the war. If you ever have a daughter—just one—you'll know +what I mean."</p> + +<p>From the three men George received an impression of imminence, shared it +himself. They talked merely to cover their suspense. They were like +people in a throne room, attentive for the entrance of a figure, +exalted, powerful, nearly legendary. Betty, he reflected, had become +that because she was about to marry. He found himself fascinated, too, +looking at the door, waiting with a choked feeling for that girl who had +unconsciously tempted him from their first meeting. Her arrival, indeed, +had about it something of the processional. Mrs. Planter entered the +doorway first, nodding absent-mindedly to the men. Betty's mother +followed, as imperial as ever, more so, if anything, George thought, and +quite unaffected by the deeper elements that gave to this quiet wedding +in a country house a breath of tragedy. Betty Alston Planter! That +evolution clearly meant happiness for her. She tried to express it +through vivacious gestures and cheerful, uncompleted sentences. Betty +next—after a tiny interval, entering not without hesitation exposed in +her walk, in her tall and graceful figure, in her face which was +unaccustomedly colourful, in her eyes which turned from one to another, +doubtful, apprehensive, groping. George didn't want to look at her; her +appearance placed him too much in concord with her reluctant father; too +much in the position of a man making a hurtful and unasked oblation.</p> + +<p>Momentarily Betty, the portion of his past shared with her, its +undeveloped possibilities, were swept from his brain. Last of all, +fitting and brilliant close for the procession, came Sylvia between two +bridesmaids. George scarcely saw the others. Sylvia filled his eyes, his +heart, slowly crowded the dissatisfaction from his mind, centred again +his thoughts and his ambitions. Nearly automatically he took Betty's +hands, spoke to her a few formalities, yielded her to her father, and +went on to Sylvia. For nearly two years he hadn't seen her in an evening +gown. What secret did she possess that kept her constant? Already she +was past the age at which most girls of her station marry, yet to him +her beauty had only increased without quite maturing. And why had she +calmly avoided during all these years the nets thrown perpetually by +men? Only Blodgett had threatened to entangle her, and one day had found +her fled. And she wasn't such a fool she didn't know the years were +slipping by. More poignantly than ever he responded to a feeling of +danger, imminent, unavoidable, fatal.</p> + +<p>"My companion in the ceremonies," he said.</p> + +<p>"I understood that was the arrangement," she answered, without looking +at him.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad," he said, "to draw even a reflection from the happiness of +others."</p> + +<p>"I often wonder," she remarked, "why people are so selfish."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean me," he laughed, "or the leading man and lady?"</p> + +<p>She spoke softly to avoid the possibility of anyone else hearing.</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure, but I fancy you are the most selfish person I have ever +met."</p> + +<p>"That's a stupendous indictment these days," he said with a smile, but +he didn't take her seriously at all, didn't apply her charge to his +soul.</p> + +<p>"I'm so glad you're here," he went on, "that we're to be together. I've +wanted it for a long time. You must know that."</p> + +<p>She gave him an uncomfortable sense of being captive, of seeking blindly +any course to freedom.</p> + +<p>"I no longer know anything about you. I don't care to know."</p> + +<p>Lambert and Dalrymple strolled in. Dalrymple opened the cage. George +moved away, aching to prevent such interference by any means he could. +His emotion made him uneasy. To what resolution were his relations with +Dalrymple drifting? How far was he capable of going to keep the other in +his place?</p> + +<p>He stood by the mantel, speaking only when it was necessary and then +without consciousness, his whole interest caught by the picture +Dalrymple and Sylvia made, close together by the centre table in the +soft light of a reading lamp.</p> + +<p>A servant entered with cocktails. George's interest sharpened. Betty +took hers with the others. Only Sylvia and Dalrymple shook their heads. +Clearly it was an understanding between them—a little denial of hers to +make his infinitely greater one less difficult. She smiled up at him, +indeed, comprehendingly; but George's glance didn't waver from +Dalrymple, and it caught an increase in the other's restlessness, a +following nearly hypnotic, by thoughtful eyes, of the tray with the +little glasses as it passed around the room. George relaxed. He was +conscious enough of Blodgett's bellow:</p> + +<p>"Here's to the blushing bride!"</p> + +<p>What lack of taste! But how much greater the lack of taste that restless +inheritor exposed! Couldn't even join a formal toast, didn't dare +probably, or was it that he only dared not risk it in public, in front +of Sylvia? And she pandered to his weakness, smiled upon it as if it +were an epic strength. He was sufficiently glad now that Dalrymple had +got into him for so much money.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>For George dinner was chiefly a sea of meaningless chatter continually +ruffled by the storm of Blodgett's voice.</p> + +<p>"Your brother tells me," he said to Sylvia, "that you're irritating +yourself with socialism."</p> + +<p>She looked at him with a little interest then.</p> + +<p>"I've been reading. It's quite extraordinary. Odd I should have lived so +long without really knowing anything about such things."</p> + +<p>"Not odd at all," George contradicted her. "I should call it odd that +you find any interest in them now. Why do you?"</p> + +<p>"One has to occupy one's mind," she answered.</p> + +<p>He glanced at her. Why did she have to occupy herself with matter she +couldn't possibly understand, that she would interpret always in a wrong +or unsafe manner? She, too, was restless.</p> + +<p>That was the only possible explanation. From Blodgett she had sprung to +war-time fads. From those she had leaped at this convenient one which +tempted people to make sparkling and meaningless phrases.</p> + +<p>"It doesn't strike you as at all amusing," he asked, "that you should be +red, that I should be conservative?"</p> + +<p>She didn't answer. Blodgett swept them out to sea again.</p> + +<p>Later in the evening, however, George repeated his question, and +demanded an answer. They had accomplished the farce of a rehearsal, +source of cumbersome jokes for Blodgett and the clergyman; of doubts and +dreary prospects for Mr. Alston, who had done his share as if submitting +to an undreamed-of punishment.</p> + +<p>There was the key-ring joke. It must be a part of the curriculum of all +the theological seminaries. George acted up to it, promising to tie a +string around his finger, or to pin the circlet to his waistcoat.</p> + +<p>"Or," Blodgett roared, "at a pinch you might use the ring of the wedding +bells."</p> + +<p>George stared at him. How could the man, Sylvia within handgrasp, grin +and feed such a mood? It suddenly occurred to him that once more he was +reading Blodgett wrong, that the man was admirable, far more so than he +could be under an equal trial. Would he, a little later, be asked to +face such an ordeal?</p> + +<p>With the departure of the clergyman a cloud of reaction descended upon +the party. Some yawns were scarcely stifled. Sporadic attempts to dance +to a victrola faded into dialogues carried on indifferently, lazily, +where the dancers had chanced to stop with the music. Mr. Alston had +relinquished Sylvia to George at the moment the record had stuttered +out. They were left at a distance from any other couple. George pointed +out a convenient chair, and she sat down and glanced about the room +indifferently.</p> + +<p>"At dinner," George said, "I asked you if it didn't impress you as +strange that our social views should be what they are, and opposite."</p> + +<p>She didn't answer.</p> + +<p>"I mean," he went on, "that I should benefit by your alteration."</p> + +<p>"How?" she asked, idly fingering a flower, not looking at him.</p> + +<p>"I fancy," he said, "that you'll admit your chief objection to me has +always been my origin, my ridiculous position trotting watchfully behind +the most unsocial Miss Planter. Am I not right?"</p> + +<p>"You are entirely wrong," she said, wearily. "That has never had +anything to do with my—my dislike. I think I shall go——"</p> + +<p>"Wait," he said. "You are not telling me the truth. If you are +consistent you will turn your enmity to friendship at least. You will +decide there was nothing unusual in my asking you to marry me. You will +even find in that a reason for my anxiety at Upton. You will understand +that it is quite inevitable I should ask you to marry me again."</p> + +<p>She sprang up and hurried away from him.</p> + +<p>"Put on another record, Dolly——"</p> + +<p>And almost before he had realized it Betty had taken her away, and the +evening's opportunities had closed.</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>For him the house became like a room at night out of which the only lamp +has been carried.</p> + +<p>The others drifted away. George tried to read in the library. His +uneasiness, his anger, held him from bed. When at last he went upstairs +he fancied everyone was asleep, but moving in the hall outside his room +he saw a figure in a dressing gown. It paused as if it didn't care to be +detected going in the direction of the stairs. George caught the +figure's embarrassed hesitation, fancied a movement of retreat.</p> + +<p>"Dalrymple!" he called, softly.</p> + +<p>The other waited sullenly.</p> + +<p>"What you up to?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"Thought I'd explore downstairs for a book. Couldn't sleep. Nothing in +my room worth bothering with."</p> + +<p>George smiled, the memory of Blodgett's admirable behaviour crowding his +mind. What better time than now to let his anger dictate to him, as it +had done that day in his office?</p> + +<p>"Come in for a minute," he proposed to Dalrymple, and opened his door.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple shook his head, but George took his arm and led him, guessing +that Dalrymple feared the subject of the notes.</p> + +<p>"Bad humour!" George said. "You seem to be the only one up. I don't mind +chatting with you before turning in. Fact is, these wedding parties are +stupid, don't you think?"</p> + +<p>Possibly George's manner was reassuring to Dalrymple. At any rate, he +yielded. George took off his coat, sat in an easy chair, and pressed the +call button.</p> + +<p>"What's that for?" Dalrymple asked, uneasily.</p> + +<p>"Sit down," George said. "Stupid and dry, these things! I'm going to try +to raise a servant. I want to gossip over a drink before I go to bed. +You'll join me?"</p> + +<p>Dalrymple sat down. He moistened his lips.</p> + +<p>"On the wagon," he muttered. "A long time on the wagon. Place to be, +too, and all that."</p> + +<p>George didn't believe the other. If Dalrymple cared to prove him right +that was his own business.</p> + +<p>"Before prohibition offers the steps?" he laughed.</p> + +<p>"Nothing to do with it," Dalrymple muttered. "Got my reasons—good +enough ones, too."</p> + +<p>"Right!" George said. "Only don't leave me to myself until I've wet my +whistle."</p> + +<p>And when the sleepy servant had come George asked him for some whiskey +and soda water. He talked of the Alstons, of the war, of anything to +tide the wait for the caraffe and the bottles and glasses; and during +that period Dalrymple's restlessness increased. Just what had he been +sneaking downstairs for in the middle of the night? George watched the +other's eyes drawn by the tray when the servant had set it down.</p> + +<p>"Why did he bring two glasses?" Dalrymple asked, irritably.</p> + +<p>"Oh," George said, carelessly, "I suppose he thought—naturally——Have +a biscuit, anyway."</p> + +<p>George poured a drink and supped contentedly.</p> + +<p>"Dry rations—biscuits," Dalrymple complained.</p> + +<p>He fingered the caraffe.</p> + +<p>"I've an idea—wedding—special occasion, and all that. Change my +mind—up here—one friendly drop——"</p> + +<p>George watched the friendly drop expand to half a tumbler full, and he +observed that the hand that poured was not quite steady. It wouldn't be +long now before he would know whether or not Dalrymple's reformation was +merely a pose in public, a pose for Sylvia.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple sighed, sat down, and talked quite pleasantly about the +horrors of Chaumont. After a time he refilled his glass, and repeated +the performance a number of times with diminishing intervals. George +smiled. A child could tell the other was breaking no extended +abstinence. He drifted from war to New York and his apparent success +with the house of Planter.</p> + +<p>"Slavery, this office stuff!" he rattled on, "but good fun to get things +done, to climb up on shoulders of men—oh, no idea how many, +Morton—who're only good to push a pen or pound a typewriter. Of course, +you know, though. Done plenty of climbing yourself."</p> + +<p>His enunciation suffered and his assurance strengthened as the caraffe +emptied. No extended abstinence, George reflected, but almost certainly +a very painful one of a few days.</p> + +<p>"Am making money, Morton—a little, not much," he said, confidentially, +and with condescension. "Not enough by long shot to pay those beastly +notes I owe you. Know they're over due. Don't think I'd ever forget +that. Want to do right thing, Morton. You used hard words when I +borrowed that money, but forget, and all that. White of you to let me +have it, and I'll do right thing."</p> + +<p>A sickly look of content overspread his face. He expanded. His assurance +seemed to crowd the room.</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't worry for a minute 'bout those notes if I were you."</p> + +<p>He suddenly switched, shaking his finger at the caraffe.</p> + +<p>"Very pleasant, little drop like this—night cap on the quiet. But not +often."</p> + +<p>His content sought expression in a smile.</p> + +<p>"Dolly's off the hootch."</p> + +<p>George lighted a cigarette. He noticed that his fingers were quite +steady, yet he was perfectly conscious of each beat of his heart.</p> + +<p>"May I ask," he said, "what possible connection there can be between my +not worrying about your notes and your keeping off the hootch, as you +call it?"</p> + +<p>Dalrymple arose, finished the caraffe, and tapped George's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Every connection," he answered. "Expect you have a right to know. Don't +you worry, old Shylock Morton. You're goin' to get your pound ah flesh."</p> + +<p>"I fancy I am," George laughed. "What's your idea of it?"</p> + +<p>Dalrymple waved his glass.</p> + +<p>"Lady of my heart—surrender after long siege, but only brave deserve +fair. Good thing college education. Congratulate me, Morton. But secret +for you, 'cause you old Shylock. Wouldn't say anything to Sylvia till +she lets it loose."</p> + +<p>As George walked quietly to the door, which the servant a long time ago +had left a trifle open, he heard Dalrymple mouthing disconnected words: +"Model husband." "Can't be too soon for Dolly."</p> + +<p>Then, as he closed the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket, +he heard Dalrymple say aloud, sharply:</p> + +<p>"What the devil you doing, Morton?"</p> + +<p>George turned. Ammunition against Dalrymple! He had been collecting it. +Now, clearly, was the time to use it. In his mind the locked room held +precariously all of Sylvia's happiness and his.</p> + +<p>He didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the table. Dalrymple had +slumped down in his chair, the content and triumph of his inflamed eyes +replaced by a sullen fear.</p> + + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p>"What's the idea?" Dalrymple asked, uncertainly, watching George, +grasping the arms of his chair preparatory to rising.</p> + +<p>"Sit still, and I'll tell you," George answered.</p> + +<p>"Why you lock the door?"</p> + +<p>From Dalrymple's palpable fear George watched escape a reluctant and +fascinated curiosity.</p> + +<p>"No more of that strong-arm stuff with me——"</p> + +<p>"I locked the door," George answered, "so that I could point out to you, +quite undisturbed, just why you are going to leave Sylvia Planter +alone."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple relaxed. He commenced incredulously and nervously to laugh, +but in his eyes, which followed George, the fear and the curiosity +increased.</p> + +<p>"What the devil are you talking about? Have you gone out of your head?"</p> + +<p>George smiled confidently.</p> + +<p>"It's an invariable rule, unless you have the strength to handle them, +to give insane people their way. So you'll be nice and quiet; and I +might remind you if you started a rumpus, the first questions the +aroused house would ask would be, 'Why did Dolly fall off the wagon, and +where did he get the edge?'"</p> + +<p>He drew a chair close to Dalrymple and sat down. The other lay back, +continuing to stare at him, quite unable to project the impression he +undoubtedly sought of contemptuous amusement.</p> + +<p>"We've waited a long time for this little chat," George said, quietly. +"Sometimes I've hoped it wouldn't be necessary. Of course, sooner or +later, it had to be."</p> + +<p>His manner disclosed little of his anxiety, nothing whatever of his +determination, through Dalrymple's weakness, to save Sylvia and himself, +but his will had never been stronger.</p> + +<p>"You may as well understand," he said, "that you shan't leave this room +until you've agreed to give up any idea of this preposterous marriage +you pretend to have arranged. Perhaps you have. That makes no +difference. I'm quite satisfied its disarranging will break no hearts."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple had a little controlled himself. George's brusque campaign had +steadied him, had hastened a reaction that gave to his eyes an unhealthy +and furtive look. He tried to grin.</p> + +<p>"You must think you're God Almighty——"</p> + +<p>"Let's get to business," George interrupted. "I once told you that what +you borrow you have to pay back in one way or another. This is where we +settle, and I've outlined the terms."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple whistled.</p> + +<p>"You complete rotter! You mean to blackmail—because you know I haven't +got your filthy money, and can't raise it in a minute."</p> + +<p>"Never mind that," George snapped. "Your opinion of what I'm doing +doesn't interest me. I've thought it out. I know quite thoroughly what +I'm about."</p> + +<p>He did, and he was not without distaste for his methods, nor without +realization that they might hurt him most of all with the very person +they were designed to serve; yet he couldn't hesitate, because no other +way offered.</p> + +<p>"You're going to pay my notes, but not with money."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple's grin exploded into a harsh sound resembling laughter.</p> + +<p>"Are you—jealous? Do you fancy Sylvia would be affected by anything +you'd do or say? See here! Good God! Are you mad enough to look at her? +That's funny! That's a scream!"</p> + +<p>There was, however, no conviction behind the pretended amazement and +contempt; and George suspected that Dalrymple had all along sounded his +chief ambition; had, in fact, made his secretive announcement just now, +because, his judgment drugged, he had desired to call a rival's +attention to his triumphant posture on the steps of attainment.</p> + +<p>"I've no intention of discussing causes," George answered, evenly, "but +I do imagine the entire family would be noticeably affected by my +story."</p> + +<p>"Which you couldn't tell," Dalrymple cried. "Which you couldn't possibly +tell."</p> + +<p>"Which I don't think I shall have to tell," George said with a smile. +"Look at your position, Dalrymple. If you borrow money on the strength +of this approaching marriage you announce its chief purpose quite +distinctly. I fancy Old Planter, ill as he is, would want to take a club +to you. You've always wished, haven't you, to keep your borrowings from +Lambert? You can't do it if you persist in involving the Planters in +your extravagances. And remember you gave me a pretty thorough list of +your debtors—not reading for women, but Lambert would understand, and +make its meaning clear. Then let us go back to that afternoon in my +office, when you tried to say unspeakable things——"</p> + +<p>Impulsively Dalrymple bared his teeth.</p> + +<p>"Got you there, Morton! I told Lambert it was you who had been +impertinent——"</p> + +<p>All at once George felt better and cleaner. He whistled.</p> + +<p>"When I let you off then I never dreamed you'd try to back that lie up."</p> + +<p>"Will they believe me," the other asked, "or you, who come from God +knows what; God knows where?"</p> + +<p>"Fortunately," George said, "Lambert and his sister share that supernal +knowledge. They'll believe me."</p> + +<p>He stood up.</p> + +<p>"That's all. You know what to expect. Just one thing more."</p> + +<p>He spoke softly, without any apparent passion, but he displayed before +the man in the chair his two hands.</p> + +<p>"If necessary I'd stop you marrying Sylvia Planter with those."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple got to his feet, struggled to assume a cloak of bravado.</p> + +<p>"Won't put up with such threats. Actionable——"</p> + +<p>"Give me your decision," George said, harshly. "Will you keep away from +her? If there is really an understanding, will you so arrange things +that she can destroy it immediately? Come. Yes or no?"</p> + +<p>"Give me that key."</p> + +<p>George shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"I needn't trouble you."</p> + +<p>He walked swiftly to the door, unlocked it, and drew it invitingly wide; +but now that the way was clear Dalrymple hesitated. Again George +shrugged his shoulders and stepped to the hall. Dalrymple, abruptly +active, ran after him, grasping at his arm.</p> + +<p>"Where you going?" he whispered.</p> + +<p>"To Lambert's room."</p> + +<p>"Not to-night," the other begged. "I don't admit you could make any real +trouble, but I want to spare Sylvia any possible unpleasantness. Well! +Don't you, too? You lost your temper. Maybe I did mine. Give us both a +chance to think it over. Now see here, Morton, I won't ask you another +favour, and I'll do nothing in the meantime. I couldn't very well. I +mean, status quo, and all that——"</p> + +<p>"Lambert, to-morrow," George said, "is going away for more than a +month."</p> + +<p>"But you could always get hold of him, at a pinch," Dalrymple urged. +"Heaven knows I'm not likely to talk to Sylvia about what you've said. +Let us both think it over until Lambert comes back."</p> + +<p>George sighed, experiencing a glow of victory. The other's eagerness +confessed at last an accurate measure of the power of his ammunition; +and George didn't want to go to the Planters on such an errand as long +as any other means existed. The more Dalrymple thought, the more +thoroughly he must realize George had him. From the first George had +manœuvred to avoid the necessity of shocking habits of thought and +action that were inborn in the Planters, so he gladly agreed.</p> + +<p>"Meantime, you'll keep away from her?"</p> + +<p>"Just as far as possible," Dalrymple answered. "You'll be able to see +that for yourself."</p> + +<p>"Then," George said, "you arrange to get yourself out of the way as soon +as Lambert and Betty return. Meantime, if you go back on your word, I'll +get hold of Lambert."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple leant against the wall, morosely angry, restless, discouraged.</p> + +<p>"I'll admit you could make some unpleasantness all around," he said, +moistening his lips. "I wish I'd never touched your dirty money——"</p> + +<p>George stepped into his room and closed the door.</p> + + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p>The awakening of the house to its most momentous day aroused George +early, hurried him from his bed, sent him downstairs in a depressed, +self-censorious mood, as if he and not Dalrymple had finished the +caraffe. That necessary battle behind a locked door continued to fill +his mind like the memory of a vivid and revolting nightmare. He fled +from the increasing turmoil of an exceptional agitation, but he could +not escape his own evil temper. Even the flowering lanes where Goodhue +and he had run so frequently during their undergraduate days mocked his +limping steps, his heavy cane; seemed asking him what there was in +common between that eager youth and the man who had come back to share a +definite farewell with Betty; to stand, stripped of his veneer, against +a wall to avoid a more difficult parting from Sylvia. There was one +thing: the determination of the boy lived in the man, become greater, +more headstrong, more relentless.</p> + +<p>He paused and, chin in hand, rested against a gate. What about Wandel, +who had admired the original George Morton? Would he approve of his +threats to Dalrymple, of his probable course with the Planters? If he +were consistent he would have to; yet people were so seldom consistent. +It was even likely that George's repetition of Dalrymple's shocking +insults would be frowned upon more blackly than the original, +unforgiveable wrong. George straightened and walked back toward the +house. It made no difference what people thought. He was George Morton. +Even at the cost of his own future he would keep Sylvia from joining her +life to Dalrymple's, and certainly Lambert could be made to understand +why that had to be.</p> + +<p>The warm sun cheered him a little. Dalrymple was scared. He wouldn't +make George take any further steps. It was going to be all right. But +why didn't women see through Dalrymple, or rather why didn't he more +thoroughly give himself away to them? Because, George decided, guarded +women from their little windows failed to see the real world.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple obsessed him even when, after luncheon, he sat with Lambert +upstairs, discussing business chiefly. He wanted to burst out with:</p> + +<p>"Why don't you wake up? How can you approve of this intimacy between +your sister and a man like that?"</p> + +<p>He didn't believe the other knew that intimacy had progressed; and when +Lambert spoke of Dalrymple, calling attention again to his apparent +reformation, George cleansed his mind a trifle, placing, as it were, the +foundation for a possible announcement of a more active enmity.</p> + +<p>"Don't see why you admire anything he does, Lambert. It isn't +particularly pleasant for me to have you, for I've been watching him, +and I've quite made up my mind. You asked me when I first got home if I +wouldn't meet him halfway. I don't fancy he'd ever start in my +direction, but if he did I wouldn't meet him. Sorry. That's definite. I +must use my own judgment even where it clashes with your admirations."</p> + +<p>Lambert stared at him.</p> + +<p>"You'll never cease being headstrong," he said. "It's rather safer to +have any man for a friend."</p> + +<p>George had an uncomfortable sense of having received a warning, but +Blodgett blundered in just then with news from the feminine side of the +house.</p> + +<p>"Some people downstairs already, and I've just had word—from one of +those little angels that talk like the devil—that Betty's got all her +war-paint on."</p> + +<p>"You have the ring?" Lambert asked George.</p> + +<p>George laughed.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have the ring, and I shan't lose it, or drop it; and I'll keep +you out of people's way, and tell you what to answer, and see generally +you don't make an idiot of yourself. Josiah, if he faints, help me pick +him up."</p> + +<p>Blodgett's gardenia bobbed.</p> + +<p>"Weddings make Josiah feel old. Say, George, you're no spring chicken +yourself. I know lots of little girls who cry their eyes out for you."</p> + +<p>"Shut up," George said. "How about a reconnaissance, Lambert?"</p> + +<p>But they were summoned then, and crept down a side staircase, and heard +music, and found themselves involved in Betty's great moment.</p> + +<p>At first George could only think of Betty as she had stood long ago in +the doorway of Bailly's study, and it was difficult to find in this +white-clothed, veiled, and stately woman the girl he had seen first of +all that night. This, after a fashion, was his last glimpse of her. She +appeared to share that conception, for she carried to the improvised +altar in the drawing-room an air of facing far places, divided by +boundaries she couldn't possibly define from all that she had ever +known. After the ceremony she smiled wonderingly at George while she +absorbed the vapid and pattered remarks of, perhaps, a hundred old +friends of the family. George, who knew most of them, resented their +sympathy and curiosity.</p> + +<p>"If they don't stop asking me about the war," he whispered to Blodgett +during a lull, "I'm going to call for help."</p> + +<p>Some, however, managed to interest him with remarks about the rebirth of +football. Green had been at Princeton all along, Stringham was coming +back in the fall, and there were brilliant team prospects. Would George +be able to help with the coaching? He indicated his injured leg. He +hadn't the time, anyway. He was going to stick closer than ever to Wall +Street. He fancied that Sylvia, who stood near him, resented the lively +interest of these people. She spoke to him only when she couldn't +possibly avoid it, glancing, George noticed, at Dalrymple who rather +pointedly kept away from her. So far so good. Then Dalrymple did realize +George would have his way. George looked at Sylvia, thinking +whimsically:</p> + +<p>"I shan't let anybody put you where you wouldn't bother to hate me any +more."</p> + +<p>He spoke to her aloud.</p> + +<p>"I believe we're to have a bite to eat."</p> + +<p>She followed him reluctantly, and during the supper yielded of herself +nothing whatever to him, chatting by preference with any one convenient, +even with Blodgett whom she had treated so shabbily. Very early she left +the room with Betty and Mrs. Alston, and George experienced a strong +desire to escape also, to flee anywhere away from this house and the +bitter dissatisfactions he had found within its familiar walls. He saw +Mrs. Bailly and took her hand.</p> + +<p>"I want to go home with you and Squibs to-night."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Bailly smiled her gratitude, but as he was about to move away she +stopped him with a curiosity he had not expected from her.</p> + +<p>"Isn't Sylvia Planter beautiful? Why do you suppose she doesn't marry?"</p> + +<p>George laughed shortly, shook his head, and hurried upstairs to +Lambert's room; yet Mrs. Bailly had increased his uneasiness. Perhaps it +was the too-frequent repetition of that question that had made Sylvia +turn temporarily to Blodgett; that was, possibly, focussing her eyes on +Dalrymple now; yet why, from such a field, did she choose these men? +What was one to make of her mind and its unexpected reactions? The +matter of marriage was, not unnaturally, in the air here. Lambert faced +him with it.</p> + +<p>"Josiah's right. When are you going to make a home, Apollo Morton?"</p> + +<p>George turned on him angrily, not bothering to choose his words.</p> + +<p>"Such a question from you is ridiculous. You've not forgotten the dark +ages either."</p> + +<p>Lambert looked at him for a moment affectionately, not without sympathy.</p> + +<p>"Don't be an ass, George."</p> + +<p>George's laughter was impatient.</p> + +<p>"Don't forget, Lambert, your old friends, Corporal Sol Roseberg, and +Bugler Ignatius Chronos. No men better! Chairs at the club! Legs under +the table at Oakmont——"</p> + +<p>Lambert put his hands on George's shoulders.</p> + +<p>"It isn't that at all. You know it very well."</p> + +<p>"What is it then?" George asked, sharply.</p> + +<p>"Don't pretend ignorance," Lambert answered, "and it must be your own +fault. Whose else could it possibly be? And I'm sorry, have been for +years."</p> + +<p>"It isn't my fault," George said. "The situation exists. I'm glad you +recognize it. You'll understand it's a subject I can't let you joke +about."</p> + +<p>"All right," Lambert said, "but I wonder why you're always asking for +trouble."</p> + + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p>Betty had plenty of colour to-night. As she passed George, her head bent +against the confetti, he managed to touch her hand, felt a quick +responsive pressure, heard her say:</p> + +<p>"Good-bye, George."</p> + +<p>The whispered farewell was like a curtain, too heavy ever to be lifted +again, abruptly let down between two fond people.</p> + + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p>Unexpectedly the companionships of the little house in Dickinson Street +failed to lighten George's discontented humour. Mrs. Bailly's question +lingered in his mind, coupling itself there with her disappointment that +he, instead of Lambert, hadn't married Betty; and, when she retired, the +tutor went back to his unwelcome demands of the day before. Hadn't +George made anything of his great experience? Was it possible it had +left him quite unchanged? What were his immediate plans, anyway?</p> + +<p>"You may as well understand, sir," George broke in, impatiently, "that I +am going to stay right in Wall Street and make as much money and get as +much power as I can."</p> + +<p>"Why? In the name of heaven, why?" Bailly asked, irritably. "You are +already a very rich man. You've dug for treasure and found it, but can +you tell me you've kept your hands clean? Money is merely a +conception—a false one. Capitalism will pass from the world."</p> + +<p>George grunted.</p> + +<p>"With the last two surviving human beings."</p> + +<p>"Mockery won't keep you blind always," Bailly said, "to the strivings of +men in the mines and the factories——"</p> + +<p>"And in the Senate and the House," George jeered, "and in Russia and +Germany, and in little, ambitious corners. If you're against the League +of Nations it's because, like all those people, you're willing Rome +should burn as long as personal causes can be fostered and selfish +schemes forwarded. No agitator, naturally, wants the suffering world +given a sedative——"</p> + +<p>Bailly smiled.</p> + +<p>"Even if you're wrong-headed, I'm glad to hear you talk that way. At +last you're thinking of humanity."</p> + +<p>"I'm thinking of myself," George snapped.</p> + +<p>Bailly shook his head.</p> + +<p>"I believe you're talking from your heart."</p> + +<p>"I'm talking from a smashed leg," George cried, "and I'm sleepy and +tired and cross, and I guess I'd better go to bed."</p> + +<p>"It all runs back to the beginning," Bailly said in a discouraged voice. +"I'm afraid you'll never learn the meaning of service."</p> + +<p>George sprang up, wincing. Bailly's wrinkled face softened; his young +eyes filled with sympathy.</p> + +<p>"Does that wound still bother you, George?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," George answered, softly. "I guess it bothers as much as it +ever did."</p> + + +<h3>X</h3> + +<p>One virtue of the restlessness of which Bailly had reminded him was its +power to swing George's mind for a time from his unpleasant +understanding with Dalrymple. It had got even into Blodgett's blood.</p> + +<p>"About the honestest man I can think of these days," he complained to +George one morning, "is the operator of a crooked racing stable. All the +cards are marked. All the dice are loaded. If they didn't have to let us +in on some of the tricks, we'd go bust, George, my boy."</p> + +<p>"You mean we're crooked, too?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"Only by infection," Blodgett defended himself, "but honest, George, I'd +sell out if I could. I'm disgusted."</p> + +<p>George couldn't hide a smile.</p> + +<p>"In the old days when you were coming up, you never did anything the +least bit out of line yourself?"</p> + +<p>Blodgett mopped his face with one of his brilliant handkerchiefs. His +eyes twinkled.</p> + +<p>"I've been shrewd at times, George, but isn't that legitimate? I may +have made some crowds pretty sick by cutting under them, but that's +business. I won't say I haven't played some cute little tricks with +stocks, but that's finesse, and the other fellow had the same chance. +I'm not aware that I ever busted a bank, or held a loaded gun to a man's +head and asked him to hand over his clothes as well as his cash. That's +the spirit we're up against now. That's why Papa Blodgett advises +selling out those mill stocks we kept big blocks of at the time of the +armistice."</p> + +<p>"They're making money," George said.</p> + +<p>Blodgett tapped a file of reports.</p> + +<p>"Have you read the opinions of the directors?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," George answered, "and at a pinch they might have to go into +coöperation, but they'd still pay some dividends."</p> + +<p>Blodgett puffed out his cheeks.</p> + +<p>"You're sure the unions would want a share in the business?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?" George asked. "Isn't that practical communism?"</p> + +<p>"Hay! Here's a fellow believes there's something practical in the world +nowadays! Sell out, son."</p> + +<p>"Then who would run our mills?"</p> + +<p>"Maybe some philanthropist with more money than brains."</p> + +<p>"You mean," George asked, "that our products, unless conditions improve, +will disappear from the world, because no one will be able to afford to +manufacture them?"</p> + +<p>Blodgett pursed his lips. George stared from the window at the forest of +buildings which impressed him, indeed, as giant tree trunks from which +all the foliage had been stripped. Had there been awakened in the world +an illiberal individuality with the power to fell them every one, and to +turn up the system out of which they had sprung as from a rich soil? Was +that what he had helped fight the war for?</p> + +<p>"You're talking about the dark ages," he said, feeling the necessity of +faith and stability. "Sell your stocks if you want, I choose to keep +mine."</p> + +<p>Blodgett yawned.</p> + +<p>"We'll go down together, George. I won't jump from a sinking ship as +long as you cling to the bridge."</p> + +<p>"The ship isn't sinking," George cried. "It's too buoyant."</p> + + +<h3>XI</h3> + +<p>Wandel and Goodhue came home, suffering from this universal +restlessness.</p> + +<p>"Ah, <i>mon</i> brave!" Wandel greeted George. "<i>Mon vieux Georges, grand et +incomparable!</i> So the country's dry! Jewels are cheaper than beefsteaks! +Congress is building spite fences! None the less, I'm glad to be home."</p> + +<p>"Glad enough to have you," George said. "I'm not sure we won't go back +to our bargain pretty soon. I'm about ready for a pet politician."</p> + +<p>"Let me get clean," Wandel laughed. "You must have a lot of money."</p> + +<p>"I can control enough," George said, confidently.</p> + +<p>"<i>Bon!</i> But don't send me to Washington at first. I don't want to put on +skirts, use snuff, or practise gossiping."</p> + +<p>For a time he refused to apply himself to anything that didn't lead to +pleasure. Goodhue went at once to Rhode Island for a visit with his +father and mother, while Wandel flitted from place to place, from house +to house, as if driven by his restlessness to the play he had abandoned +during five years. Once or twice George caught him with Rogers in town, +and bluntly asked him why.</p> + +<p>"An eye to the future, my dear George. Are you the most forgetful of +class presidents? Perfect henchman type. When one goes into politics one +must have henchmen."</p> + +<p>But George had an unwelcome feeling that Rogers, eyes always open, was +taking advantage, in his small way, of the world's unsettled condition. +People were inclined to laugh at him, but they treated him well for +Wandel's sake.</p> + +<p>"Still in the bond business," he explained to George. "It isn't what it +was befo' de war. I'm thinking of taking up oil stocks and corners in +heaven, although I doubt if there are as many suckers as fell for P. T. +B. Trouble nowadays is that the simplest of them are too busy trying to +find somebody just a little simpler to sting. Darned if they don't +usually hook one. Still bum securities are a great weakness with most +people. Promise a man a hundred per cent. and he'll complain it isn't a +hundred and fifty."</p> + +<p>George reflected that Rogers was bound for disillusionment, then he +wasn't so sure, for America seemed more than ever friendly to that +brisk, insincere, back-bending type. Out of the sea of money formed by +the war examples sprang up on nearly every side, scarcely troubled by +racial, religious, or educational handicaps; loudly convinced that they +could buy with money all at once every object of matter or spirit the +centuries had painstakingly evolved. One night in the crowds of the +theatre district, when with Wandel he had watched the hysterical +competition for tickets, cabs, and tables in restaurants where the +prices of indigestion had soared nearly beyond belief, he burst out +angrily:</p> + +<p>"The world is mad, Driggs. I wouldn't be surprised to hear these people +cry for golden gondolas to float them home on rivers of money. Stark, +raving mad, Driggs! The world's out of its head!"</p> + +<p>Wandel smiled, twirling his cane.</p> + +<p>"Just found it out, great man? Always has been; always will be—chronic! +This happens to be a violent stage."</p> + + +<h3>XII</h3> + +<p>It was Wandel, indeed, who drew George from his preoccupation, and +reminded him that another world existed as yet scarcely more than +threatened by the driving universal invaders. George had looked in at +his apartment one night when Wandel was just back from a northern +week-end.</p> + +<p>"Saw Sylvia. You know, George, she's turning back the years and prancing +like a débutante."</p> + +<p>George sat down, uneasy, wondering what the other's unprepared +announcement was designed to convey.</p> + +<p>"I'll lay you what you want," Wandel went on, lighting a cigar, "that +she forgets the Blodgett fiasco, and marries before snow falls."</p> + +<p>Had it been designed as a warning? George studied Wandel, trying to read +his expression, but the light was restricted by heavy, valuable, and +smothering shades; and Wandel sat at some distance from the nearest, +close to a window to catch what breezes stole through. Confound the man! +What was he after? He hadn't mentioned Sylvia that self-revealing day in +France; but George had guessed then that he must have known of his +persistent ambition, and had wondered why his unexpected +communicativeness hadn't included it. At least a lack of curiosity now +was valueless, so George said:</p> + +<p>"Who's the man?"</p> + +<p>"I don't suggest a name," Wandel drawled. "I merely call attention to a +possibility. Perhaps discussing the charming lady at all we're a trifle +out of bounds; but we've known the Planters many years; years enough to +wonder why Sylvia hasn't been caught before, why Blodgett failed at the +last minute."</p> + +<p>George stirred impatiently.</p> + +<p>"It was inevitable he should. I once disliked Josiah, but that was +because I was too young to see quite straight. Just the same, he wasn't +up to her. Most of all, he was too old."</p> + +<p>"I daresay. I daresay," Wandel said. "So much for jolly Josiah. But the +others? It isn't exaggeration to suggest that she might have had about +any man in this country or England. She hasn't had. She's still the +loveliest thing about, and how many years since she was +introduced—many, many, isn't it, George?"</p> + +<p>"What odds?" George muttered. "She's still young."</p> + +<p>He felt self-conscious and warm. Was Wandel trying to make him say too +much?</p> + +<p>"Why do you ask me?"</p> + +<p>Wandel yawned.</p> + +<p>"Gossiping, George. Poking about in the dark. Thought you might have +some light."</p> + +<p>"How should I have?" George demanded.</p> + +<p>"Because," Wandel drawled, "you're the greatest and most penetrating of +men."</p> + +<p>George's discomfort grew. He tried to turn Wandel's attack.</p> + +<p>"How does it happen you've never entered the ring?"</p> + +<p>Wandel laughed quietly.</p> + +<p>"I did, during my school days. She was quite splendid about it. I mean, +she said very splendidly that she couldn't abide little men; but any +time since I'd have fallen cheerfully at her feet if I'd ever become a +big man, a great man, like you."</p> + +<p>Before he had weighed those words, unquestionably pointed and +significant, George had let slip an impulsive question.</p> + +<p>"Can you picture her fancying a figure like Dalrymple?"</p> + +<p>He was sorry as soon as it was out. Anxiously he watched Wandel through +the dusk of the room. The little man spoke with a troubled hesitation, +as if for once he wasn't quite sure what he ought to reply.</p> + +<p>"You acknowledged a moment ago that you had failed to see Josiah +straight. Hasn't your view of Dolly always been from a prejudiced +angle?"</p> + +<p>"I've always disliked him," George said, frankly. "He's given me reasons +enough. You know some of them."</p> + +<p>"I know," Wandel drawled, "that he isn't what even Sylvia would call a +little man, and he has the faculty of making himself exceptionally +pleasant to the ladies."</p> + +<p>"Yet he couldn't marry any one of mine," George said under his breath. +"If I had a sister, I mean, I'd somehow stop him."</p> + +<p>Wandel laughed on a sharp note, caught himself, went on with an amused +tone:</p> + +<p>"Forgive me, George. Somewhere in your pockets you carry the Pilgrim +Fathers. Most men are shaggy birds of evil habit, while most young women +are delicately feathered nestlings, and quite helpless; yet the two must +mate. Dolly, by the way, drains a pitcher of water every time he sees a +violation of prohibition."</p> + +<p>"He drinks in sly places," George said.</p> + +<p>"After all," Wandel said, slowly, "why do we cling to the suggestion of +Dolly? Although I fancy he does figure—somewhere in the odds."</p> + +<p>For a time George said nothing. He was quite convinced that Wandel had +meant to warn him, and he had received that warning, straight and hard +and painfully. During several weeks he hadn't seen Dalrymple, had been +lulled into a sense of security, perhaps through the turmoil down town; +and Lambert and Betty had lingered beyond their announced month. Clearly +Wandel had sounded George's chief aim, as he had once satisfied himself +of his origin; and just now had meant to say that since his return he +had witnessed enough to be convinced that Dalrymple was still after +Sylvia, and with a chance of success. To George that meant that +Dalrymple had broken the bargain. He felt himself drawn irresistibly +back to his narrow, absorbing pursuit.</p> + +<p>"You're becoming a hermit," Wandel was saying.</p> + +<p>"You've become a butterfly," George countered.</p> + +<p>"Ah," Wandel answered, "but the butterfly can touch with its wings the +beautiful Sylvia Planter, and out of its eyes can watch her débutante +frivolities. Why not come away with me Friday?"</p> + +<p>"Whither?"</p> + +<p>"To the Sinclairs."</p> + +<p>George got up and wandered to the door.</p> + +<p>"By by, Driggs. I think I might slip off Friday. I've a mind to renounce +the veil."</p> + + +<h3>XIII</h3> + +<p>George fulfilled his resolution thoroughly. With the migratory bachelors +he ran from house to house, found Sylvia or not, and so thought the +effort worth while or not. The first time he saw her, indeed, he +appreciated Wandel's wisdom, for she stood with Dalrymple at the edge of +a high lawn that looked out over the sea. Her hair in the breeze was a +little astray, her cheeks were flushed, and she bent if anything toward +her companion who talked earnestly and with nervous gestures. George +crushed his quick impulse to go down, to step between them, to have it +out with Dalrymple then and there, even in Sylvia's presence; but they +strolled back to the house almost immediately, and Sylvia lost her +apparent good humour, and Dalrymple descended from satisfaction to a +fidgety apprehension. Sylvia met George's hand briefly.</p> + +<p>"You'll be here long?"</p> + +<p>The question expressed a wish.</p> + +<p>"Only until Monday. I wish it might be longer, for I'm glad to find +you—and you, Dalrymple."</p> + +<p>"Nobody said you were expected," Dalrymple grumbled. "Everybody said you +were working like a horse."</p> + +<p>George glanced at Sylvia, smiling blandly.</p> + +<p>"Every horse goes to grass occasionally."</p> + +<p>He turned back to Dalrymple.</p> + +<p>"I daresay you know Lambert and Betty are due back the first of the +week?"</p> + +<p>Sylvia nodded carelessly, and started along the verandah. Dalrymple, +reddening, prepared to heel, but George beckoned him back.</p> + +<p>"I'd like a word with you."</p> + +<p>Sylvia glanced around, probably surprised at the sharp, authoritative +tone.</p> + +<p>"Just a minute, Sylvia," Dalrymple apologized uneasily. "Little +business. Hard to catch Morton. Must grasp opportunity, and all that."</p> + +<p>And when they were alone he went close to George eagerly.</p> + +<p>"No need to wait for Betty and Lambert, Morton. It's done. Dolly's got +himself thrown over——"</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you," George said.</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"What are you doing here?" George asked. "It was understood you should +avoid her."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple's grin was sickly.</p> + +<p>"Way she's tearing around now I'd have exactly no place to go."</p> + +<p>"You seemed rather too friendly," George pointed out, "for parties to a +broken engagement."</p> + +<p>George fancied there was something of anger in the other's face.</p> + +<p>"Must say I'm not flattered by that. Guess you were right. One heart's +not smashed, anyway."</p> + +<p>George turned on his heel. Dalrymple caught him.</p> + +<p>"What about those notes?"</p> + +<p>"I don't trust you, Dalrymple. I'll keep my eye on you yet awhile."</p> + +<p>"Ask Sylvia if you want," Dalrymple cried.</p> + +<p>George smiled.</p> + +<p>"I wonder if I could."</p> + +<p>He went to his room, trying to believe Dalrymple. Was that romance +really in the same class as the one with Blodgett? If so, why did she +involve herself in restive affairs with less obvious men? As best he +could he tried to find out that night when she was a little off guard +because of some unquiet statements she had just made of Russian +rumours.</p> + +<p>"You don't mean those things," he said, "or else you've no idea what +they mean."</p> + +<p>Through her quick resentment she let herself be caught in a corner, as +it were. Everyone was preparing to leave the house for a dance in +benefit of some local charity. Momentarily they were left alone. He +indicated the over-luxurious and rather tasteless room.</p> + +<p>"You're asking for the confiscation of all this, and your own Oakmont, +and every delightful setting to which you've been accustomed all your +life. You're asking for rationed food; for a shakedown, maybe, in a +garret. You're asking for a task in a kitchen or a field. Why not a +negro's kitchen; a Chinaman's field?"</p> + +<p>He looked at her, asking gravely:</p> + +<p>"Do you quite understand the principles of communism as they affect +women?"</p> + +<p>He fancied a heightening of her colour.</p> + +<p>"You of all men," she said, "ought to understand the strivings of the +people."</p> + +<p>He shook his head vehemently.</p> + +<p>"I'm for the palace," he laughed, "and I fancy it means more to me than +it could to a man who's never used his brain. Let those stay in the +hovel who haven't the courage to climb out."</p> + +<p>"And you're one of the people!" she murmured. "One of the people!"</p> + +<p>"You don't say that," he answered, quickly, "to tell me it makes me +admirable in your eyes. You say it to hurt, as you used to call me, +'groom'. It doesn't inflict the least pain."</p> + +<p>There was no question about her flush now.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," he urged, "why you permit your brain such inconsistencies, +why you accept such a patent fad, why you need fads at all?"</p> + +<p>"Why won't you leave me alone?" she asked, harshly.</p> + +<p>"You're always asking that," he smiled, "and you see I never do. Why are +you unlike these other women? Why did you turn to Blodgett? Why have you +made a fool of Dalrymple?"</p> + +<p>She stared at him.</p> + +<p>"What are you saying?"</p> + +<p>"I'm saying, why don't you come to me?"</p> + +<p>He watched the angry challenge in her eyes, the deliberate stiffening of +her entire body as if to a defensive attitude. He held out his hand to +her.</p> + +<p>"Sylvia! We are growing old."</p> + +<p>Yet in her radiant presence it was preposterous to speak of age. She +drew away with a sort of shudder.</p> + +<p>"You wouldn't dare touch me again——"</p> + +<p>He captured her glance. He felt that from his own eyes he failed to keep +the unsatisfied desire of years.</p> + +<p>"I haven't forgotten Upton, either. When will you give me what I want, +Sylvia?"</p> + +<p>Her glance eluded him. Swiftly she receded. Through the open door +drifted a growing medley of voices. She hurried to the door, but he +followed her, and purposefully climbed into the automobile she had +entered, but they were no longer alone. Only once, when he made her +dance with him in a huge, over-decorated tent, did he manage a whisper.</p> + +<p>"No more nonsense with Dalrymple or anybody. Please stop making +unhappiness."</p> + + +<h3>XIV</h3> + +<p>George returned to New York with an uneasy spirit, filled with doubt as +to Dalrymple's statement of renunciation, and of his own course in +saying what he had of Dalrymple to Sylvia. Mightn't that very expression +of disapproval, indeed, tend to swing her back to the man? When Lambert +walked in a day or two later George looked at the happy, bronzed face, +recalling his assurance that Betty wasn't one to give by halves. Through +eyes clouded by such happiness Lambert couldn't be expected to see very +far into the dangerous and avaricious discontent of the majority. How +much less time, then, would he have for George's personal worries? +George, nevertheless, guided the conversation to Dalrymple.</p> + +<p>"He's running down to Oakmont with me to-night," Lambert said, +carelessly. "You know Betty's there with the family for a few days."</p> + +<p>George hid his temper. There was no possible chance about this. Would +Dalrymple go to Oakmont after the breaking off of even a secret +engagement; or, defeated in his main purpose, was he hanging about for +what crumbs might yet fall from the Planters' table. Nearly without +reflection he burst out with:</p> + +<p>"It's inconceivable you should permit that man about your sister."</p> + +<p>Probably Lambert's great content forbade an answer equally angry.</p> + +<p>"Still at it! See here. Sylvia doesn't care for you."</p> + +<p>"I'm not talking of myself," George said. "I'm talking of Dalrymple."</p> + +<p>With an air of kindness, undoubtedly borrowed from Betty, Lambert said +easily:</p> + +<p>"Stop worrying about him, then. Giving a friend encouragement doesn't +mean asking him into the family. That idea seems to obsess you. What +difference does it make to you, anyway, what man Sylvia marries? I'll +say this, if you wish: Since I've had Betty I see things a bit clearer. +I really shouldn't care to have Dolly the man. I don't think there's a +chance of it."</p> + +<p>"You mean," George asked, eagerly, "if there were you'd stop it?"</p> + +<p>"I shouldn't like it," Lambert answered. "Naturally, I'd express +myself."</p> + +<p>"See here. Dalrymple isn't to be trusted. You've been too occupied. You +haven't watched your sister. How can you tell what's in her mind? You +didn't forecast the affair with Josiah, eh? There's only one way I can +play my game—the thorough way. If it came to a real engagement I should +have to say things, Lambert—things I'd hate myself for; things that +would hurt me, perhaps, more than any one else. If necessary I shall say +them. Will you tell me, if—if——"</p> + +<p>Lambert smiled uneasily.</p> + +<p>"You're shying at phantoms, but you've always played every game to that +point, and perhaps you're justified. I'll come to you if circumstances +ever promise to prove you right."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," George said, infinitely relieved; yet he had an unpleasant +feeling that Lambert had held his temper and had agreed because he was +aware of the existence of a great debt, one that he could never quite +pay.</p> + + +<h3>XV</h3> + +<p>This creation of a check on Dalrymple and the assurance that Lambert +would warn him of danger came at a useful time for George, since the +market-place more and more demanded an undisturbed mind. He conceded +that Blodgett's earlier pessimism bade fair to be justified. He watched +a succession of industrial upheavals, seeking a safe course among +innumerable and perilous shoals that seemed to defy charting; conquering +whatever instinct he might have had to sympathize with the men, since he +judged their methods as hysterical, grabbing, and wasteful.</p> + +<p>"But I don't believe," he told Blodgett, "these strikes have been +ordered from the Kremlin; still, other colours may quite easily combine +to form red."</p> + +<p>"God help the employers. God help the employees," Blodgett grumbled.</p> + +<p>"And most of all, may God help the great public," George suggested.</p> + +<p>But Blodgett was preoccupied these days with an Oakmont stripped of +passion. George knew that Old Planter had sent for him, and he found +something quite pitiful in that final surrender of the great man who was +now worse off than the youngest, grimiest groveller in the furnaces; so +he was not surprised when it was announced that Blodgett would shortly +move over to the marble temple, a partner at last with individuality and +initiative, one, in fact, who would control everything for Old Planter +and his heirs until Lambert should be older. Lambert was sufficiently +unhappy over the change, because it painted so clearly the inevitable +end. The Fifth Avenue house was opened early that fall as if the old +man desired to get as close as possible to the centre of turbulent +events, hoping that so his waning sight might serve.</p> + +<p>Consequently George had more opportunities of meeting Sylvia; did meet +her from time to time in the evenings, and watched her gaiety which +frequently impressed him as a too noticeably moulded posture. It served, +nevertheless, admirably with the men of all ages who flocked about her +as if, indeed, she were a débutante once more.</p> + +<p>In these groups George was glad not to see Dalrymple often, but he +noticed that Goodhue was near rather more than he had been formerly, and +he experienced a sharp uneasiness, an instinct to go to Goodhue and say:</p> + +<p>"Don't. Keep away. She's caused enough unhappiness."</p> + +<p>Still you couldn't tell about Goodhue. The very fact that he fluttered +near Sylvia might indicate that his real interest lay carefully +concealed, some distance away. He had, moreover, always stood singularly +aside from the pursuit of the feminine.</p> + +<p>George's first meeting with Betty since her return was coloured by a +frank acceptance on her part of new conditions that revived his sense of +a sombre and helpless nostalgia. All was well with Betty. If there had +ever been any doubt in her Lambert had swept it away. Whatever emotion +she experienced for George was, in fact, that of a fond sister for a +brother; and George, studying her and Lambert, longed as he had never +done to find some such eager and confident content. The propulsion of +pure ambition slipped from his desire for Sylvia. With a growing wonder +he found himself craving through her just the satisfied simplicity so +clearly experienced by Lambert and Betty. Could anything make her +brilliancy less hard, less headstrong, less cruel?</p> + +<p>George cast about for the means. Lambert was on watch. There was still +time—plenty of time.</p> + +<p>He hadn't spoken again to Lambert about Dalrymple. There hadn't seemed +any point, for Lambert was entirely trustworthy, and, since Betty and he +lived for the present in the Fifth Avenue house, he saw Sylvia +constantly. Their conversation instead when they met for luncheon, as +they did frequently, revolved about threats which a few years back they +hadn't dreamed would ever face them. Blodgett, George noticed, didn't +point the finger of scorn at him for holding on to the mill stocks. +George wouldn't have minded if he had. They had originally cost him +little, their total loss would not materially affect his fortune, and he +was glad through them to have a personal share in the irritating and +absorbing evolution in the mills. He heard of Allen frequently as a +fiery and fairly successful organizer of trouble, and he sent for him +when he thought the situation warranted it. Allen came readily enough, +walking into the office, shorn of his London frills, but evidently +retentive of the habit of keeping neat and clean. The eyes, too, had +altered, but not obviously, letting through, perhaps, a certain +disillusionment.</p> + +<p>"What are you doing to my mills?" George wanted to know.</p> + +<p>Allen, surprisingly, didn't once lose his temper, listening to George's +complaints without change of expression while he wandered about, his +eyes taking in each detail of the richly furnished office.</p> + +<p>"The directors report that the men have refused to enter into a fair and +above-board coöperative arrangement, and we've figured all along it was +turning the business over to them; taking money out of our own pockets. +It's a form of communism, and they throw it down. Why, Allen? I want +this straight."</p> + +<p>Allen paused in his walk, and looked closely at George. There was no +change in his face even when he commenced to speak.</p> + +<p>"A share in a business," he said, softly, "carries uncomfortable +responsibilities. You can't go to yourself, for instance, and say: 'Give +me more wages—more than the traffic will bear; then you sweat about it +in your office, but don't bother me in my cottage.'"</p> + +<p>"You acknowledge it!" George cried.</p> + +<p>Allen's face at last became a trifle animated.</p> + +<p>"Why not—to you? Everybody's out to get it—the butcher, the baker, the +candlestick maker. The capitalist most of all. Why not the man that +turns the wheels?"</p> + +<p>George whistled.</p> + +<p>"You'd crush essential industries off the face of the earth! You'd go +back to the stone age!"</p> + +<p>"Not," Allen answered, slowly, "as long as the profits of the past can +be got out of somebody's pockets."</p> + +<p>"You'd grab capital!"</p> + +<p>"Like a flash; and what are you going to do about it?"</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you what I am going to do," George answered, "and I fancy a +lot of others will follow my example. I am going to get rid of those +stocks if I have to throw them out of the window, then you'll have no +gun to hold at my head."</p> + +<p>"Throw too much away," Allen warned, "and you'll throw it all."</p> + +<p>"The beautiful, pure social revolution!" George sneered. "You're less +honest than you were when you dropped everything to go to London for me. +What's the matter with you, Allen?"</p> + +<p>Allen appraised again the comfortable room. Even now his expression +didn't alter materially.</p> + +<p>"Nothing. I don't know. Unless the universal spirit of grab has got in +my own veins."</p> + +<p>"Then, my friend," George said, pleasantly, "there's the door."</p> + + +<h3>XVI</h3> + +<p>George found himself thinking and talking of Allen's views quite enough +to please even Bailly. Blodgett, on the other hand, perhaps because of +the heavy, settled atmosphere of the marble temple, had changed his +tune.</p> + +<p>"Things are bound to come right in the end."</p> + +<p>As far as George was concerned he might as well have said:</p> + +<p>"This marble surrounding me is so many feet thick. Who do you think is +going to interfere with that?"</p> + +<p>Something of quite a different nature bothered Lambert, and for a few +days George thought it a not unnatural resentment at seeing Blodgett in +his father's office, but Lambert took pains to awaken him to the truth, +walking in one afternoon a few weeks after the Planters' move to town. +He had an uncertain and discontented appearance.</p> + +<p>"By the way, George," he said not without difficulty, "Dolly's about a +good deal."</p> + +<p>It was quite certain Lambert hadn't come to announce only that, so +George shrank from his next words, confident that something definite +must have happened. He controlled his anxiety with the thought that +Lambert had, indeed, come to him, and that Dalrymple couldn't permit the +announcement of an engagement without meeting the fulfilment of George's +penalties.</p> + +<p>"It's been on my mind for the past week," Lambert went on. "I mean, he +hasn't been seeing her much in public, but he's been hanging around the +house, and last night I spoke to Sylvia about it, told her I didn't +think father would want him any more than I did, pointed out his +financial record, and said I had gathered he owed you no small sum——"</p> + +<p>"You blind idiot!" George cried. "Why did you have to say that? How did +you even guess it? I've never opened my mouth."</p> + +<p>"He'd milked everybody else dry," Lambert answered, "and Driggs +mentioned a long time ago you'd had a curiously generous notion you'd +like to help Dolly if he ever needed it."</p> + +<p>"It wasn't generosity," George said, dryly. "Go ahead. Did you make any +more blunders?"</p> + +<p>"You're scarcely one to accuse," Lambert answered. "You put me up to it +in the first place, although I'll admit now, I'd have spoken anyway. I +don't want Sylvia marrying him. I don't want him down town as more than +a salaried man, unless he changes more than he has. I didn't feel even +last night that Sylvia really loved him, but I made her furious, and +you're right. I shouldn't have said that. I daresay she guessed, too, it +wasn't all generosity that had led you to pay Dolly's debts. Anyway, she +wouldn't talk reasonably, said she'd marry any one she pleased—oh, +quite the young lady who sent me after you with a horse whip, and I +daresay she'd have been glad to do it again last night. I spoke to +Mother. She said Sylvia hadn't said anything to her, but she added, if +Sylvia wanted him, she wouldn't oppose her. Naturally she wouldn't, +seeing only Dolly's good points, which are regularly displayed for the +benefit of the ladies. Anyway, I agreed to tell you, and you promised, +if it came to the point, you'd have some things to say to me——"</p> + +<p>George nodded shortly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, but I blame you for forcing me to say them. You've thrown them +together——"</p> + +<p>"I've always wanted to help Dolly as you would any old friend who had +wandered a little to the side, and was anxious to get back on the path. +I can't figure every man that comes about the place as a suitor for +Sylvia. Let's forget all that. What are these important and unpleasant +things you have to tell me? I daresay you know where the money you +loaned Dolly went."</p> + +<p>George pressed his lips tight. He frowned. Even now he hesitated to soil +his hands, to divide himself, perhaps, permanently from Sylvia at the +very moment of saving her; and he wasn't quite sure, in view of her +pride and her quick temper, that his very effort wouldn't defeat its own +purpose. If only Lambert hadn't made that worst of all possible +blunders. He wondered how a man felt on the rack. He bent swiftly and +picked up the telephone.</p> + +<p>"I shall talk with Dalrymple first," he said. "I'm going to ask him to +come over here at once. I think he'll come."</p> + +<p>But Lambert shook his head, stopped him before he could take the +receiver from the hook.</p> + +<p>"Isn't in the office. Hasn't been back since luncheon. Left no word +then."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps since you've come away——" George hazarded.</p> + +<p>He telephoned, while Lambert wandered about the room, or paused to slip +through his fingers the tape that emerged like a long and listless +serpent from the now silent ticker. After a question or two George +replaced the receiver and glanced at Lambert.</p> + +<p>"You're right. Sticks to the job, doesn't he?"</p> + +<p>"He isn't exactly an ordinary clerk," Lambert offered.</p> + +<p>George walked to a window. For a long time he gazed over the lower city, +turned singularly unreal by the early dusk, while it outlined itself +little by little in yellow points of light which gave to the clouds and +the circling columns of steam a mauve quality as if the world, instead +of night, faced the birth of a dawn, new, abnormal, frightening.</p> + +<p>He had to make one more effort with Dalrymple before sending Lambert to +Sylvia with his reasons why she shouldn't marry the man. In the +singular, unreal light he glanced at his hands. He had to see Dalrymple +once more first——</p> + +<p>He turned and snapped on the lights.</p> + +<p>"What are you going to do?" Lambert asked. "There's no likely way to +catch him down town."</p> + +<p>A clerk tip-toed in. George swung sharply.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Carson?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Dalrymple's outside, sir. It's so late I hesitated to bother you, +but he said it was very important he should see you, sir."</p> + +<p>George sighed.</p> + +<p>"Wait outside, Carson. I'll call you in a moment."</p> + +<p>And when the door was closed he turned to Lambert.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to see him here—alone."</p> + +<p>"Why?" Lambert asked, uneasily. "I don't quite see what you're up to. No +more battles of the ink pots!"</p> + +<p>"Please get out, Lambert; but maybe you'd better hang about the office. +I think Dicky's gone for the night. Wait in his room."</p> + +<p>"All right," Lambert agreed.</p> + +<p>George opened the door, and, as Lambert went through reluctantly, +beckoned the clerk.</p> + +<p>"Send Mr. Dalrymple in, Carson."</p> + +<p>He stood behind his desk, facing the open door. Almost immediately the +doorway was blocked by Dalrymple. George stared, trying to value the +alteration in the man. The weak, rather handsome face was bold and +contemptuous. Clearly he had come here for blows of his own choosing, +and had just now borrowed courage from some illicit bar, but he had +taken only enough, George gathered, to make him assured and not too +calculating. He was clothed as if he had returned from an affair, with a +flower in his buttonhole, and a top hat held in the hand with his stick +and gloves.</p> + +<p>"Come in!"</p> + +<p>Dalrymple closed the door and advanced, smiling.</p> + +<p>Not for a moment did George's glance leave the other. He felt taut, hard +to the point of brittleness.</p> + +<p>"It's fortunate you've come," he said, quietly. "I've just been trying +to get hold of you."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Then Lambert's been here!" Dalrymple answered, jauntily.</p> + +<p>George nodded.</p> + +<p>"You've been crooked, Dalrymple. Now we'll have an accounting."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple laughed.</p> + +<p>"It's what I've come for; but first I advise you to hold your temper. +It's late, but there are plenty of people still outside. Any more rough +stuff and you'll spend the night in a cell, or under bail."</p> + +<p>"If you lived nine lives," George commented, "you'd never be able to +intimidate me."</p> + +<p>Yet the other's manner troubled, and George's doubtful curiosity grew as +he watched Dalrymple commence to draw the strings of the mask.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple put down his hat and cane, bent swiftly, placed the palms of +his hands on the desk, stared at George, his face inflamed, his eyes +choked with malicious exultation.</p> + +<p>"Your blackmail," he cried, "is knocked into a cocked hat. I married +Sylvia half an hour ago."</p> + +<p>Before George's response he lost some of his colour, drew back warily; +but George had no thought of attacking him; it was too late now. That +was why he experienced a dreadful realization of defeat, for a moment +let through a flickering impression of the need for violence, but—and +Dalrymple couldn't be expected to understand that—violence against +George Morton who had let this situation materialize, who experienced, +tumbling about his head, the magnificent but incomplete efforts of many +years. That sensation of boundless, imponderable wreckage crushing upon +him sent him back to his chair where for a moment he sat, sunk down, +stripped of his power and his will.</p> + +<p>And Dalrymple laughed, enjoying it.</p> + +<p>In George's overwhelmed brain that laughter started an awakening +clamour.</p> + +<p>"What difference does the money make now?" Dalrymple jibed. "And she'll +believe nothing else you may tell her, and violence would only make a +laughing stock of you. It's done."</p> + +<p>"How was it done?" George whispered.</p> + +<p>"No objections to amusing you," Dalrymple mocked. "Lambert interfered +last night, and spoiled his own game by dragging you in. By gad, she has +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."</p> + +<p>He grinned.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>He laughed again.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"In a way! In a way! In a way!" had sung through his brain, deriding +him.</p> + +<p>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!"</p> + +<p>Dalrymple had married her, but it wasn't too late yet.</p> + +<p>"Jealous old fellow!" Dalrymple chaffed. "No congratulations for Dolly. +Blow up about your notes any time you please. I'll see they're paid."</p> + +<p>He took up his hat and stick.</p> + +<p>"Want to run along now and break the news to brother-in-law. Sure to +find him. He's a late bird."</p> + +<p>George stood up.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Glad you take it reasonably," Dalrymple laughed, turning for the door.</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute," George repeated.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple paused, apparently surprised at the tone, even and colourless.</p> + +<p>"Lambert's somewheres about the place," George explained. "Just stay +here, and I'll find him and send him in."</p> + +<p>"Good business!" Dalrymple agreed, sitting down. "Through all the +sooner."</p> + +<p>He smiled.</p> + +<p>"A little anxious to get home to my wife."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"What's happened?"</p> + +<p>"Dalrymple's in my room," George answered without any expression. "He +wants to see you. He'll tell you all about it."</p> + +<p>He raised his hands, putting a stop to Lambert's alarmed questions.</p> + +<p>"Can't wait. Do just one thing for me. Give me half an hour. Keep +Dalrymple here for half an hour."</p> + +<p>Still Lambert cried for reasons.</p> + +<p>"Never mind why. You ought to interest each other for that long."</p> + +<p>But Lambert tried to detain him.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>George turned impatiently.</p> + +<p>"Ask Dalrymple. Then do that one thing for me."</p> + +<p>He ran out of the room, picked up his hat and coat, and hastened to the +elevators.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It was Simpson who opened.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>George walked into the vast hall.</p> + +<p>"I must see her, Simpson, at once."</p> + +<p>He started toward hangings, half-drawn, through which he could see only +partially a dimly lighted room.</p> + +<p>"I will tell her, sir."</p> + +<p>George swung.</p> + +<p>"But not my name, Simpson. Tell her it is a message from her brother, of +the greatest importance."</p> + +<p>George held his breath.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Simpson?"</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>He dismissed Simpson with a nod and entered between the hangings.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>"What do you mean—coming in here—unannounced?"</p> + +<p>His eyes held her.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Her voice from behind her hands was uncertain and muffled.</p> + +<p>"Who told you?"</p> + +<p>"He did—naturally, that—that——"</p> + +<p>He broke off, choking.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>She lowered her hands. Her fear was sufficiently visible. Her attempt at +a laugh was pitiful, resembled an escaping grief.</p> + +<p>"Leave me alone. You have to leave me alone now."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>"Let me go."</p> + +<p>He stared, fascinated, at her lips, half parted, that had just now told +him he had never really wanted anybody else, never could have.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + +<h3>XVII</h3> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"You see that, Lambert——"</p> + +<p>Lambert, who must have been standing close behind him, walked into the +room, as amazed as Dalrymple, nearly as shocked.</p> + +<p>"Sylvia!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Be careful what you say, Dalrymple," George warned him.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple burst out:</p> + +<p>"You'll not tell me what to say. What's this mean, Sylvia? Speak up, +or——"</p> + +<p>"Easy, Dolly," Lambert advised.</p> + +<p>George waited. Sylvia did not cry out. He relaxed, hearing her say +uncertainly:</p> + +<p>"I don't know. I'm sorry. I——"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"God! Am I to believe my eyes? Pretends to despise him, and I find her +in his arms!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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!"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>George laughed shortly.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Keep your mouth shut," Dalrymple said, shrilly. "You won't go. We'll +go. Sylvia! Come with me. We'll talk it out alone."</p> + +<p>She shrank back in her chair, grasped its arms, looked up startled, +shaking her head.</p> + +<p>"I can't go anywhere with you, Dolly," she said in a wondering voice.</p> + +<p>"What you mean? You came to church right enough with me this afternoon. +Don't you forget that."</p> + +<p>She nodded.</p> + +<p>"It was wrong of me," she whispered. "I lost my temper. I didn't know at +all——"</p> + +<p>"How did you find out?" Dalrymple sneered. "From him? But you're my +wife. Come away with me——"</p> + +<p>She stood up swiftly, facing him.</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>She turned helplessly to Lambert.</p> + +<p>"Make him understand."</p> + +<p>Lambert took her hand and led her to the door.</p> + +<p>"Go to Betty," he said.</p> + +<p>"But make him understand," she pled.</p> + +<p>"Why did you marry him if you didn't love him?" Lambert asked.</p> + +<p>She turned and glanced at Dalrymple.</p> + +<p>"I was fond of him. I didn't quite realize. There's a difference—he +must see that I've done an impossible thing, and I won't go on with it."</p> + +<p>They were at the door. Lambert led her through, returning immediately. +George watched her go, blaming himself for her suffering. He had, +indeed, dragged her from her high horse, but he had not realized he +would bring her at once and starkly face to face with facts she had all +along refused to recognize; yet, he was convinced from his long +knowledge of her, she would not alter her decision, and he was happy, +knowing that he had accomplished, after a fashion, what he had come here +to do.</p> + +<p>"You're married," Lambert was saying dryly to Dalrymple. "The problem +seems to be how to get you unmarried."</p> + +<p>"You shan't do that," Dalrymple cried, hotly. "You'll talk her around +instead."</p> + +<p>"Scarcely a chance," Lambert answered, "and really I don't see why I +should try. You've played a slippery trick. You may have had an +understanding with Sylvia, but I am perfectly convinced that she +wouldn't have let anything come of it if you hadn't caught her at a +moment when she couldn't judge reasonably. So it's entirely up to her."</p> + +<p>"We'll see about it," Dalrymple said. "I have my side. You turn nasty. I +turn nasty. You Planters want an annulment proceeding, or a public +divorce with this rotter as co-respondent?"</p> + +<p>"Dolly! You don't know what you're saying."</p> + +<p>"I'll fight for my rights," Dalrymple persisted, sullenly.</p> + +<p>"See here," George put in, "I stayed to say one thing. Sylvia had +nothing to do with what you saw. She couldn't help herself. Your +crookedness, Dalrymple, made me forget everything except that——Never +mind. Lambert understands. Maybe I was out of my head. Anyway, I didn't +give her a chance. She had to suffer it. Is that quite clear?"</p> + +<p>Lambert smiled incredulously.</p> + +<p>"That'll sound well in court, too," Dalrymple threatened.</p> + +<p>"Drop that!" Lambert cried. "Think who you are; who Sylvia is."</p> + +<p>"My wife," Dalrymple came back. "I'll have her or I'll go to court."</p> + +<p>George started for the door.</p> + +<p>"Don't fret, Lambert," he advised. "Money will go a long way with him. +If I might, I'd like to know what the two of you settle. I mean, if you +want to keep it away from your father and mother, my money's available. +I haven't much use for it any more——"</p> + +<p>He broke off. What had he just meant to say: that since he had held +Sylvia in his arms all that had marked the progress of his ambition had +become without value? He would have to find that out. Now he waited at +the door, interested only in Dalrymple's response to his bald proposal. +Dalrymple thrust his hands in his pockets, commenced to pace the room, +but all he said was:</p> + +<p>"Teach you all not to make a fool of Dolly."</p> + +<p>"Remember," George said. "What she wants. And undesired scandals can be +paid for in various ways."</p> + +<p>He glanced at Lambert. Evidently Sylvia's brother on that ground would +meet him as an ally. So he left the house and walked slowly through the +eastern fringe of the park, wishing to avoid even the few people +scattered along the pavements of the avenue, for the touch of Sylvia's +lips was still warm on his mouth. He felt himself apart. He wanted to +remain apart as long as possible with that absorbing memory.</p> + +<p>Her angry responses in the past to his few daring gestures were +submerged in the great, scarcely comprehensible fact that she had not +rebuked him when he had tumbled over every barrier to take her in his +arms; nor had she, when cornered by Dalrymple and Lambert, assumed her +logical defence. Had that meant an awakening of a sort?</p> + +<p>He smiled a little, thinking of her lips.</p> + +<p>Their touch had sent to his brain flashes of pure illumination in which +his once great fondness for Betty had stood stripped of the capacity for +any such avid, confused emotions as Sylvia had compelled; flashes that +had exposed also his apparent hatred of the girl Sylvia as an obstinate +love, which, unable to express itself according to a common-place +pattern, had shifted its violent desires to conceptions of wrongs and +penalties. Blinded by that great light, he asked himself if his +ambition, his strength, and his will had merely been expressions of his +necessity for her.</p> + +<p>Of her words and actions immediately afterward he didn't pretend to +understand anything beyond their assurance that Dalrymple's romance was +at an end. Not a doubt crept into his strange and passionate exaltation.</p> + +<p>He was surprised to find himself at his destination. When he reached his +apartment he got out the old photograph and the broken riding crop, and +with them in his hands sat before the fire, dreaming of the long road +over which they had consistently aided him. He compared Sylvia as he had +just seen her with the girlish and intolerant Sylvia of the photograph, +and he found he could still imagine the curved lips moving to form the +words:</p> + +<p>"You'll not forget."</p> + +<p>He lowered his hands, and took a deep breath like one who has completed +a journey. To-night, in a sense, he had reached the heights most +carefully guarded of all.</p> + + +<h3>XVIII</h3> + +<p>He heard the ringing of the door bell. His servant slipped in.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Lambert Planter, sir."</p> + +<p>George started, placed the crop and the photograph in a drawer, and +looked at the man with an air of surprise.</p> + +<p>"Of course, I should like to see him. And bring me something on a tray, +here in front of the fire."</p> + +<p>Lambert walked in.</p> + +<p>"Don't mind my coming this way, George?"</p> + +<p>"I'm glad I'm no longer 'Morton'," George said, dryly. "Sit down. I'm +going to have a bite to eat."</p> + +<p>He glanced at his watch.</p> + +<p>"Good Lord! It's after ten o'clock."</p> + +<p>"Yes," Lambert said, choosing a chair, "there was a lot to talk about."</p> + +<p>Little of the trouble had left Lambert's face, but George fancied +Sylvia's brother looked at him with curiosity, with a form of respect.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad you've come," George said, "but I don't intend to apologize +for what I did this evening. I think we all, no matter what our +inheritance, fight without thought of affectations for our happiness. +That's what I did. I love your sister, Lambert. Never dreamed how much +until to-night. Not a great deal to say, but it's enormous beyond +definition to think. You have Betty, so perhaps you can understand."</p> + +<p>Lambert smiled in a superior fashion.</p> + +<p>"I'm a little confused," he said. "She's led me to believe all along +she's disliked you; has kept you away from Oakmont; has made it +difficult from the start. Then I find her, whether willingly or not—at +least not crying out for help—in your arms."</p> + +<p>"I had to open her eyes to what she had done," George answered. "I +wasn't exactly accountable, but I honestly believe I took the only +possible means. I don't know whether I succeeded."</p> + +<p>"I fancy you succeeded," Lambert muttered.</p> + +<p>George stretched out his hand, looked at Lambert appealingly.</p> + +<p>"She didn't say so—she——"</p> + +<p>Lambert shook his head.</p> + +<p>"She wouldn't talk about you at all."</p> + +<p>He waited while the servant entered and arranged George's tray.</p> + +<p>"Of course you've dined?"</p> + +<p>"After a fashion," Lambert answered. "Not hungry. You might give me a +drink."</p> + +<p>"I feel apologetic about eating," George said when they were alone +again. "Don't see why I should have an appetite."</p> + +<p>Lambert fingered his glass.</p> + +<p>"Do you know why she didn't have you drawn and quartered?"</p> + +<p>"No. Don't try to create happiness, Lambert, where there mayn't be any."</p> + +<p>"I'm creating nothing. I'm asking a question, in an effort to +understand why she won't, as I say, mention your name; why she can't +bear to have it mentioned."</p> + +<p>"If you were right, if things could be straightened out," George said, +"you—you could put up with it?"</p> + +<p>"Easily," Lambert answered, "and I'll confess I couldn't if it were +Corporal John Smith. I've been fond of you for a long time, George, and +I owe you a great deal, but that doesn't figure. You're worthy even of +Sylvia; but I don't say I'm right. You can't count on Sylvia. And even +if I were, I don't see any way to straighten things out."</p> + +<p>George returned to his meal.</p> + +<p>"If you had taken the proper attitude," he scolded, "you could have +handled Dalrymple. He's weak, avaricious, cowardly."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Dalrymple! I can handle him. It's Sylvia," Lambert said. "In the +long run Dolly agreed to about everything. Of course he wanted money, +and he'll have to have it; but heaven knows there's plenty of money. +Trouble is, the wedding can't be hushed up. That's plain. It will be in +every paper to-morrow. We arranged that Dolly was to live in the house +for a time. They would have been together in public, and Dolly agreed +eventually to let her go and get a quiet divorce—at a price. It sounds +revolting, but to me it seemed the only way."</p> + +<p>George became aware of an ugly and distorted intruder upon his +happiness, yet Lambert was clearly right. Sylvia and Dalrymple, +impulsively joined together, were nothing to each other, couldn't even +resume their long friendship.</p> + +<p>"Well?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"Mother, Betty, and I talked it over with Sylvia," Lambert answered. +"You see, we've kept Father in ignorance so far. He's scarcely up to +such a row. Mother will make him wise very gently only when it becomes +necessary."</p> + +<p>"But what did Sylvia say?" George demanded, bending toward Lambert, his +meal forgotten.</p> + +<p>"Sylvia," Lambert replied, spreading his hands helplessly, "would agree +to nothing. In the first place, she wouldn't consent to Dolly's staying +in the house even to save appearances. I don't know what's the matter +with her. She worried us all. She wasn't hysterical exactly, but she +cried a good deal, which is quite unusual for her, and she +seemed—frightened. She wouldn't let any one go near her—even Mother. I +couldn't understand that."</p> + +<p>George stared at the fire, his hands clasped. When at last he spoke he +scarcely heard his own voice:</p> + +<p>"She will get a divorce—as soon as possible?"</p> + +<p>Lambert emptied his glass and set it down.</p> + +<p>"That's just it," he answered, gloomily. "She won't listen to anything +of the sort."</p> + +<p>George glanced up.</p> + +<p>"What is there left for her to do?"</p> + +<p>Lambert frowned.</p> + +<p>"Something seems to have changed her wholly. She declares she'll never +see Dolly again, and in the same breath talks about the church and a +horror of divorce, and the necessity of her suffering for her mistake; +and she wants to pay her debt to Dolly by giving him, instead of +herself, all of her money—a few such pleasant inconsistencies. See +here. Why didn't you run wild yesterday, or the day before?"</p> + +<p>"Do you think," George asked, softly, "it would have been quite the same +thing, would have had quite the same effect?"</p> + +<p>"I wonder," Lambert mused.</p> + +<p>George arose and stood with his back to the fire.</p> + +<p>"And of course," he said, thoughtfully, "you or I can't tell just what +the effect has been. See here, Lambert. I have to find that out. I must +see her once, if only for five minutes."</p> + +<p>He watched Lambert, who didn't answer at first.</p> + +<p>"I'll not run wild again," he promised. "If she'd only agree—just five +minutes' talk."</p> + +<p>"I told you," Lambert said at last, "she wouldn't mention your name or +let any one else; but, on the theory that you are really responsible for +what's happened, I'd like you to see her. You might persuade her that a +divorce is absolutely necessary, the only way out. You might get her to +understand that she can't go through life tied to a man she'll never +see, while people will talk many times more than if she took a train +quietly west."</p> + +<p>"If she'll see me," George said, "I'll try to make it plain to her."</p> + +<p>"Betty has a scheme——" Lambert began, and wouldn't grow more explicit +beyond saying, "Betty'll probably let you hear from her in the morning. +That's the reason I wanted you to know how things stand. I'm hurrying +back now to our confused house."</p> + +<p>George followed him to the door.</p> + +<p>"Dalrymple—where is he?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Gone to his parents. He'll try to play the game for the present."</p> + +<p>"At a price," George said.</p> + +<p>Lambert nodded.</p> + +<p>"Rather well-earned, too, on the whole," he answered, ironically.</p> + + + +<h3>XIX</h3> + +<p>George slept little that night. The fact that Lambert believed him +responsible for the transformation in Sylvia was sufficiently exciting. +In Sylvia's manner her brother must have read something he had not quite +expressed to George. And why wouldn't she mention him? Why couldn't she +bear to have the others mention him? With his head bowed on his hands he +sat before the desk, staring at the diminishing fire, and in this +posture he fell at last asleep to be startled by Wandel who had not +troubled to have himself announced. The fire was quite dead. In the +bright daylight streaming into the room George saw that the little man +held a newspaper in his hand.</p> + +<p>"Is it a habit of great men not to go to bed?"</p> + +<p>George stood up and stretched. He indicated the newspaper.</p> + +<p>"You've come with the evil tidings?"</p> + +<p>"About Sylvia and Dolly," Wandel began.</p> + +<p>George yawned.</p> + +<p>"I must bathe and become presentable, for this is another day."</p> + +<p>"You've already seen it?" Wandel asked, a trifle puzzled.</p> + +<p>"No, but what else should there be in the paper?"</p> + +<p>Wandel stared for a moment, then carefully folded the paper and tossed +it in the fireplace.</p> + +<p>"Nothing much," he answered, lighting a cigarette, "except hold-ups, +murders, new strikes, fresh battles among our brethren of the Near +East—nothing of the slightest consequence. By by. Make yourself, great +man, fresh and beautiful for the new day."</p> + + +<h3>XX</h3> + +<p>George wondered why Wandel should have come at all, or, having come, why +he should have left in that manner; and he was sorry he had answered as +he had, for Wandel invariably knew a great deal, more than most people. +In this case he had probably come only to help, but in George's brain +nothing could survive for long beyond hazards as to what the morning +might develop. Betty was going to communicate with him, and she would +naturally expect to find him at his office, so he hurried down town and +waited, forcing himself to the necessary details of his work. For the +first time the mechanics of making money seemed dreary and unprofitable.</p> + +<p>Goodhue came in with a clearly designed lack of curiosity. Had his +partner all along suspected the truth, or had Wandel been talking? For +that matter, did Goodhue himself experience a sense of loss?</p> + +<p>"Not so surprising, George. Dolly's always been after her—even back in +the Princeton days, and she's played around with him since they were +children; yet I was a little shocked. I never thought it would quite +come off."</p> + +<p>It was torture for George to listen, and he couldn't possibly talk about +it, so he led Goodhue quite easily to the day's demands; but Blodgett +appeared not long after with a drooping countenance. Why did they all +have to come to him to discuss the unannounced wedding of Sylvia +Planter?</p> + +<p>"She ought to have done better," Blodgett disapproved funereally.</p> + +<p>He fingered a gaudy handkerchief. He thrust it in his pocket, drew it +forth again, folded it carefully with his pudgy hands.</p> + +<p>"Don't think I've ever ceased to regret——" he started rather +pitifully.</p> + +<p>After a moment's absorbed scrutiny of George he went on.</p> + +<p>"If she had picked somebody like you I wouldn't have minded. Papa +Blodgett would have given you both his blessing."</p> + +<p>So they had all guessed something! George questioned uneasily if +Blodgett's suspicions had lived during the course of his own unfortunate +romance, and he was sorrier than ever he had had to help destroy that. +He got rid of Blodgett and refused to see any one else, but he had to +answer the telephone, for that would almost certainly be Betty's means +of communication. Each time the pleasant bell tinkled he seized the +receiver, and each time cut short whatever masculine worries reached +him. The uneven pounding of the ticker punctuated his suspense. It was a +feverish morning in the market, but not once did he rise to glance at +the tape which streamed neglected into the basket.</p> + +<p>It was after one o'clock when he snatched the receiver from the hook +again with a hopeless premonition of another disappointment. Then he +heard Betty's voice, scarcely more than an anxious whisper "George!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, Betty."</p> + +<p>"My car will be somewhere between Altman's and Tiffany's at two o'clock, +as near the corner of Thirty-fifth Street as they'll let me get. Lambert +knows. It's all right."</p> + +<p>"But, Betty——"</p> + +<p>"Just be there," she said, and must have hung up.</p> + +<p>He glanced at his watch. He could start now. He hurried from the +building, but there was no point in haste. He had plenty of time, too +much time; and Betty hadn't said he would see Sylvia; hadn't given him +time to ask; but she must have arranged an interview, else why should +she care to see him at all, why her manner of a conspirator?</p> + +<p>He reached the rendezvous well ahead of time, but he recognized Betty's +car just beyond the corner, and saw her wave to him anxiously. He +stepped in and sat at her side. She laughed nervously.</p> + +<p>"I guessed you would be a little ahead," she said as the car commenced +to crawl north.</p> + +<p>"Am I to see Sylvia?"</p> + +<p>Betty nodded.</p> + +<p>"Just once. This noon, before I telephoned, she acknowledged that she +wanted to see you—to talk to you for the last time. That's the way she +put it."</p> + +<p>Betty smiled sceptically.</p> + +<p>"You know I don't believe anything of the sort."</p> + +<p>"What do you think can be done?" George asked.</p> + +<p>She didn't suggest anything, merely repeating her faith, going on while +she looked at George curiously.</p> + +<p>"So all the time, George—and I didn't really guess, but I might have +known you would. I can remember now that day at Princeton when I asked +you about her dog, and your anxiety one night at Josiah's when you +wanted to know if she was going to be married—oh, plenty of hints now. +George! Why did you let it go so far?"</p> + +<p>"Couldn't help myself, Betty."</p> + +<p>She looked at him helplessly.</p> + +<p>"And what have you done to her?"</p> + +<p>"If you can't guess——" George said.</p> + +<p>Betty smiled reminiscently.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I can guess. You would do just that, George, when there was +nothing else."</p> + +<p>"You don't blame me?" he asked. "You don't ask, as Lambert did, why I +waited so long?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>"I'm sure," she said, "when you came last night you saw a Sylvia none of +us had ever met before. Don't you think it had come upon her all at once +that she was no longer Sylvia Planter, that in defeating you she had +destroyed herself? If that is so, she has every bit of sympathy I'm +capable of, and we must think first of all of her. The pride's still +there, but quite a different thing. She's never known fear before, +George, and now she's afraid, terribly afraid, most of all, I think, of +herself."</p> + +<p>George counted the corners, was relieved when beyond Fiftieth Street the +traffic thinned and they went faster. He took Betty's hand, and found +that the touch steadied and encouraged, because at last her fingers +seemed to reach his mind again.</p> + +<p>"Betty! Do you think she cares at all?"</p> + +<p>"I'm prejudiced," Betty laughed, "but I think the harder she'd been the +more she's cared; but she wouldn't talk about you except to say she +would see you for a minute this once. Lambert's lunching with Dolly."</p> + +<p>"We are conspirators," George said, "and I don't like it, but I must see +her once."</p> + +<p>They drew up at the curb, got out, and entered the hall. The house was +peculiarly without sound. George glanced at the entrance to the room +where he had found Sylvia last night.</p> + +<p>"I think she's in Mr. Planter's study," Betty said. "He hasn't come +downstairs yet."</p> + +<p>She led him through the library to a small, square room—a quiet and +comfortable book-lined retreat where Old Planter had been accustomed to +supplement his work down town. George looked eagerly around, but the +light wasn't very good, and he didn't at first see Sylvia.</p> + +<p>"Sylvia!" Betty called softly. "I've brought George."</p> + + +<h3>XXI</h3> + +<p>Almost before George realized it Betty was gone and the door was closed.</p> + +<p>"Sylvia!"</p> + +<p>Her low voice reached him from a large chair opposite the single, +leaded, opaque window.</p> + +<p>"I'm over here——"</p> + +<p>Yes, there was fear in her enunciation, as if she groped through shadowy +and hazardous places. It cautioned him. With a choked feeling, a racking +effort after repression, he walked quietly around and stared down at +her.</p> + +<p>She looked up once quickly, then glanced away. He was grateful for her +colour, but the fear was in her face, too, and the pride, as Betty had +said, but a transformed pride that he couldn't quite understand. She lay +back in the large chair, her head to one side resting against the +protruding arm. Her eyes were bright with tears she had shed or wanted +to shed.</p> + +<p>"Please sit down."</p> + +<p>The ring of exasperated contempt and challenge had gone from her voice. +He hadn't known it could stir him so. He drew up a chair and sat close +to her.</p> + +<p>"You are not angry about what I did last night?" he whispered.</p> + +<p>She shook her head.</p> + +<p>"I am grateful. I wanted to see you to tell you that, and how sorry I +am—so beastly sorry, George."</p> + +<p>Her voice drifted away. It made him want his arms about her, made him +want her lips again. The room became a black and restless background for +this shadowy, desired, and forbidden figure.</p> + +<p>Impulsively he slipped to his knees and placed his head against the side +of her chair. Across his hair he fancied a fugitive brushing of fingers. +She burst out with something of her former impetuous manner.</p> + +<p>"I used to want that! Now you shan't!"</p> + +<p>He arose, and she stooped swiftly forward, as if propelled objectively, +and, before he realized what she was doing, touched the back of his hand +with her lips.</p> + +<p>She sprang upright and faced him from the mantel, more afraid than ever, +staring at him, her cheeks wet with tears.</p> + +<p>"That's all," she whispered. "It's what I wanted to tell you. Please go. +We mustn't see each other again."</p> + +<p>In the room he was aware only of her, but he knew, in spite of his own +blind instinct, that between them was a wall as of transparent and heavy +glass against which he would only break his strength.</p> + +<p>"Sylvia," he whispered in spite of that knowledge, "I want to touch your +lips."</p> + +<p>"They've never been anybody else's," she cried in a sudden outburst. +"Never could have been. I see that now. That's why I've hated you——"</p> + +<p>"Yet you love me now. You do love me, Sylvia?"</p> + +<p>"I love you, George," she said, wearily. "I think I always have."</p> + +<p>"Then why—why——"</p> + +<p>She turned on him, nearly angry.</p> + +<p>"How can you ask that? You haven't forgotten that first day, either, +have you? You took something of me then, and I couldn't forget it. That +was what hurt and humiliated; I couldn't forget, couldn't get out of my +mind what you—one of the—the stablemen—had taken of me, Sylvia +Planter. And I thought you could never give it back, but last night you +did, and I——Everything went to pieces——And it had to be last night, +after I'd lost my temper. I see that. That's the tragedy of it."</p> + +<p>"I don't quite understand, Sylvia."</p> + +<p>She smiled a little through her tears.</p> + +<p>"Betty would. Any woman would. You must go now—please."</p> + +<p>"When will I see you again?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"This way? Never."</p> + +<p>"What nonsense! You'll get a divorce. You must."</p> + +<p>She straightened. Her head went back.</p> + +<p>"I won't lie that way."</p> + +<p>"I'll hit on some means," he boasted. "You belong to me."</p> + +<p>"And I've found it out too late," she said, "and I don't believe I could +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."</p> + +<p>She drew a little away, and when he started forward motioned him back. +Her face flooded with colour, but she met his eyes bravely.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Why do you do that?" he asked, desperately.</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + + +<h3>XXII</h3> + +<p>"Who has made my little girl cry?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>Sylvia broke in sharply.</p> + +<p>"He's never been told——"</p> + +<p>"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——"</p> + +<p>Slowly he shook his head from side to side. He peered suspiciously at +George out of his dim eyes.</p> + +<p>"I don't remember."</p> + +<p>Suddenly he cried out with a flash of the old authority:</p> + +<p>"I'm growing sensitive, Morton. No jokes! What's he talking about?"</p> + +<p>Sylvia took his hand. Her lips trembled.</p> + +<p>"Never mind, Father. Come."</p> + +<p>And as he let her guide him he drifted on.</p> + +<p>"Sylvia! Have you got everything you want? I'll give you anything you +want if only you won't cry."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Tell Sylvia I am very happy," he said.</p> + +<p>She pressed his hand, whispering:</p> + +<p>"The great George Morton!"</p> + + +<h3>XXIII</h3> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Snap the lamps on, will you, Driggs?"</p> + +<p>Wandel obeyed, and George blinked, laughing uncomfortably.</p> + +<p>"You'll fancy I've caught the poet's mood."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, shut up, Driggs. Maybe you'll tell me why they ever called you +'Spike.'"</p> + +<p>Wandel yawned.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>George looked at him.</p> + +<p>"I think I do, Driggs; and thanks."</p> + +<p>"Then," Wandel said, brightly, "you'll come and dine with me."</p> + +<p>"I will. I will. Where shall we go? Not to the club."</p> + +<p>"I fancy one club wouldn't be pleasant for you this evening," Wandel +said, quietly.</p> + +<p>George caught his breath.</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"It's too bad," he said then, "that great men won't take warnings."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Why, Driggs?"</p> + +<p>Wandel put his hand on George's knee.</p> + +<p>"You don't mind my saying this? A long time ago I guessed she loved you. +Even as far back as Betty's début, 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."</p> + +<p>"Why did you never warn me of that?" George asked.</p> + +<p>Wandel laughed lightly.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>George crumbled a piece of bread.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Wandel laughed again, this time on a note of embarrassed disapproval.</p> + +<p>"Not extraordinary in this case."</p> + +<p>George glanced up.</p> + +<p>"You said something about the club not being pleasant for me +to-night——"</p> + +<p>"Because," Wandel answered with brutal directness, "Dolly's been there."</p> + +<p>George clenched his hands. Wandel looked at them amusedly.</p> + +<p>"Very glad you weren't about, Hercules."</p> + +<p>"It was that bad?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"Why not," Wandel drawled, "say rather worse?"</p> + +<p>"Drunk?" George whispered.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Somebody should have shut him up," George cried.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"It's not to be borne," George muttered. "He ought to be killed."</p> + +<p>"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?"</p> + +<p>George tried to laugh.</p> + +<p>"Quite. Go ahead."</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"What did he say?" George asked, softly.</p> + +<p>Wandel half closed his eyes.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>George had difficulty with his next question.</p> + +<p>"He—he didn't mention me?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes," Wandel answered, gravely, "but rather incoherently."</p> + +<p>"Rotten of him!"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"Won't listen to it," George snapped.</p> + +<p>"How stupid of me!" Wandel drawled. "Of course she wouldn't."</p> + +<p>He sighed.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>George tried to smile.</p> + +<p>"Then shall we talk about shell fish?"</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"The hell after war!" George grinned.</p> + +<p>Wandel smiled back.</p> + +<p>"Let us hope not a milestone on the road."</p> + + +<h3>XXIV</h3> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"It's extraordinary, George. You've very nearly made every word good."</p> + +<p>George took the opening to ask a question that had been in his mind for +many days.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>Lambert frowned.</p> + +<p>"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."</p> + +<p>"If one could only be sure he had the virtue of loving her!" George +mused.</p> + +<p>"He hasn't," Lambert said, impatiently. "Since I talked with him that +hectic night I've admitted that Dolly's never had the capacity to love +any one except himself. So he's probably happy in his own unpleasant +way."</p> + +<p>A thought came to George. He smiled a little.</p> + +<p>"I've been wondering if Sylvia is going in harder than ever on the side +of the downtrodden."</p> + +<p>Lambert laughed.</p> + +<p>"As far as I know, hasn't mentioned a cossack since that night; and I +have to confess, hard-headed reactionary, the ranks are making me see +too many bad qualities among the good."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," George suggested, "the ranks are saying something of the sort +about us. Besides, I don't see why you call me reactionary."</p> + +<p>"Would you have minded it a while back?" Lambert asked.</p> + +<p>"Just the same," George answered, "I'd like to get their point of view."</p> + +<p>What would Squibs say to that from him? Squibs, undoubtedly, would be +pleased. After Lambert had gone he sat for a long time thinking. He was +glad Lambert had come, for the other had suggested that in endeavouring +to capture such a point of view, in pleasing Squibs, he might at last +find a real interest, and one of use to somebody besides himself. If the +men on the heights didn't get at it pretty soon, a different kind of +climber would appear, with black hands, inflamed eyes, and a mind +stripped, by passion, of all logic. Gladly he found it possible to bring +to this new task the energy with which he had attacked the narrower +puzzles of the university and Wall Street.</p> + +<p>Sylvia had called him the most selfish person she had ever met, and, as +he tried to strip from the facts of the world's disease the perpetual, +clinging propaganda, he applied her charge to his soul. From the first +he had been infected, yet his selfishness had been neither inefficient +nor dangerous. This increasing pestilence was. Lambert guessed what he +was at, and George jeered at him for his war madness, but Lambert had +found again an absorbing interest. Because of his missing leg it was +rather pitiful to watch his enthusiasm for a reawakened activity.</p> + +<p>"You've got to see Harvard swallow your old Tiger, George," he said one +Friday. "After all, why not? You don't need to come out to the Alstons, +although I'm not sure there would be any harm in that. Talk's about +done, I fancy."</p> + +<p>George flushed.</p> + +<p>"Do you know I'd love to spill you again, Lambert? I'd like to bring you +down so hard the seismographs would make a record."</p> + +<p>"Too bad we can't try to kill each other," Lambert said, regretfully. +"Why not watch younger brutes?"</p> + +<p>"I've wanted it for days," George acknowledged. "I'll wire Squibs."</p> + +<p>George was perfectly sure that Squibs knew nothing, for he wasn't +socially curious, and Betty would have hesitated to talk about what had +happened even to Mrs. Squibs, yet he was conscious, after the first +moment of meeting, of a continued scrutiny from Squibs, of a hesitancy +of manner, of an unusually careful choice of words.</p> + +<p>He had small opportunity to test this impression, for it was noon when +he reached the house in Dickinson Street, and there were many of the +tutor's products in the dining-room, snatching a cold bite while they +roared confused pessimism about the game.</p> + +<p>"You're going to the side-lines," Squibs said when they had climbed the +ramp to their section of the stadium.</p> + +<p>"I'd be in the way," George objected.</p> + +<p>Bailly stared at him.</p> + +<p>"George Morton on a football field could only be in the way of Harvard +and Yale."</p> + +<p>George experienced a quick, ardent wish for thick turf underfoot, for a +seat on the bench among players exhaling a thick atmosphere of eager and +absorbed excitement. So he let the tutor lead him down the steps. Squibs +called to Green, who was distrait.</p> + +<p>"What is it, Mr. Bailly?"</p> + +<p>"I've got Morton."</p> + +<p>Green sprang to life.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Stringham! An omen! An omen!"</p> + +<p>He met George at the gate and threw his arms around him. Stringham +hurried up. Green crowed.</p> + +<p>"I believe we'll lick these fellows or come mighty close to it."</p> + +<p>"Of course you'll lick them, Green. Hello, Stringham! May I sit down?"</p> + +<p>"The stadium's yours," Stringham said, simply.</p> + +<p>As he walked along the line of eager players, smothered in blankets or +sweaters, George caught snatches of the curiosity of youth, because of +nervousness, too audibly expressed.</p> + +<p>"Who's the big fellow?"</p> + +<p>"That? Longest kicker, fastest man for his weight ever played the game. +George Morton—the great Morton."</p> + +<p>"He never played with that leg! What's the matter with his leg? +Football?"</p> + +<p>George caught no answer. He sat down among the respectful youths, +thinking whimsically:</p> + +<p>"The war's so soon over, but thank God they can't forget football!"</p> + + +<h3>XXV</h3> + +<p>At the very end of the first half, when the Princeton sections +experienced the unforeseen glow of a possible victory, George caught a +glimpse of Lambert and Wandel close to the barrier, as if they had left +their places to catch someone with the calling of time. Just then the +horn scrunched its anxious message. George called.</p> + +<p>"Lambert Planter!"</p> + +<p>Stringham paused, grinning.</p> + +<p>"Come over here, you biting bulldog."</p> + +<p>Lambert made his way through the barrier and grasped Stringham's hand.</p> + +<p>"Come along to the dressing-room," Stringham suggested, cordially. "Nice +bulldog, although once I loved to see Morton chew you up."</p> + +<p>Lambert glanced down.</p> + +<p>"Thanks. I'd better stay here. One of my runners is off, Stringham."</p> + +<p>"Then sit with the boys next half," Stringham said. "Coming, Morton?"</p> + +<p>George shook his head, and urged the anxious coach away, for Wandel had +caught his eye.</p> + +<p>"Tell them to keep their heads," George called after Stringham. "If they +keep their heads they've got Harvard beaten."</p> + +<p>He glanced inquiringly at Wandel.</p> + +<p>"Why not cease," Wandel said, "imagining yourself a giddy, heroic cub? +Come up and sit with mature people the last half."</p> + +<p>The invitation startled George. Then Sylvia wasn't there?</p> + +<p>"Is Sylvia all right?" he asked Lambert under his breath.</p> + +<p>Lambert was a trifle ill at ease.</p> + +<p>"Oh, quite. Betty asked us to get you. Wants to see you. Have my place. +I'm going to accept Stringham's fine invitation, and sit here with the +young—a possible Yale scout on the Princeton side-lines."</p> + +<p>"Stringham's no fool," George laughed. "Anyway, he has you fellows +beaten right now."</p> + +<p>Lambert thrust his hand in his pocket.</p> + +<p>"How much you got?"</p> + +<p>Wandel grasped George's arm.</p> + +<p>"Come with me before you get in a college brawl."</p> + +<p>"Plenty when we're not chaperoned, Lambert," George called, and followed +Wandel through the restless crowd and up the concrete steps.</p> + +<p>Was Sylvia really there? Was he going to see her? The idea of finding +him had sprung from Betty, and Lambert had been ill at ease.</p> + +<p>He saw Betty and her father and mother, then beyond them, a vacant place +between, Sylvia to whom the open air and its chill had given back all +her dark, flushed brilliancy. Wandel slid through first, and made +himself comfortable at Sylvia's farther side. George followed, stopping +to speak to the Alstons, to accept Betty's approving glance.</p> + +<p>"Conspirator!" he whispered, and went on, and sat down close to Sylvia, +and yielded himself to the delight of her proximity. She glanced at him, +her colour deepening.</p> + +<p>"Betty said it was all right, and I must. So many people——"</p> + +<p>The air was sharp enough to make rugs comfortable. He couldn't see her +hands because they were beneath the rug across her knees, a covering she +shared with Wandel and him.</p> + +<p>As he drew the rug up one of his hands touched hers, and his fingers, +beyond his control, groped for her fingers. He detected a quick, nervous +movement away; then it was stopped, and their hands met, clasped, and +clung together.</p> + +<p>For a moment they looked at each other, and knew they mustn't, since +there were so many people; but the content of their clasped hands +continued because it couldn't be observed.</p> + +<p>The supreme football player sat there staring at a blur of autumn colour +between the lake and the generous mouth of the stadium; and, when the +second half commenced, saw, as if from an immeasurable distance, pygmy +figures booting a football, or carrying it here and there, or throwing +each other about; and he didn't know which were Harvard's men or which +were Princeton's, and he didn't seem to care——</p> + +<p>Vaguely he heard people suffering. A voice cut through a throaty and +grieving murmur.</p> + +<p>"Somebody's lost his head!"</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" he asked Sylvia.</p> + +<p>"George! You're destroying my hand."</p> + +<p>Momentarily he remembered, and relaxed his grasp, while she added +quickly:</p> + +<p>"But I don't mind at all, dear."</p> + + +<h3>XXVI</h3> + +<p>Lambert stood in front of them, glancing down doubtfully. Evidently the +game was over, for people were leaving, talking universally and +discontentedly.</p> + +<p>"Betty and I," Lambert said, dryly, "fancied we'd invented and patented +that rug trick."</p> + +<p>Sylvia stood up.</p> + +<p>"Don't scold, Lambert."</p> + +<p>She turned to George, trying to smile.</p> + +<p>"I shall be happy as long as my hand hurts. Good-bye, George."</p> + +<p>"You'd better go," Betty whispered as he lingered helplessly.</p> + +<p>So he drifted aimlessly through the crowd, hearing only a confused +murmur, seeing nothing beyond the backs directly in front of him, until +he found the Baillys waiting at the ramp opening.</p> + +<p>"If you'd only been there, George! Although this morning we'd have been +glad enough to think of a tie score."</p> + +<p>He submitted then to Bailly's wonder at each miracle; to his grief for +each mistake; and little by little, as the complaining voice hurried on, +the world assumed its familiar proportions and movements. He caught a +glimpse of Allen walking slowly ahead. The angular man was alone, and +projected even to George an air of profound dissatisfaction. Bailly +caught his arm and shook hands with him.</p> + +<p>"Whither away?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"To the specials."</p> + +<p>He fell in beside George, and for a time kept pace with him.</p> + +<p>"What's bothering you, Allen?"</p> + +<p>With a haggard air Allen turned his head from side to side, gazing at +the hastening people.</p> + +<p>"Lords of the land!" he muttered. "Lords of the land!"</p> + +<p>"Why?" George asked. "Because they have an education? Well, so have +you."</p> + +<p>Allen nodded toward the emptying stadium.</p> + +<p>"Lords of the land!" he repeated. "I've been sitting up there with them, +but all alone. I wish I hadn't liked being with them. I wish I hadn't +been sorry for myself because I was alone."</p> + +<p>Allen's words, his manner of expressing them, defined a good deal for +George, urged him to form a quick resolution.</p> + +<p>"Catch your special," he said, "but come to my office Tuesday morning. I +may have work for you that you can do with a clear conscience. If you +must get, get something worth while."</p> + +<p>Allen glanced at him quickly.</p> + +<p>"Morton, you've changed," he said. "I'll come."</p> + + +<h3>XXVII</h3> + +<p>Very slowly the excitement of the game cleared from Squibs' brain. That +night he could talk of nothing else, begging George for an opinion of +each player and his probable value against Yale the following Saturday. +George, to cover his confusion, generalized.</p> + +<p>"We'll beat Yale," he said, "as we ought to have beaten Harvard, because +this team isn't afraid of colours and symbols. Most of these youngsters +have been in the bigger game, so final football matches no longer appeal +to them as matters of life and death and even of one's chances in the +hereafter."</p> + +<p>Bailly looked slightly sheepish.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid, George, I'm going to New Haven to look at a struggle of +life and death, but then I was only in the Y. M. C. A. I'd feel many +times better if you were sound and available."</p> + +<p>"You might speak to the dean about me," George laughed.</p> + +<p>By the next evening, however, the crowd had departed, and with +Princeton's return to normal Squibs for the time overcame his anxieties. +That night George and he sat in a corner of the lounge of the Nassau +Club, waiting for Lambert and Wandel to drive in from the Alstons. +George grew a trifle uncomfortable, because he suspected Squibs was +staring at him with yesterday's curious scrutiny. Abruptly the tutor +asked:</p> + +<p>"What did you say to Allen after the game?"</p> + +<p>"Offered him another job," George answered, shortly.</p> + +<p>Bailly frowned.</p> + +<p>"See here, George. What are you up to? Is that fair and decent? Allen is +struggling—for the right."</p> + +<p>"Allen," George answered, "has put some of his views to the test, and +the results have made him discouraged and uneasy. He's been tainted by +the very men he's tried to help. I've no idea of debauching him. Quite +the reverse. Please listen."</p> + +<p>And he entered upon a sort of penitence, speaking, while the tutor's +wrinkled face flushed with pleasure, of his recent efforts to understand +the industrial situation and its probable effects on society.</p> + +<p>"I have to acknowledge," he said, softly, "that pure material success +has completely altered its meaning for me. I'd like to use my share of +it, and what small brains I have, to help set things straight; but I'm +not so sure this generation won't have too sticky feet to drag itself +out of the swamp of its own making."</p> + +<p>Lambert and Wandel arrived just then, talking cheerfully about football.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean to do?" Bailly asked George as the others sat down.</p> + +<p>George smiled at Wandel.</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure, Driggs, that the hour hasn't struck for you."</p> + +<p>Wandel raised his hands.</p> + +<p>"You mean politics!"</p> + +<p>"I used to fancy," George said, "that I'd need you for my selfish +interests. Now my idea is quite different."</p> + +<p>He turned to Squibs.</p> + +<p>"See here, sir. You've got to admit that the soul of the whole thing is +education. I don't mean education in the narrow sense that we know it +here or in any other university. I mean the opening of eyes to real +communal efficiency; the comprehension of the necessity of building +instead of tearing down; the birth of the desire to climb one's self +rather than to try to make stronger men descend."</p> + +<p>Bailly's eyes sparkled.</p> + +<p>"I don't say you're not right, George. You may be right."</p> + +<p>A fire blazed comfortably in front of them. The chairs were deep. +Through a window the Holder tower, for all its evening lack of +definition, seemed an indestructible pointer of George's thoughts. For a +long time he talked earnestly.</p> + +<p>"I climbed," he ended. "So others can, and less selfishly and more +usefully, if they're only told how; if they'll only really try."</p> + +<p>"You're always right, great man," Wandel drawled, "but we mustn't forget +you climbed from fundamentals. That's education—the teaching of the +fundamentals."</p> + +<p>"It means an equal chance for everybody," George said, "and then, by +gad, we won't have the world held back by those who refuse to take their +chance. We won't permit the congenitally unsound to set the pace for the +healthy. We'll take care of the congenitally unsound."</p> + +<p>He turned to Bailly.</p> + +<p>"And you and your excitable socialists have got to realize that you +can't make the world sane through makeshifts, or all at once, but with +foresight it can be done. You've raised the devil with me ever since I +was a sub-Freshman about service and the unsound and the virtue of +soiled clothing. Now raise the devil with somebody else about the virtue +of sound service and clean clothes. This education must start in the +schools. We may be able to force it into public schools through the +legislatures; but in Princeton and the other great universities it has +to come from within, and that's hard; that, in a way, is up to you and +other gentle sectarians like you. And your clubs have got to stand in +some form—everywhere, if only as objectives of physical and +intellectual content. Nothing good torn from the world! Only the +evil——"</p> + +<p>He tapped Wandel's arm.</p> + +<p>"Driggs! If you want to go among the time-servers, to stand alone for +the people; perhaps for people yet unborn——"</p> + +<p>"For a long time," Wandel said, "I've been looking for something I could +really want to do. I rather fancy you've found it for me, George. I want +to climb, too, always have—not to the heights we once talked about at +your unhealthy picnic, but to the furtherest heights of all, which are +guarded by selfishness, servility, sin—past which people have to be +led."</p> + +<p>Squibs cried out enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>"And from which you can look down with a clear conscience on the +climbers to whom you will have pointed out the path."</p> + +<p>"I see now," Lambert put in, "that that is the only way in which one +with self-respect can look down on lesser men."</p> + +<p>George laughed aloud.</p> + +<p>"An ally that can't escape! Driggs is a witness. We'll hold that fine +democracy of the Argonne over your head forever."</p> + +<p>"You see," Wandel drawled, "that was bound to fail, because it was based +on the ridiculous assumption that every man that fought was good and +great."</p> + +<p>"I fancy," George said, "we're commencing to find out why we went to +war—To appreciate the world's and our own astigmatism."</p> + +<p>As they walked back to the little house in Dickinson Street, Bailly +tried to express something.</p> + +<p>"I guess," he managed, "that I'll have to call it square, George."</p> + +<p>"I'm glad," George said, quickly, "but you must give some of the credit +to Lambert Planter's sister."</p> + +<p>He smiled happily, wistfully.</p> + +<p>"You know she's the most useful socialist of you all."</p> + +<p>After a time he said under his breath:</p> + +<p>"There are some things I never dreamed of being able to repay you, sir. +For instance this—this feeling that one is walking home."</p> + +<p>"That debt," Bailly said, brightly, "cancels itself."</p> + +<p>His mood changed. He spoke with a stern personal regret.</p> + +<p>"You young men! You young men! How much farther you see! How much more +you can do!"</p> + + +<h3>XXVIII</h3> + +<p>George returned to New York happy in his memory of his intimate hour on +a crowded stand with Sylvia. Dalrymple had given him that, too. It +amazed him that so much beauty could spring from so ugly a source.</p> + +<p>He heard that Dalrymple was back from Canada, then that he had wandered +away, pockets full, on another journey, pandering to his twisted +conception of pleasure. One day George took his notes from the +safe-deposit box and gave them to Lambert.</p> + +<p>"Get them back to him," he said.</p> + +<p>And Lambert must have understood that George would never let the +Planters' money redeem them.</p> + +<p>"It's pretty decent, George."</p> + +<p>"It's nothing of the kind. They make my hands feel dirty, and I've lots +of money, and I'm making more every day; yet I wonder if it's going to +be enough, even with Driggs' and Blodgett's and yours, old Argonne +democrat."</p> + +<p>For he had spoken of his plans to Blodgett, and had been a little +surprised to learn how much thought Blodgett had given the puzzle +himself, although most of his searching had been for makeshifts, for +anything to tide over immediate emergencies.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," Blodgett roared, "whether this cleaning out the sore and +getting to the bottom of it will work or not; but I'm inclined to look +to the future with you for a permanent cure. Anyway, I'd help you +finance a scheme to make the ocean dry, because you usually get what +you're after. So we'll send Wandel and Allen and some more as a little +leaven to Albany and to that quilting party in Washington. I don't envy +them, though."</p> + +<p>George realized that his content could be traced to this new interest, +as that went back to Sylvia. He had at last consciously set out to +explore the road of service. For the first time in his life, with his +eyes open, he was working for others, yet he never got rid of the sense +of a great personal need unfulfilled; always in his heart vibrated the +cry for Sylvia, but he knew he mustn't try to see her, for Betty would +have let him know, and Betty hadn't sent for him again.</p> + +<p>After the holidays, at the urging of Wandel and Lambert, he showed +himself here and there, received at first curious glances, fancied some +people slightly self-conscious, then all at once found himself welcomed +on the old frank and pleasant basis. Yes, the talk had pretty well died, +and men and women were inclined to like Sylvia Planter and George Morton +better than they did Dalrymple.</p> + +<p>He saw Dalrymple in the club one stormy January evening. He hadn't heard +he was in town, and examined him curiously as he sat alone in a corner, +making a pretence of reading a newspaper, but really looking across the +room at the fire with restless eyes. George, prepared as he had been, +was surprised by the haggard, flushed countenance, and the neurotic +symptoms, nearly uncontrollable.</p> + +<p>Beyond question Dalrymple saw him, and pretended that he didn't. +Heartily glad of that, George joined a group about the fireplace, and +after a few minutes saw Dalrymple rise and wander unevenly from the +room.</p> + +<p>George met him several times afterward under similar circumstances, and +always Dalrymple shortly disappeared, because, George thought, of his +arrival; but other people tactfully put him straight. Dalrymple, it +seemed, remained in no public place for long, as if there was something +evilly secretive to call him perpetually away.</p> + +<p>Wandel told him toward the end of the month that Dalrymple was about to +make a trip to Havana for the remainder of the winter.</p> + +<p>"Where there's horse-racing, gambling, and unlimited alcohol—where one +may sin in public. Why talk about it? Although he doesn't mean to, +George, he's in a fair way of doing you a favour."</p> + +<p>But George didn't dream how close Dalrymple's offering was. His first +thought, indeed, was for Sylvia when the influenza epidemic of January +and February promised for a time to equal its previous ugly record. +Lambert tried to laugh his worry away.</p> + +<p>"She's going south with father and mother very soon. Anyway, she hasn't +the habit of catching things."</p> + +<p>And it was Lambert a day or two later who brought him the first +indication of the only way out, and he tried to tell himself he mustn't +want it. Even though he had always despised Dalrymple and his weakness, +even though Dalrymple stood between him and his only possible happiness, +he experienced a disagreeable and reluctant sense of danger in such a +solution.</p> + +<p>"All his life," Lambert was saying, "Dolly's done everything he could to +make himself a victim."</p> + +<p>"Where is he?" George asked.</p> + +<p>"At his home. It's fortunate he hadn't started south."</p> + +<p>"Or," George said, "he should have started sooner."</p> + +<p>"I've an uncomfortable feeling," Lambert mused, "that he was planning to +run away from this very chance. Put it off a little too long. Seems he +went to bed four days ago. I didn't know until to-day because you see +he's been a little outcast since that scene in the club. He sent for me +this afternoon, and, curiously enough, asked for you. Will you go up? I +really think you'd better."</p> + +<p>But George shrank from the thought.</p> + +<p>"I don't want to be scolded by a man who is possibly dying."</p> + +<p>"Let's hope not," Lambert said. "You'll go. Around five o'clock."</p> + +<p>George hesitated.</p> + +<p>"Did he ask for Sylvia?"</p> + +<p>"He didn't ask me, but I telephoned her."</p> + +<p>"Why?" George asked, sharply.</p> + +<p>"Every card on the table now, George!" Lambert warned. "We have to think +of the future, in case——"</p> + +<p>"Of course, you're right," George answered. "I'm sorry, and I'll go."</p> + +<p>When he entered the Dalrymple house at five o'clock he came face to face +with Sylvia in the hall. He had never seen her so controlled, and her +quiet tensity frightened him.</p> + +<p>"Lambert told me," she whispered, "you were coming now. Dolly hasn't +asked for me, but I'd feel so much better—if things should turn out +badly, for I'm thinking with all my heart of the boy I used to be so +fond of, and it's, perhaps, my fault——"</p> + +<p>"It is not your fault," George cried. "He's always asked for it. Lambert +will tell you that."</p> + +<p>George relaxed. Dalrymple's mother came down the stairs with the doctor, +and George experienced a quick sympathy for the retiring, elderly woman +he had scarcely seen before. She gave Sylvia her hand, while George +stepped out with the physician. In reply to George's questions the quiet +man shook his head and frowned.</p> + +<p>"If it were any one else of the same age—I've attended in this house +many years, Mr. Morton, and I've watched him since he was a child. I've +marvelled how he's got so far."</p> + +<p>He added brutally:</p> + +<p>"Scarcely a chance with the turn its taking."</p> + +<p>"If there's anything," George muttered, "any great specialist +anywhere——Understand money doesn't figure——"</p> + +<p>"Everything possible is being done, Mr. Morton. I'm truly sorry, but I +can tell you it's quite his own fault."</p> + +<p>So even this cold-blooded practitioner had heard the talk, and +sympathized, and not with Dalrymple. A trifle dazed George reëntered the +house.</p> + +<p>"It's good of you to come, Mr. Morton," Mrs. Dalrymple said. "Shall we +go upstairs now?"</p> + +<p>There was no bitterness in her voice, and she had taken Sylvia's hand, +yet undoubtedly she knew everything. Abruptly George felt sorrier for +Dalrymple than he had ever done.</p> + +<p>"Please wait, Sylvia," she said.</p> + +<p>He followed Mrs. Dalrymple upstairs and into the sick-room.</p> + +<p>"It's Mr. Morton, dear."</p> + +<p>She beckoned to the nurse, and George remained in the room alone with +the feverish man in the bed. He walked over and took the hot hand.</p> + +<p>"Morton!" came Dalrymple's hoarse voice, "I believe you're sorry for +me!"</p> + +<p>"I am sorry," George said, quietly, "and you must get well."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple shook his head.</p> + +<p>"I know all the dope, and I guess I'm off in a few days. Not so bad now +I can't talk a little and sorta clean one or two things up. No silly +deathbed repentance. I'm jealous of you, Morton; always have been, +because you were getting things I couldn't, and I figured from the first +you were an outsider."</p> + +<p>The dry lips smiled a little.</p> + +<p>"When you get like this it makes a lot of difference, doesn't it, how +you came into the world? I'll be the real outsider in a few days——"</p> + +<p>"Don't talk that way."</p> + +<p>A quick temper distorted Dalrymple's face.</p> + +<p>"They oughtn't to bring a man into the world as I was brought, without +money."</p> + +<p>George couldn't think of anything to say, but Dalrymple hurried on:</p> + +<p>"I wanted to thank you for the notes. Don't have to leave those to my +family, anyway. And I'm not sure hadn't better apologize all 'round. I +don't forget I've had raw deal—lots of ways; but no point not saying +Sylvia had pretty raw one from Dolly. Lucky escape for her—mean Dolly's +not domestic animal, and all that."</p> + +<p>George was aware of a slight shiver as Dalrymple's hoarse voice slipped +into its old, not quite controlled mannerisms.</p> + +<p>"Mean," Dalrymple rambled on, "Dolly won't haunt anybody. Blessings 'n' +sort of thing. Best thing, too. Sorry all 'round. That's all. Thanks +coming, George."</p> + +<p>And all George could say was:</p> + +<p>"You have to get well, Dolly."</p> + +<p>But Dalrymple turned his head away. After a moment George proposed +tentatively:</p> + +<p>"Sylvia's downstairs. She wants very much to see you."</p> + +<p>Dalrymple shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Catching."</p> + +<p>"For her sake," George urged.</p> + +<p>Dalrymple thought.</p> + +<p>"All right," he said at last. "Long enough for me to tell her all right. +But not near. Nurse in the room. Catching, and all that."</p> + +<p>George clasped the hot hand.</p> + +<p>"Thanks, Dolly. You've done a decent thing, and you're going to get +well."</p> + +<p>But as he left the room George felt that the physician had been right.</p> + +<p>He spoke to the nurse, who sat in the upper hall, then he told Sylvia. +She went up, and he waited for her. He felt he had to wait. He hoped +Mrs. Dalrymple wouldn't appear again.</p> + +<p>Sylvia wasn't long. She came down dry-eyed. She didn't speak even when +George followed her to her automobile, even when he climbed in beside +her; nor did he try to break a silence that he felt was curative. In the +light and surrounded by a crowd they could clasp hands; in this obscure +solitude there was nothing they could do or say. Only on the steps of +her home she spoke.</p> + +<p>"Good-night, George, and thank you."</p> + +<p>"Good-night, dear Sylvia," he said, and returned to the automobile, and +told the man to drive him to his apartment.</p> + + +<h3>XXIX</h3> + +<p>George didn't hear from Dalrymple again, nor did he expect to, but he +was quite aware five days later of Goodhue's absence from the office and +of his black clothing when he came in during the late afternoon. He +didn't need Goodhue's few words.</p> + +<p>"It's hard not to feel sorry, to believe, on the whole, it's rather +better. Still, when any familiar object is unexpectedly snatched away +from one——"</p> + +<p>"We had a talk the other evening," George began.</p> + +<p>Goodhue's face lighted.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad, George."</p> + +<p>He sighed.</p> + +<p>"I've got to try to catch up. Mundy says rails have taken a queer turn."</p> + +<p>"When you think for a minute not so queer," George commenced to explain.</p> + +<p>A few days later Lambert told him that Sylvia had gone to Florida.</p> + +<p>"They'll probably stay until late in the spring. It agrees with Father."</p> + +<p>"How did Sylvia seem?" George asked, anxiously.</p> + +<p>"Wait awhile," Lambert advised, "but I don't think there are going to be +any spectres."</p> + +<p>He smiled engagingly.</p> + +<p>"If there shouldn't be," he went on, "a few matters will have to be +arranged, because Sylvia and I share alike. Josiah and I had a long, +careful talk with Father last night about what we'd do with Sylvia's +husband if she married. He left it to my judgment, advising that we +might take him in if he were worth his salt. Josiah wanted to know with +his bull voice what Father would think if it should turn out to be you. +Very seriously, George, Father was pleased. He pointed out that you were +a man who made things go, but that you would end by running us all, and +he added that if we wanted that we would be lucky to get you as long as +it made Sylvia happy. You know we want you, George."</p> + +<p>George felt as he had that day on the Vesle when Wandel had praised him. +No longer could Lambert charge him with having fulfilled his boasts, in +a way; yet he hadn't consciously wanted this, nor was he quite sure that +he did now.</p> + +<p>"At least," George said, "you know what my policy would be to make +Planter and Company something more than a money making machine."</p> + +<p>Lambert imitated Blodgett's voice and manner.</p> + +<p>"George, if you wanted to grow hair on a bald man's head I'd say go to +it."</p> + +<p>"And there must be room for Dicky," George went on.</p> + +<p>"We've played together too long to break apart now; but why talk about +it? It depends on Sylvia."</p> + +<p>That was entirely true. For the present there was nothing whatever to be +done. Constantly George conquered the impulse to write to Sylvia, but +she didn't write or give any sign, unless Lambert's frequent quotations +from her letters could be accepted as thoughtful messages.</p> + +<p>He visited the Baillys frequently now, for it was stimulating to talk +with Squibs, and he liked to sit quietly with Mrs. Bailly. She had an +unstudied habit, nevertheless, of turning his thoughts to his mother. +Sylvia had seen her. She knew all about her. After all, his mother had +given him the life with which he had accomplished something. He couldn't +bear that their continued separation should prove him inconsistent; so +early in the spring he went west.</p> + +<p>His mother was more than ever ill at ease before his success; more than +ever appreciative of the comforts he had given her; even more than at +Oakmont appalled at the prospect of change. She wouldn't go east. She +couldn't very well, she explained; and, looking at her tired figure in +the great chair before the fire which she seldom left, he had an impulse +to shower upon her extravagant and fantastic gifts, because before long +it would be too late to give her anything at all. The picture made him +realize how quickly the generations pass away, drifting one into the +other with the rapidity of our brief and colourful seasons. He nodded, +satisfied, reflecting that the cure for everything lies in the future, +although one must seek it in the diseased present.</p> + +<p>He left her, promising to come back, but he carried away a sensation +that he had intruded on a secluded content that couldn't possibly +survive the presence of the one who had created it.</p> + +<p>Lambert had no news for him on his return. It was late spring, in fact, +before he told George the family had come north, pausing at a number of +resorts on the way up.</p> + +<p>"When am I to see Sylvia, Lambert?"</p> + +<p>"How should I know?"</p> + +<p>It was apparent that he really didn't, and George waited, with a growing +doubt and fear, but on the following Friday he received a note from +Betty, dated from Princeton. All it said was:</p> + +<p>"Spring's at its best here. You'd better come to-morrow—Friday."</p> + +<p>He hurried over to the marble temple.</p> + +<p>"You didn't tell me Betty was in Princeton," he accused Lambert.</p> + +<p>"Must I account to you for the movements of my wife?"</p> + +<p>"Then Sylvia——" George began.</p> + +<p>Lambert smiled.</p> + +<p>"Maybe you'd better run down to Princeton with me this afternoon."</p> + +<p>George glanced at his watch.</p> + +<p>"First train's at four o'clock. Let Wall Street crash. I shan't wait +another minute."</p> + + +<h3>XXX</h3> + +<p>Betty had been right. Spring was fairly vibrant in Princeton, and for +George, through its warm and languid power, it rolled back the years; +choked him with a sensation of youth he had scarcely experienced since +he had walked defiantly out of the gate of Sylvia's home to commence his +journey.</p> + +<p>Sylvia wasn't at the station. Neither was Betty. Abruptly uneasy, he +drove with Lambert swiftly to the Alstons through riotous, youthful +foliage out of which white towers rose with that reassuring illusion of +a serene and unchangeable gesture. Undergraduates, surrendered to the +new economic eccentricity of overalls, loafed past them, calling to each +other contented and lazy greetings; but George glanced at them +indifferently; he only wanted to hurry to his journey's end.</p> + +<p>At the Tudor house Betty ran out to meet them, and Lambert grinned at +George and kissed her, but evidently it was George that Betty thought of +now, for she pointed, as if she had heard the question that repeated +itself in his mind, to the house; and he entered, and breathlessly +crossed the hall to the library, and saw Sylvia—the old Sylvia, it +occurred to him—colourful, imperious, and without patience.</p> + +<p>She stood in the centre of the room in an eager, arrested attitude, +having, perhaps, restrained herself from impetuously following Betty. +George paused, staring at her, suddenly hesitant before the culmination +of his great desire.</p> + +<p>"It's been so long," she whispered. "George, I'm not afraid to have you +touch me——You mean I must come to you——"</p> + +<p>He shook off his lassitude, but the wonder grew.</p> + +<p>As in a dream he went to her, and her curved lips moved beneath his, but +he pressed them closer so that she couldn't speak; for he felt +encircling them in a breathless embrace, as his arms held her, something +thrilling and rudimentary that neither of them had experienced before; +something quite beyond the comprehension of Sylvia Planter and George +Morton, that belonged wholly to the perplexing and abundant future.</p> + +<h3>THE END</h3> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="BOOKS_BY_WADSWORTH_CAMP" id="BOOKS_BY_WADSWORTH_CAMP"></a>BOOKS BY WADSWORTH CAMP</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The Abandoned Room</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The Gray Mask</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The Guarded Heights</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">The House of Fear</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Sinister Island</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">War's Dark Frame</span><br /></span> +</div></div> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Guarded Heights, by Wadsworth Camp + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GUARDED HEIGHTS *** + +***** This file should be named 33733-h.htm or 33733-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/7/3/33733/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Guarded Heights + +Author: Wadsworth Camp + +Release Date: September 15, 2010 [EBook #33733] +[Last updated: July 22, 2011] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GUARDED HEIGHTS *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + THE GUARDED HEIGHTS + + BY WADSWORTH CAMP + + +FRONTISPIECE +BY C. D. MITCHELL + +GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO +DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY +1921 + +COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY +DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. + +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION +INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN + +COPYRIGHT 1920, BY P. F. COLLIER & SON COMPANY + + +[Illustration: "GEORGE WATCHED SYLVIA LIFT HER RIDING CROP, HER FACE +DISCLOSING A TEMPER TO MATCH HIS OWN"] + + + + +CONTENTS + + +PART I OAKMONT + +PART II PRINCETON + +PART III THE MARKET-PLACE + +PART IV THE FOREST + +PART V THE NEW WORLD + + + + +THE GUARDED HEIGHTS + + + + +PART I + +OAKMONT + + +I + +George Morton never could be certain when he first conceived the +preposterous idea that Sylvia Planter ought to belong to him. The full +realization, at any rate, came all at once, unexpectedly, destroying his +dreary outlook, urging him to fantastic heights, and, for that matter, +to rather curious depths. + +It was, altogether, a year of violent change. After a precarious +survival of a rural education he had done his best to save his father's +livery business which cheap automobiles had persistently undermined. He +liked that, for he had spent his vacations, all his spare hours, indeed, +at the stable or on the road, so that by the time the crash came he knew +more of horses and rode better than any hunting, polo-playing gentleman +he had ever seen about that rich countryside. Nor was there any one near +his own age who could stand up to him in a rough-and-tumble argument. +Yet he wondered why he was restless, not appreciating that he craved +broader worlds to conquer. Then the failure came, and his close relation +with the vast Planter estate of Oakmont, and the arrival of Sylvia, who +disclosed such worlds and heralded the revolution. + +That spring of his twentieth year the stable and all its stock went to +the creditors, and old Planter bought the small frame house just outside +the village, on the edge of his estate, and drew his boundary around it. +He was willing that the Mortons should remain for the present in their +old home at a nominal rent, and after a fashion they might struggle +along, for George's mother was exceptionally clever at cleansing fine +laces and linens; the estate would have work for his father from time to +time; as for himself, Planter's superintendent suggested, there were new +and difficult horses at Oakmont and a scarcity of trustworthy grooms. +George shook his head. + +"Sure, I want a job," he admitted, "but not as old Planter's servant, or +anybody else's. I want to be my own boss." + +George hadn't guessed that his reputation as a horseman had travelled as +far as the big house. The superintendent explained that it had, and +that, living at home, merely helping out for the summer, he would be +quite apart from the ordinary men around the stables. His parents sensed +a threat. They begged him to accept. + +"We've got to do as Old Planter wants at the start or he'll put us out, +and we're too old to make another home." + +So George went with his head up, telling himself he was doing Planter a +favour; but he didn't like it, and almost at once commenced to plan to +get away, if he could, without hurting his parents. Then Sylvia, just +home from her last year at school, came into the stable toward the end +of his day's work. Her overpowering father was with her, and her +brother, Lambert, who was about George's age. She examined interestedly +the horse reserved for her, and one or two others of which she was +envious. + +George wanted to stare at her. He had only glimpsed her casually and at +a distance in summers gone by. Now she was close, and he knew he had +never seen anything to match her slender, adolescent figure, or her +finely balanced face with its intolerant eyes and its frame of black +hair. + +"But," he heard her say to her father in a flexible contralto voice, "I +don't care to bother you or Lambert every time I want to ride." + +An argument, unintelligible to George, flowed for a moment. Then Old +Planter's tones, bass and authoritative, filled the stable. + +"Come here, young Morton!" + +George advanced, not touching his cap, to remind the big man that there +was a difference between him and the other stable men, and that he +didn't like that tone. + +"You are a very dependable horseman," the great millionaire said. "I can +trust you. When Miss Sylvia wants to ride alone you will go with her and +see that she has no accidents. During your hours here you will be +entirely at her disposal." + +Instead of arousing George's anger that command slightly thrilled him. + +"So you're Morton," Sylvia said, indifferently. "I shall expect you +always to be convenient." + +He ventured to look at last, pulling off his cap. + +"You can depend on it," he said, a trifle dazed by her beauty. + +She went out. Her father and her brother followed, like servitors of a +sort themselves. George had no sense of having allowed his position +there to be compromised. He only realized that he was going to see that +lovely creature every day, would be responsible for her safety, would +have a chance to know her. + +"A peach!" a groom whispered. "You're lucky, Georgie boy." + +George shrugged his shoulders. + +"Maybe so." + +Yet he agreed. She was a peach, and he took no pains to conceal his +appraisal from his parents that evening. + +"Seen Old Planter's daughter yet?" + +His father, a drooping, tired figure in the dusk of the little porch, +nodded. + +"I haven't," his mother called from the kitchen. "Is she as pretty as +she was last summer?" + +"Pretty!" he scoffed. "Who was the prettiest woman in the world?" + +"I don't know," came the interested voice from the house. "Maybe the +Queen of Sheba." + +"Then," George said, "she'd have cried her eyes out if she had seen Old +Planter's girl." + +The elder Morton took his pipe from his mouth. + +"Young men like you," he said, slowly, "haven't any business looking at +girls like Old Planter's daughter." + +George laughed carelessly. + +"Even a cat can look at a queen." + +And during the weeks that followed he did look, too persistently, never +dreaming where his enthusiasm was leading him. Occasionally he would +bring her brother's horse around with hers or her father's. At such +times he would watch them ride away with a keen disappointment, as if he +had been excluded from a pleasure that had become his right. Lambert, +however, was away a good deal, and Old Planter that summer fought +rheumatic attacks, which he called gout, so that Sylvia, for the most +part, rode alone through remote bridle-paths with George at her heels +like a well-trained animal. + +He knew he could not alter that all at once; she would have it no other +way. She only spoke to him, really, about the condition of the horses, +or the weather--never a word conceivably personal; and every day he +looked at her more personally, let his imagination, without knowing it, +stray too far. At first he merely enjoyed being with her; then he +appreciated that a sense of intimacy had grown upon him, and he was +troubled that she did not reciprocate, that their extended companionship +had not diminished at all the appalling distance dividing them. There +was something, moreover, beyond her beauty to stimulate his interest. +She appeared not to know fear, and once or twice he ventured to reprove +her, enjoying her angry reactions. She even came to the stables, urging +him to let her ride horses that he knew were not safe. + +"But you ride them," she would persist. + +"When I find a horse I can't ride, Miss Sylvia, I guess I'll have to +take up a new line. If your father would come and say it's all +right----" + +Even then he failed to grasp the fact that he guarded her for his own +sake rather more than for her father's. + +He nearly interfered when he heard her cry to her brother as they +started off one morning: + +"I'm going to ride harder from now on, Lambert. I've got to get fit for +next winter. Coming out will take a lot of doing." + +"If she rides any harder," he muttered, "she'll break her silly neck." + +It angered him that she never spoke to him in that voice, with that easy +manner. Perhaps his eagerness to be near her had led her to undervalue +him. Somehow he would change all that, and he wanted her to stop calling +him "Morton," as if he had been an ordinary groom, or an animal, but he +would have to go slowly. Although he didn't realize the great fact then, +he did know that he shrank from attempting anything that would take her +away from him. + +It was her harder riding, indeed, that opened his eyes, that ushered in +the revolution. + +It happened toward the close of a mid-July afternoon. Mud whirled from +her horse's hoofs, plentifully sprinkling her humble guardian. + +"Now what the devil's she up to?" he thought with a sharp fear. + +She turned and rode at a gallop for a hedge, an uneven, thorny barrier +that separated two low meadows. He put spurs to his horse, shouting: + +"Hold up, Miss Sylvia! That's a rotten take-off." + +Flushed and laughing, she glanced over her shoulder. + +"Got to try it to prove it, Morton." + +He realized afterward that it was as near intimacy as she had ever come. + +He saw her horse refuse, straightening his knees and sliding in the +marshy ground. He watched Sylvia, with an ease and grace nearly +unbelievable, somersault across the hedge and out of sight in the meadow +beyond. + +"Miss Sylvia! Are you hurt?" + +No answer. He sprang from his horse, leaving it free to graze with hers. +He stormed through the hedge, his heart choking him. She lay on her +side, quite motionless, the high colour fled from her cheeks, her hair +half down. Although the soft ground should have reassured him he was +obsessed by the thought that she might never get up again. + +In the warmth of his fear barriers were consumed. Within his horizon +survived just two people, himself and this silent object of an extended, +if unconscious, adoration. + +He shrank from learning the truth, yet it was impossible to hesitate. He +had to do what he could. + +He approached on tip-toe, knelt, and lifted her until she rested against +him. The contact was galvanic. He became aware of his trembling hands. +Some man, it occurred to him, would touch those curved, slightly parted +lips. Not if he knew it, unless it were himself! He wanted to hear those +lips speak to him as if he were a human being, and not just--Morton. How +could he dream of such things now? He fumbled for her pulse, failed at +first to find it, and became panic-stricken. He shook her, more than +ever alone, facing an irretrievable loss. + +"Open your eyes," he begged wildly. "What's the matter with you? Oh, my +God, Miss Sylvia, I can't ever get along without you now." + +He glanced haggardly around for water, any means to snatch her back; +then she stirred in his arms, and with his relief came a sickening +return to a peopled and ordered world. He understood he had sprung +headlong with his eyes shut; that his anxiety had dictated phrases he +had had no business to form, that he would not have uttered if she had +been able to hear. Or, good Lord! Had she heard? For she drew herself +convulsively away, the colour rushing back, her eyes opening, and they +held a sort of horror. + +"Are you hurt?" he said, trying to read her eyes. + +She got to her knees, swaying a trifle. + +"I remember. A bit of a fall. Stunned me. That's all. But you said +something, Morton! Will you please repeat that?" + +Her eyes, and her voice, which had a new, frightening quality, stung his +quick temper. What he had suffered a moment ago was a little sacred. He +couldn't afford to let her cheapen it one cent's worth. + +"I guess I don't need to repeat it," he said. "It was scared out of me, +Miss Sylvia, because I thought--I know it was silly--but I thought you +were dead. I never dreamed you could hear. I'll try to forget it." + +He saw her grope in the wet grass at her knees. Scarcely understanding, +he watched her rise, lifting her riding crop, her face disclosing a +temper to match his own. + +"You're an impertinent servant," she said. "Well, you'll not forget." + +She struck at his face with the crop. He got his hand up just in time, +and caught her wrist. + +"Don't you touch me," she whispered. + +His jaw went out. + +"You'll learn not to be afraid of my touch, and I'm not a servant. You +get that straight." + +She struggled, but he held her wrist firmly. The sight of the crop, the +memory of her epithet, thickened his voice, lashed his anger. + +"Have it your own way. You say I shan't forget, and I won't. I'm going +after you, and I usually get what I go after. You'll find I'm a human +being, and I'd like to see anybody hit me in the face and get away with +it." + +"Let me go! Let me go!" + +He released her wrist, dragging the crop from her grasp. He snapped it +in two and flung the pieces aside. The slight noise steadied him. It +seemed symbolic of the snapping of his intended fate. She drew slowly +back, chafing the wrist he had held. Her face let escape the desire to +hurt, to hurt hard. + +"Someone else will have the strength," she whispered. "You'll be +punished, you--you--stable boy." + +She forced her way blindly through the hedge. Responding to his custom +he started automatically after her to hold her stirrup. She faced him, +raising her hands. + +"Keep away from me, you beast!" + +Unaided, she sprang into her saddle and started home at a hard gallop. + +George glanced around thoughtfully. He was quite calm now. The familiar +landscape appeared strangely distorted. Was that his temper, or a +reflection from his altered destiny? He didn't know how the deuce he +could do it, but he was going to justify himself. Maybe the real +situation had never been explained to her, and, as the price of her +companionship, he had, perhaps, let her hold him too cheaply; but now he +was going to show her that he was, indeed, instead of a servant, a human +being, capable of making his boasts good. + +He picked up the two pieces of her riding crop and thrust them into his +pocket. They impressed him as a necessary souvenir of his humiliation, a +reminder of what he had to do. She had hurt. Oh, Lord! How she had hurt! +He experienced a hot desire to hurt back. The scar could only be healed, +he told himself, if some day he could strike at her beautiful, +contemptuous body as hard as she had just now struck at him. + + +II + +He mounted and pressed his horse, but he had only one or two glimpses of +Sylvia, far ahead, using her spurs, from time to time raising her hand +as if she had forgotten that her crop had been torn from her, broken, +and thrown aside. + +Such frantic haste was urged by more than the necessity of escape. What +then, if not to hasten his punishment, to tell her father, her mother, +and Lambert? She had threatened that someone else would have the +strength to give him a thrashing. Probably Lambert. Aside from that how +could they punish a man who had only committed the crime of letting a +girl know that he loved her? All at once he guessed, and he laughed +aloud. They could kick him out. He wanted, above everything else, to be +kicked out of a job where he was treated like a lackey, although he was +told he was nothing of the kind. Expert with horses, doing Old Planter a +favour for the summer! Hadn't she just called him a servant, a stable +boy? He wanted to put himself forever beyond the possibility of being +humiliated in just that way again. + +In the stable he found a groom leading Sylvia's horse to a stall. + +"Take mine, too, and rub him down, will you?" + +The groom turned, staring. + +"The nerve! What's up, George?" + +"Only," George said, deliberately, "that I've touched my last horse for +money." + +"Say! What goes on here? The young missus rides in like a cyclone, and +looking as if she'd been crying. I always said you'd get in trouble with +the boss's daughter. You're too good looking for the ladies, +Georgie----" + +"That's enough of that," George snapped. "Scrape him down, and I'll be +much obliged." + +He went out, knowing that the other would obey, for as a rule people did +what George wanted. He took a path through the park toward home, walking +slowly, commencing to appreciate the difficulties he had brought upon +himself. His predicament might easily involve his parents. The afternoon +was about done, they would both be there, unsuspecting. It was his duty +to prepare them. He experienced a bitter regret as he crossed the line +that a few months ago had divided their property, their castle, from +Oakmont. Now Old Planter could cross that line and drive them out. + +Before George came in sight of the house he heard a rubbing, slapping +noise, and with a new distaste pictured his mother bending over a +washtub, suggesting a different barrier to be leaped. As he entered the +open space back of the house he wanted to kick the tub over, wanted to +see sprawling in the dirt the delicate, intimate linen sent down weekly +from the great house because his mother was exceptionally clever with +such things. To the uncouth music of her labour her broad back rose and +bent rhythmically. His father, wearing soiled clothing, sat on the porch +steps, an old briar pipe in his mouth. + +Abruptly his mother's drudgery ceased. She stared. His father rose +stiffly. + +"You've got yourself in trouble," he said. + +George had not fancied the revolution had unfurled banners so easily +discernible. He became self-conscious. His parents' apprehension made +matters more difficult for him. They, at least, were too old to revolt. + +"I suppose I have," he acknowledged shortly. + +His father used the tone of one announcing an unspeakable catastrophe. + +"You mean you've had trouble with Miss Sylvia." + +"George!" his mother cried, aghast. "You've never been impertinent with +Miss Sylvia!" + +"She thinks I have," George said, "so it amounts to the same thing." + +His father's face twitched. + +"And you know Old Planter can put us out of here without a minute's +notice, and where do you think we'd go? How do you think we'd get bread +and butter? You talk up, young man. You tell us what happened." + +"I can't," George said, sullenly. "I can't talk about it. You'll hear +soon enough." + +"I always said," his mother lamented, "that Georgie wasn't one to know +his place up there." + +"Depends," George muttered, "on what my place is. I've got to find that +out. Look! You'll hear now." + +A bald-headed figure in livery, one of the house servants, glided toward +them through the shrubbery, over that vanished boundary line, with +nervous haste. George squared his shoulders. The messenger, however, +went straight to the older man. + +"Mr. Planter's on his ear, and wants to see you right off in the +library. What you been up to, young Morton?" + +George resented the curiosity in the pallid, unintelligent eyes, the +fellow's obvious pleasure in the presence of disaster. It would have +appeased him to grasp those sloping shoulders, to force the grinning +face from his sight. A queer question disturbed him. Had Sylvia felt +something of the sort about him? + +"Come on," the elder Morton said. "It's pretty hard at my age. You'll +pay for this, George." + +"Old Planter would never be that unfair," George encouraged him. + +"Georgie! Georgie!" his mother said when the others were out of sight, +"what have you been up to?" + +He walked closer and placed his arm around her shoulders. + +"I've been getting my eyes opened," he answered. "I never ought to have +listened to them. I never ought to have gone up there. I did say +something to Miss Sylvia I had no business to. If I'd been one of her +own kind, instead of the son of a livery stable keeper, I'd have got +polite regrets or something. It's made me realize how low I am." + +"No," she said with quick maternal passion. "You're not low. Maybe some +day those people'll be no better than we are." + +He shook his head. + +"I'd rather I was no worse than they are. And I will be. I won't put up +with it. If some people have to be treated like dirt, I'm going to help +do the treating." + +"That's no right way of thinking," she warned. "It's money makes the +mare go." + +But in Sylvia's case, George admitted, there was other propulsion than +that; something more fragile, and harder to understand or capture for +one's self. + +"Don't you worry, I'll make money," he said. + +She glanced up quickly. + +"Who's that?" + +A brisk masculine voice volleyed through the shrubbery: + +"Young Morton! I say, young Morton!" + +"It's Mr. Lambert," she breathed. "Go quick." + +George remembered what Sylvia had said about someone else having the +strength. + +"Can't you guess, Ma, what the young lady's brother wants of me?" + +The bitterness left his face. His smile was engaging. + +"To give me the devil." + +"Young Morton! Young Morton!" + +"Coming!" he called. + +"George," she begged, "don't have any trouble with Mr. Lambert." + + +III + +She watched him with anxious eyes, failing to observe, because she was +his mother, details that informed his boasts with power. His ancestry +of labour had given him, at least, his straight, slender, and unusually +muscular body, and from somewhere had crept in the pride, just now +stimulated, with which he carried it. His wilful, regular features, +moreover, guarded by youth, were still uncoarsened. + +He found Lambert Planter waiting beyond the old boundary behind a screen +of bushes, his hands held behind his back. In his face, which had some +of Sylvia's beauty, hardened and enlarged, dwelt the devil George had +foreseen. + +George nodded, feeling all at once at ease. He could take care of +himself in an argument with Lambert Planter. No such distances separated +them as had widened beyond measure a little while back between him and +Sylvia. He wondered if that conception sprang from Lambert, or if it +came simply from the fact that they were two men, facing each other +alone; for it was from the first patent that Sylvia had asked her +brother to complete a punishment she had devised as fitting, but which +she had been incapable of carrying out herself. Lambert, indeed, brought +his hands forward, disclosing a whip. It was a trifle in his way as he +took off his coat. + +"That's right," George said. "Make yourself comfortable." + +"You won't help matters by being impertinent, Morton." + +Lambert's voice contrasted broadly with George's round, loud tones. +While, perhaps, not consciously affected, its accents fell according to +the custom of the head master of a small and particular preparatory +school. George crushed his instinct to mock. What the deuce had he +craved ever since his encounter with Sylvia unless it was to be one with +men like Lambert Planter? So all he said was: + +"What's the whip for?" + +"You know perfectly well," Lambert answered. "There's no possible excuse +for what you said and did this afternoon. I am going to impress that on +you." + +"You mean you want a fight?" + +"By no means. I wouldn't feel comfortable fighting a man like you. I'd +never dreamed we had such a rotten person on the place. Oh, no, Morton. +I'm going to give you a good horse-whipping." + +George's chin went out. His momentary good-humour fled. + +"If you touch me with that whip I'm likely to kill you." + +Without hesitating Lambert raised the whip. George sprang and got his +hands on it, intent only on avoiding a blow that would have carried the +same unbearable sting as Sylvia's riding crop. Such tactics took Lambert +by surprise. George's two hands against his one on the stock were +victorious. The whip flew to one side. Lambert, flushing angrily, +started after it. George barred his path, raising his fists. + +"You don't touch that thing again." + +Lambert's indecision, his hands hanging at his sides, hurt George nearly +as much as the lashing would have done. He had to destroy that attitude +of sheer superiority. + +"I'm not sure you're a man," he said, thickly, "but you tried to hit me, +so you can put your pretty hands up or take it in the face." + +He aimed a vicious blow. Lambert side-stepped and countered. George's +ear rang. He laughed, his self-respect rushing back with the keen joy of +battle. In Lambert's face, stripped of its habitual repression, he +recognized an equal excitement. It was a man's fight, with blood drawn +at the first moment, staining both of them. Lambert boxed skillfully, +and his muscles were hard, but after the first moment George saw +victory, and set out to force it. He looked for fear in the other's eyes +then, and longed to see it, but those eyes remained as unafraid as +Sylvia's until there wasn't left in them much of anything conscious. As +a last chance Lambert clinched, and they went down, fighting like a pair +of furious terriers. George grinned as he felt those eclectic hands +endeavouring in the most brotherly fashion to torture him. He managed to +pin them to the ground. He laughed happily. + +"Thought you hated to touch me." + +"You fight like a tiger, anyway," Lambert gasped. + +"Had enough?" + +Lambert nodded. + +"I know when I'm through." + +George didn't release him at once. His soul expanded with a sense of +power and authority earned by his own effort. It seemed an omen. It +urged him too far. + +"Then," he mused, "I guess I'd better let you run home and tell your +father what I've done to you." + +"That," Lambert said, "proves I was right, and I'm sorry I fought you." + +George tried to think. He felt hot and angry. Was the other, after all, +the better man? + +"I take it back," he muttered. "Ought to have had enough sense to know +that a fellow that fights like you's no tattle-tale." + +"Thanks, Morton." + +George's sense of power grew. He couldn't commence too soon to use it. + +"See here, Mr. Planter, I came up here to help with some horses your +people didn't know how to handle, and let myself get shifted to this +other job; but I'm not your father's slave, and anyway I'm getting out." + +He increased the pressure on Lambert's arms. + +"Just to remind you what we've been fighting about, and that I'm not +your slave, you call me Mr. Morton, or George, just as if I was about as +good as you." + +Lambert smiled broadly. + +"Will you kindly let me go--George?" + +George sprang up, grinning. + +"How you feel, Mr. Lam----" He caught himself--"Mr. Planter?" + +Lambert struggled to his feet. + +"Quite unwell, thanks. I'm sorry you made such a damned fool of yourself +this afternoon. We might have had some pretty useful times boxing +together." + +"I'd just as leave tell you," George said, glancing away, "that I never +intended to say it. I didn't realize it myself until it was scared out +of me." + +Lambert put on his coat. + +"It won't bear talking about." + +"It never hit me," George said, huskily, "that even a cat couldn't look +at a queen." + +"Perfectly possible," Lambert said as he walked off, feeling his +bruises, "only the queen mustn't see the cat." + + +IV + +George went, obliterating as best he could the souvenirs of battle. +Water, unfortunately, was a requisite, and the nearest was to be found +at his own home. His mother gasped. + +"You did! After what I said!" + +At the pump he splashed cold water over his face and arms. + +"I thrashed him," he spluttered. + +"I guess that settles it for your father and me." + +"Young Planter won't tell anybody," George assured her. "Although I +don't see how he's going to get away with it unless he says he was run +over by an automobile and kicked by a mule." + +"What's come over you?" she demanded. "You've gone out of your head." + +He dodged her desire for details. As Lambert had said, the thing +wouldn't bear talking about. For the first time in his life he stood +alone, and whatever he accomplished from now on would have to be done +alone. + +He saw his father striding toward them, the anxious light gone from his +eyes. George experienced a vast relief. + +"Father looks a little more cheerful," he commented, drying his face. + +"Get supper, Ma," the man said as he came up. + +She hesitated, held by her curiosity, while he turned on George. + +"I don't wonder you couldn't open your mouth to me. You're to be out of +here to-morrow." + +"I'd made up my mind to that." + +"And Old Planter wants to see you at nine o'clock to-night." + +"Since you and Ma," George said, "seem on such good terms with him I +suppose I'll have to go." + +"Thank the Lord we are," his father grumbled. "I wouldn't have blamed +him if he had packed us all off. He was more than fair. I've looked +after you so far, but you'll have to shift for yourself now." + +"And the only thing I didn't like about it," George mused, "was leaving +you and Ma." + +"What did he say to Miss Sylvia?" his mother whispered. + +"Said he couldn't get along without her, and was going to have her." + +He might have been speaking of one who had ventured to impersonate the +deity. + +"And he touched her! Put his arms around her!" + +The horror in his mother's face grew. + +"Georgie! Georgie! What could you have been thinking of?" + +He leaned against the pump. + +"I'm thinking now," he said, softly, "it's sort of queer a man's father +and mother believe there's any girl in the world too good for their +son." + +"Lots of them," his father snapped. "Sylvia Planter most of all." + +"Oh, yes," his mother agreed. + +He straightened. + +"Then listen," he said, peremptorily. "I don't think so. I told her I +was going to have her, and I will. Just put that down in your books. +I'll show the lot of you that I'm as good as she is, as good as +anybody." + +The late sun illuminated the purpose in his striking face. + +"Impertinent servant!" he cried. "Stable boy! Beast! It's pretty rough +to make her marry all that. It's my only business from now on." + + +V + +He went to his room, leaving his parents aghast. With a nervous hurry he +rid himself of his riding breeches, his puttees, his stock. + +"That," he told himself, "is the last time I shall ever wear anything +like livery." + +When he had dressed in one of his two suits of ordinary clothing he took +the broken riding crop and for a long time stared at it as though the +venomous souvenir could fix his resolution more firmly. Once his hand +slipped to the stock where Sylvia's fingers had so frequently tightened. +He snatched his hand away. It was too much like an unfair advantage, a +stolen caress. + +"Georgie! Georgie!" + +His mother's voice drifted to him tentatively. + +"Come and get your supper." + +He hid the broken crop and went out. His father glanced disapproval. + +"You'd do better to wear Old Planter's clothes while you can. It's +doubtful when you'll buy any more of your own." + +George sat down without answering. Since his return from the ride that +afternoon his parents and he had scarcely spoken the same language, and +by this time he understood there was no possible interpreter. It made +him choke a little over his food. + +The others were content to share his silence. His father seemed only +anxious to have him away; but his mother, he fancied, looked at him with +something like sorrow. + +Afterward he fled from that nearly voiceless scrutiny and paced one of +the park paths, counting the minutes until he could answer Old Planter's +summons. He desired to have the interview over so that he could snap +every chain binding him to Oakmont, every chain save the single one +Sylvia's contempt had unwittingly forged. He could not, moreover, plan +his immediate future with any assurance until he knew what the great man +wanted. + +"Only to make me feel a little worse," he decided. "What else could he +do?" + +What, indeed, could a man of Planter's wealth and authority not do? It +was a disturbing question. + +Through the shrubbery the lights of the house gleamed. The moonlight +outlined the immense, luxurious mass. Never once had he entered the +great house. He was eager to study the surrounding in which women like +Sylvia lived, which she, to an extent, must reflect. + +In that serene moonlight he realized that his departure, agreeable and +essential as it was, would make it impossible for him during an +indefinite period to see that slender, adolescent figure, or the +features, lovely and intolerant, that had brought about this revolution +in his life. He acknowledged now that he had looked forward each day to +those hours of proximity and contemplation; and there had been from the +first, he guessed, adoration in his regard. + +It was no time to dwell on the sentimental phase of his situation. He +despised himself for still loving her. His approaching departure he must +accept gladly, since he designed it as a means of coming closer--close +enough to hurt. + +He wondered if he would have one more glimpse of her, perhaps in the +house. He glanced at his watch. He could go at last. He started for the +lights. Would he see her? + +At the corner of the building he hesitated before a fresh dilemma. His +logical entrance lay through the servants' quarters, but he squared his +shoulders and crossed the terrace. It was impossible now that he should +ever enter the house in which she lived by the back door. + +It was a warm night, so the door stood open. The broad spaces of the +hall, the rugs, the hangings, the huge chairs, the portraits in gilt +frames against polished walls, the soft, rosy light whose source he +failed to explore, seemed mutely to reprove his presumption. + +He rang. He did not hear the feet of the servant who answered. The vapid +man that had trotted for his father that afternoon suddenly shut off his +view. + +"You must wear rubbers," George said. + +"What you doing here? Go 'round to the back." + +"Mr. Planter," George explained, patiently, "sent for me." + +"All right. All right. Then go 'round to the back where you belong." + +George reached out, caught the other's shoulder, and shoved him to one +side. While the servant gave a little cry and struggled to regain his +balance, George walked in. A figure emerged painfully from an easy chair +in the shadows by the fireplace. + +"What's all this, Simpson?" + +The polished voice gave the impression of overcoming an impediment, +probably a swollen lip. + +"It's young Morton, Mr. Lambert," Simpson whined. "I told him to go to +the back door where he belongs." + +"What an idea!" Lambert drawled. "Enter, Mr. Morton. My dear Mr. Morton, +what is the occasion? What can we do for you? I must beg you to excuse +my appearance. I had a trifling argument with my new hunter this +afternoon." + +George grinned. + +"Must be some horse." + +None the less, he felt a bruise. It would have been balm to destroy +Lambert's mocking manner by a brusque attack even in this impressive +hall. + +"Your father sent for me." + +"Shall I put him out, sir?" Simpson quavered. + +Lambert burst into a laugh. + +"I shouldn't try it. We can't afford too many losses in one day. Go +away, Simpson, and don't argue with your betters. You might not be as +clever as I at explaining the visible results. I'll take care of Mr. +Morton." + +Simpson was bewildered. + +"Quite so, sir," he said, and vanished. + +"My father," Lambert said, "is in the library--that first door. Wait. +I'll see if he's alone." + +Painfully he limped to the door and opened it, while George waited, +endeavouring not to pull at his cap. + +"Father," Lambert said, smoothly, "Mr. Morton is calling." + +A deep voice, muffled by distance, vibrated in the hall. + +"What are you talking about?" + +Lambert bowed profoundly. + +"Mr. Morton from the lodge." + +George stepped close to him. + +"Want me to thrash you again?" + +Lambert faced him without panic. + +"I don't admit that you could, but, my dear--George, I'm too fatigued +to-night to find out. Some day, if the occasion should arise, I hope I +may. I do sincerely." + +He drew the door wide open, and stepped aside with a bow that held no +mockery. A white-haired, stately woman entered the hall, and, as she +passed, cast at George a glance curiously lacking in vitality. In her +George saw the spring of Sylvia's delicacy and beauty. Whatever Old +Planter might be this woman had something from the past, not to be +acquired, with which to endow her children. George resented it. It made +the future for him appear more difficult. Her voice was in keeping, +cultured and unaffected. + +"Mr. Planter is alone, Morton. He would like to see you." + +She disappeared in a room opposite. George took a deep breath. + +"On that threshold," Lambert said, kindly, "I've often felt the same +way, though I've never deserved it as you do." + +George plunged through and closed the door. + +The room was vaster than the hall, and darker, impressing him confusedly +with endless, filled book-shelves; with sculpture; with a difficult maze +of furniture. The only light issued from a lamp on a huge and littered +table at the opposite end. + +At first George glanced vainly about, seeking the famous man. + +"Step over here, Morton." + +There was no denying that voice. It came from a deep chair whose back +was turned to the light. It sent to George's heart his first touch of +fear. He walked carefully across the rugs and around the table until he +faced the figure in the chair. He wanted to get rid of his cap. He +couldn't resist the temptation to pull at it; and only grooms and stable +boys tortured caps. + +The portly figure in evening clothes was not calculated to put a culprit +at ease. Old Planter sat very straight. The carefully trimmed white side +whiskers, the white hair, the bushy brows above inflamed eyes, composed +a portrait suggestive of a power relentless and not to be trifled with. +George had boasted he was as good as any one. He knew he wasn't as good +as Old Planter; their disparity of attainment was too easily palpable. +No matter whether Old Planter's success was worthy, he had gone out +into the world and done things. He had manipulated railroads. He had +piled up millions whose number he couldn't be sure of himself. He had +built this house and all it stood for. What one man had done another +could. George stopped pulling at his cap. He threw it on the table as +into a ring. His momentary fear died. + +"You sent for me, sir." + +The mark of respect flowed naturally. This old fellow was entitled to +it, from him or any one else. + +The bass voice had a dynamic quality. + +"I did. This afternoon you grossly and inexcusably insulted my daughter. +It will be necessary to speak of her to you just once more. That's why I +told your father to send you. If I were younger it would give me +pleasure to break every bone in your body." + +The red lips opened and shut with the precision of a steel trap. They +softened now in a species of smile. + +"I see, Morton, you had a little argument with a horse this afternoon." + +George managed to smile back. + +"Nothing to speak of, sir." + +"I wish it had been. I take a pleasure in punishing you. It isn't +biblical, but it's human. I'm only sorry I can't devise a punishment to +fit the crime." + +"It was no crime," George said bravely, "no insult." + +"Keep your mouth shut. Unfortunately I can't do much more than run you +away from here, for I don't care to evict your parents from their home +for your folly; and they do not support you. Mr. Evans will pay you off +in the morning with a month's extra wages." + +"I won't take a cent I haven't earned," George said. + +Old Planter studied him with more curiosity. + +"You're a queer livery stable boy." + +"I'm banking on that," George said, willing the other should make what +he would of it. + +"It's there if you wish it," Old Planter went on. "I sent for you so +that I could tell you myself that you will be away from Oakmont and +from the neighbourhood by noon to-morrow. And remember your home is now +a portion of Oakmont. You will never come near us again. You will forget +what happened this afternoon." + +He stood up, his face reddening. George wanted to tell him that Sylvia +herself had said he shouldn't forget. + +"If, Morton," the old man went on with a biting earnestness, "once +you're away from Oakmont, you ever bother Miss Sylvia again, or make any +attempt to see her, I'll dispossess your parents, and I'll drive you out +of any job you get. I'll keep after you until you'll understand what +you're defying. This isn't an idle threat. I have the power." + +The father completely conquered him. He clenched his knotted fists. + +"I'd destroy a regiment of creatures like you to spare my little girl +one of the tears you caused her this afternoon." + +"After all," George said, defensively, "I'm a human being." + +Old Planter shook his head. + +"If your father hadn't failed you'd have spent your life in a livery +stable. It takes education, money, breeding to make a human being." + +George nodded. He wouldn't need to plan much for himself, after all. +Sylvia's father was doing it for him. + +"I've heard some pretty hard words to-day, sir," he said. "It's waked me +up. Can't a man get those things for himself?" + +He fancied reminiscence in Old Planter's eyes. + +"The right kind can. Get out of here now, Morton, and don't let me see +you or hear of you again." + +George stepped between him and the table to pick up his cap. His nerves +tightened. Close to his cap lay an unmounted photograph, not very large, +of Sylvia. What a companion piece for the broken crop! What an ornament +for an altar dedicated to ambition, to anger, and to love! He would take +it under her father's nose, following her father's threats. + +He slipped his cap over the photograph, and picked up both, the precious +likeness hidden by the cheap cloth. + +"Good-night, sir." + +He thought Old Planter started at the ring in his voice. He walked +swiftly from the room. Let Old Planter look out for himself. What did +all those threats amount to? Perhaps he could steal Sylvia as easily +from under her terrible parent's nose. + + +VI + +Lambert, hands in pockets, stopped him in the hall. + +"Packed off, as you deserve, but you'll need money." + +"Thanks," George said. "I don't want any I don't earn." + +"If father should kick me out," Lambert drawled, "I'd be inclined to +take what I could get." + +"I'd rather steal," George said. + +Lambert smiled whimsically. + +"A word of advice. Stealing's dangerous unless you take enough." + +George indicated the library door. He tried to imitate Lambert's manner. + +"Then I suppose it's genius." + +"What are you getting at?" + +"I mean," George said, "you people may drive me to stealing, but it'll +be the kind you get patted on the back for." + +"Sounds like Wall Street," Lambert smiled. + +George wanted to put himself on record in this house. + +"I'm going to make money, and don't you forget it." + +Lambert's smile widened. + +"Then good luck, and a good job--George." + +George crushed his helpless irritation, turned, and walked out the front +door; more disappointed than he would have thought possible, because he +had failed to see Sylvia. + +Reluctantly he returned to the nearly silent discomfort of his parents. +He tried to satisfy their curiosity. + +"Nothing but threats. I'm to be driven to crime if I'm ever heard of +after I leave Oakmont in the morning." + +"He might have made it worse," his father grunted. + +The conversation died for lack of an interpreter. + +His father made a pretence of reading a newspaper. His mother examined +her swollen hands. Her eyes suggested the nearness of tears. George got +up. + +"I suppose I'd better be getting ready." + +As he stooped to kiss her his mother slipped an arm around his neck. + +"Mother's little boy." + +George steadied his voice. + +"Good-night, Dad." + +His father filled his pipe reflectively. + +"Good-night, George." + +No word of sympathy; no sympathy at all, beyond a fugitive, +half-frightened hint from his mother, because he had run boldly against +a fashion of thinking; little more, really. + +He softly closed the door of his room, the last time he would ever do +that! He sat on the edge of the bed. He took Sylvia's photograph from +his pocket and studied it with a deliberate lack of sentiment. He +fancied her desirable lips framing epithets of angry contempt and those +other words to which he had given his own significance. + +"You'll not forget." + +He looked so long, repeating it in his mind so often, that at last his +eyes blurred, and the pictured lips seemed, indeed, to curve and +straighten. + +"You'll not forget." + +He tapped the photograph with his forefinger. + +"You're going to help me remember," he muttered. "I'll not forget." + + +VII + +He placed the photograph and the broken crop at the bottom of his +oilcloth suitcase. The rest of his packing was simple; he had so little +that was actually his own. There were a few books on a shelf, relics of +his erratic attendance at the neighbouring high school--he regretted now +that his ambition there had been physical rather that mental. Even in +the development of his muscles, however, his brain had grown a good +deal, for he was bright enough. If he made himself work, drawing on +what money he had, he might get ready for college by fall. He had +always envied the boys, who had drifted annually from the high school to +the remote and exhilarating grandeur of a university. + +What had Old Planter's sequence been? Education, money, breeding. Of +course. And he guessed that the three necessities might, to an extent, +walk hand in hand. The acquisition of an education would mean personal +contacts, helpful financially, projecting, perhaps, that culture that he +felt was as essential as the rest. Certainly the starting place for him +was a big university where a man, once in, could work his way through. +Lambert went to Yale. Harvard sprang into his mind, but there was the +question of railroad fare and lost time. He'd better try his luck at +Princeton which wasn't far and which had, he'd heard, a welcome for boys +working their way through college. + +He examined his bank book. Fortunately, since he had lived with his +parents, he had had little opportunity or need for spending. The balance +showed nearly five hundred dollars, and he would receive fifty more in +the morning. If he could find someone to bolster up his insufficient +schooling for a part of that amount he'd make a go of it; he'd be fairly +on his course. + +He went to bed, but he slept restlessly. He wanted to be away from +Oakmont and at work. Through his clouded mind persisted his desire for a +parting glimpse of Sylvia. If he slept at all it was to the discordant +memory of her anger. + +The sun smiled into his room, summoning him to get up and go forth. + +His father was not there. As if to emphasize the occasion, his mother +deserted her washtub, served his breakfast herself, stood about in +helpless attitudes. + +"George," she whispered, toward the close of the desolate meal, "try to +get a job near here. Of course you could never come home, but we could +go to see you." + +"Father," he said, "is kicking me out as much as Old Planter is, and you +back him up." + +She clasped her hands. + +"I've got to. And you can't blame your father. He has to look after +himself and me." + +"It makes no difference. I'm not going to take a job near by," he said. + +"Where are you going?" she asked, sharply. + +He stared at her for a moment, profoundly sorry for her and for himself. + +"I'm going to get away from everything that would remind me I've ever +been treated like something less than human." + +She gave a little cry. + +"Then say good-bye, my son, before your father comes back." + + +VIII + +His father returned and stood impatiently waiting. There was nothing to +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." + +"Seems to me I've seen his name in the papers," George said. + +Bailly stared. + +"Without doubt, if you read the public prints at all. He exerted much +useful cunning and strength in the Harvard and Yale games last fall. He +was on everybody's All-American eleven. I got him into college and +man-handled him through. Hence this scanty hair, these premature +furrows; for although he had plenty of good common-sense, and was one of +the finest boys I've ever known, he didn't possess, speaking relatively, +when it came to iron-bound text-books, the brains of a dinosaur; but he +had the brute force of one." + +"Why did you do it?" George asked. "Because he was rich?" + +"Young man," Bailly answered, "I am a product of this seat of learning. +With all its faults--and you may learn their number for yourself some +day--its success is pleasing to me, particularly at football. I am very +fond of football, perhaps because it approximates in our puling, modern +fashion, the classic public games of ruddier days. In other words, I was +actuated by a formless emotion called Princeton spirit. Don't ask me +what that is. I don't know. One receives it according to one's concept. +But when I saw in Bill something finer and more determined than most men +possess, I made up my mind Princeton was going to be proud of him, on +the campus, on the football field, and afterward out in the world." + +The hollow, wrinkled face flushed. + +"When Bill made a run I could think of it as my run. When he made a +touchdown I could say, 'there's one score that wouldn't have been made +if I hadn't booted Bill into college, and kept him from flunking out by +sheer brute mentality!' Pardon me, Mr. Morton. I love the silly game." + +George smiled, sensing his way, if only he could make this fellow feel +he would be the right kind of Princeton man! + +"I was going to say," he offered, "that while I had never had a chance +to play on a regular team I used to mix it up at school, but I was +stronger than most of the boys. There were one or two accidents. They +thought I'd better quit." + +Bailly laughed. + +"That's the kind of material we want. You do look as if you could bruise +a blue or a crimson jersey. Know where the field house is? Ask anybody. +Do no harm for the trainer to look you over. Be there at three o'clock." + +"But my work? Will you help me?" + +"Give me," Bailly pled, "until afternoon to decide if I'll take another +ten years from my life. That's all. Send that fellow Rogers in. Be at +the field house at three o'clock." + +And as George passed out he heard him reviling the candidate. + +"Don't see why you come to college. No chance to make the team or a Phi +Beta Kappa. One ought to be a requisite." + +The shrill voice went lower. George barely caught the words certainly +not intended for him. + +"You know I wouldn't be a bit surprised if that fellow you brought me, +if he had a chance, might do both." + + +II + + +George, since he had nothing else to do, walked home. Bailly could get +him in if he would. Did it really depend in part on the inspection he +would have to undergo that afternoon? It was hard there was nothing he +could do to prepare himself. He went to the yard, to which the landlady +had condemned Sylvia's bulldog, and, to kill time, played with the +friendly animal until luncheon. Afterward he sat in his room before +Sylvia's portrait impressing on himself the necessity of strength for +the coming ordeal. + +His landlady directed him glibly enough to the field house. As he +crossed the practice gridiron, not yet chalked out, he saw Bailly on the +verandah; and, appearing very small and sturdy beside him, a +gray-haired, pleasant-faced man whose small eyes were relentless. + +"This is the prospect, Green," George heard Bailly say. + +The trainer studied George for some time before he nodded his head. + +"A build to hurt and not get hurt," he said at last; "but, Mr. Bailly, +it's hard to supply experience. Boys come here who have played all their +lives, and they know less than nothing. Bone seems to grow naturally in +the football cranium." + +He shifted back to George. + +"How fast are you?" + +"I've never timed myself, but I'm hard to catch." + +"Get out there," the trainer directed. + +"In those clothes?" Bailly asked. + +"Why not? The ground's dry. A man wouldn't run any faster with moleskins +and cleats. Now you run as far as the end of that stand. Halt there for +a minute, then turn and come back." + +He drew out a stop watch. + +"All set? Then--git!" + +George streaked down the field. + +"It's an even hundred yards," the trainer explained to Bailly. + +As George paused at the end of the stand the trainer snapped his watch, +whistling. + +"There are lots with running shoes and drawers wouldn't do any better. +Let's have him back." + +He waved his arm. George tore up and leant against the railing, +breathing hard, but not uncomfortably. + +"You were a full second slower coming back," the trainer said with a +twinkle. + +"I'm sorry," George cried. "Let me try it again." + +Green shook his head. + +"I'd rather see you make a tackle, but I've no one to spare." + +He grinned invitation at Bailly. + +"My spirit, Green," the tutor said, "is less fragile than my corpus, but +it has some common-sense. I prefer others should perish at the hands of +my discoveries." + +"You've scrubbed around," the trainer said, appraising George's long, +muscular legs. "Ever kick a football?" + +"A little." + +Green entered the field house, reappearing after a moment with a +football tucked under his arm. + +"Do you mind stepping down the field, Mr. Bailly, to catch what he +punts? I wouldn't go too far." + +Bailly nodded and walked a short distance away. The trainer gave George +the football and told him to kick it to Bailly. George stepped on the +grass and swung his leg. If the ball had travelled horizontally as far +as it did toward heaven it would have been a good kick. For half an hour +the trainer coached interestedly, teaching George the fundamentals of +kicking form. Some of the later punts, indeed, boomed down the field for +considerable distances, but in George's mind the high light of that +unexpected experience remained the lanky, awkward figure in wrinkled +tweeds, limping about the field, sometimes catching the ball, sometimes +looking hurt when it bounded from his grasp, sometimes missing it +altogether, and never once losing the flashing pleasure from his eyes or +the excitement out of his furrowed face. + +"Enough," the trainer said at last. + +George heard him confide to the puffing tutor: + +"Possibilities. Heaven knows we'll need them a year from this fall, +especially in the kicking line. I believe this fellow can be taught." + +Bailly, his hands shaking from his recent exercise, lighted a pipe. He +assumed a martyr's air. His voice sounded as though someone had done him +an irreparable wrong. + +"Then I'll have to try, but it's hard on me, Green, you'll admit." + +George hid his excitement. He knew he had passed his first examination. +He was sure he would enter college. Already he felt the confidence most +men placed in Squibs Bailly. + +"Wouldn't you have taken him on anyway, Mr. Bailly?" the trainer +laughed. "Anyway, a lot of my players are first-group men. I depend on +you to turn him over in the fall for the Freshman eleven. Going to +town?" + +"Come on, Morton," Bailly said, remorsefully. + +Side by side the three walked through to Nassau Street and past the +campus. George said nothing, drinking in the scarcely comprehensible +talk of the others about team prospects and the appalling number of +powerful and nimble young men who would graduate the following June. + +Near University Place he noticed Rogers loafing in front of a restaurant +with several other youths who wore black caps. He wondered why Rogers +started and stared at him, then turned, speaking quickly to the others. + +Green went down University Place. George paced on with Bailly. In front +of the Nassau Club the tutor paused. + +"I'm going in here," he said, "but you can come to my house at +eight-thirty. We'll work until ten-thirty. We'll do that every night +until your brain wrinkles a trifle. You may not have been taught that +twenty-four hours are allotted to each day. Eight for sleep. Two with +me. Two for meals. Two at the field. Two for a run in the country. That +leaves eight for study, and you'll need every minute of them. I'll give +you your schedule to-night. If you break it once I'll drop you, for +you've got to have a brain beyond the ordinary to make it wrinkle +enough." + +"Thanks, Mr. Bailly. If you don't mind, what will it cost?" + +Bailly considered. + +"I'll have to charge you," he said at last, "twenty-five dollars, but I +can lend you most of the books." + +George understood, but his pride was not hurt. + +"I'll pay you in other ways." + +Bailly looked at him, his emaciated face smiling all over. + +"I think you will," he said with a little nod. "All right. At +eight-thirty." + +He limped along the narrow cement walk and entered the club. George +started back. The group, he noticed, still loitered in front of the +restaurant. Rogers detached himself and strolled across. He was no +longer suspicious. + +"You been down at the field with Mr. Green?" + +"Yes." + +"What for?" + +"Running a little, kicking a football around." + +"Trust Bailly to guess you played. What did Green say?" + +"If I get in," George, answered simply, "I think he'll give me a show." + +"I guess so," Rogers said, thoughtfully, "or he wouldn't be wasting his +time on you now. Come on over and meet these would-be Freshmen. We'll +all be in the same class unless we get brain-fever. Mostly +Lawrenceville." + +George crossed and submitted to elaborate introductions and warm +greetings. + +"Green's grooming him already for the Freshman eleven," Rogers +explained. + +George accepted the open admiration cautiously, not forgetting what he +had been yesterday, what Sylvia had said. Why was Rogers so friendly all +at once? + +"What prep?" "Where'd you play?" "Line or backfield?" + +The rapidity of the questions lessened his discomfort. How was he to +avoid such moments? He must make his future exceptionally full so that +it might submerge the past of which he couldn't speak without +embarrassment. In this instance Rogers helped him out. + +"Morton's bummed around. Never went to any school for long." + +George pondered this kind act and its fashion as he excused himself and +walked on to his lodging. There was actually something to hide, and +Rogers admitted it, and was willing to lend a cloak. He could guess why. +Because Green was bothering with him, had condescended to be seen on the +street with him. George's vision broadened. + +He locked himself in his room and sat before his souvenirs. Sylvia's +provocative features seemed clearer. For a long time he stared hungrily. +He had an absurd impression that he had already advanced toward her. +Perhaps he had in view of what had happened that afternoon. + +His determination as well as his strength had clearly attracted Bailly; +yet that strength, its possible application to football, had practically +assured him he would enter college, had made an ally of the careful +Rogers, had aroused the admiration of such sub-Freshmen as were in town. +It became clear that if he should be successful at football he would +achieve a position of prominence from which he could choose friends +useful here and even in the vital future after college. + +His planning grew more practical. If football, a game of which he knew +almost nothing, could do that, what might he not draw from one he +thoroughly knew--anything concerning horses, for instance, hunting, +polo? The men interested in horses would be the rich, the best--he +choked a trifle over the qualification--the financial and social leaders +of the class. He would have that card up his sleeve. He would play it +when it would impress most. Skill at games, he hazarded, would make it +easier than he had thought to work his way through. + +Whatever distaste such cold calculation brought he destroyed by staring +at Sylvia's remote beauty. If he was to reach such a goal he would have +to use every possible short cut, no matter how unlovely. + +He found that evening a radical alteration in Squibs Bailly's study. The +blotter was spattered with ink. Papers littered the desk and drifted +about the floor. Everything within reach of the tutor's hands was +disarranged and disreputably untidy. Bailly appeared incomparably more +comfortable. + +The course opened with a small lecture, delivered while the attenuated +man limped up and down the cluttered room. + +"Don't fancy," he began, "that you have found in football a key to the +scholastic labyrinth." + +His wrinkled face assumed a violent disapproval. His youthful eyes +flashed resentfully. + +"Mr. Morton, if I suffered the divine Delphic frenzy and went to the +Dean and assured him you were destined to be one of our very best +undergraduates and at the same time would make fifteen touchdowns +against Yale, and roughly an equal number against Harvard, do you know +what he would reply?" + +George gathered that an answer wasn't necessary. + +"You might think," the tutor resumed, limping faster than ever, "that he +would run his fingers through his hair, if he had sufficient; would +figuratively flame with pleasure; would say: 'Miraculous, Mr. Bailly. +You are a great benefactor. We must get this extraordinary youth in the +university even if he can't parse "the cat caught the rat."'" + +Bailly paused. He clashed his hands together. + +"Now I'll tell you what he'd actually reply. 'Interesting if true, Mr. +Bailly. But what are his scholastic attainments? Can he solve a +quadratic equation in his head? Has he committed to memory my favourite +passages of the "Iliad" of Homer and the "Aeneid" of Virgil? Can he name +the architect of the Parthenon or the sculptor of the Aegean pediments? +No? Horrible! Then off with his head!'" + +Bailly draped himself across his chair. + +"Therefore it behooves us to get to work." + + +III + +That was the first of sixty-odd toilsome, torturing evenings, for Bailly +failed to honour the Sabbath; and, after that first lecture, drab +business alone coloured those hours. The multiplicity of subjects was +confusing; but, although Bailly seldom told him so, George progressed +rapidly, and Bailly knew just where to stress for the examinations. + +If it had ended there it would have been bad enough. When he studied the +schedule Bailly gave him that first night he had a despairing feeling +that either he or it must break down. Everything was accounted for even +to the food he was to eat. That last, in fact, created a little +difficulty with the landlady, who seemed to have no manner of +appreciation of the world-moving importance of football. Rogers wanted +to help out there, too. He had found George's lodging. It was when +Green's interest was popular knowledge, when from the Nassau Club had +slipped the belief that Squibs Bailly had turned his eyes on another +star. George made it dispassionately clear to Rogers that Bailly had not +allowed in his schedule for calls. Rogers was visibly disappointed. + +"Where do you eat, then?" + +"Here--with Mrs. Michin." + +"Now look, Morton. That's no way. Half a dozen of us are eating at Joe's +restaurant. They're the best of the sub-Freshmen that are here. Come +along with us." + +The manner of the invitation didn't make George at all reluctant to tell +the truth. + +"I can't afford to be eating around in restaurants." + +"That needn't figure," Rogers said, quickly. "Green's probably only +letting you eat certain things. I'll guarantee Joe'll take you on for +just what you're paying Mrs. Michin." + +George thought rapidly. He could see through Rogers now. The boy wanted, +even as he did, to run with the best, but for a vastly different cause. +That was why his manner had altered that first morning when he had sized +George up as the unfinished product of a public school, why it had +altered again when he had sensed in him a football star. George's heart +warmed, but not to Rogers. Because he rioted around for a period each +afternoon in an odorous football suit he was already, in the careful +Rogers' eyes, one of the most prominent of the students in town. For the +same reason he was in a position to wait and make sure that Rogers +himself was the useful sort. George possessed no standard by which to +judge, and it would be a mistake to knot ropes that he might want to +break later; nor did he care for that sort of charity, no matter how +well disguised, so he shook his head. + +"Green and Squibs wouldn't put up with it." + +He wheedled his landlady, instead, into a better humour, paying her +reluctantly a little more. + +The problem of expenses was still troublesome, but it became evident +that there, too, Bailly would be a useful guide. + +"I have actually bearded the dean about you," he said one evening. +"There are a few scholarships not yet disposed of. If I can prove to him +that you live by syntax alone you may get one. As for the rest, there's +the commons. Impecunious students profitably wait on table there." + +George's flush was not pretty. + +"I'll not be a servant," he snapped. + +"It's no disgrace," Bailly said, mildly. + +"It is--for me." + +He didn't like Bailly's long, slightly pained scrutiny. There was no use +keeping things from him anyway. + +"I can trust you, Mr. Bailly," he said, quickly, and in a very low +voice, as if the walls might hear: "I know you won't give me away. I--I +was too much like a servant until the day I came to Princeton. I've +sworn I'd never be again. I can't touch that job. I tell you I'd rather +starve." + +"To do so," Bailly remarked, drily, "would be a senseless suicide. +You'll appreciate some day, young man, that the world lives by service." + +George wondered why he glanced at the untidy table with a smile +twitching at the corners of his mouth. + +"I'm also sorry to learn your ambition is not altogether unselfish, or +altogether worthy." + +George longed to make Bailly understand. + +"It was forced on me," he said. "I worked in my father's livery business +until he failed. Then I had to go to a rich man's stable. I was treated +like dirt. Nobody would have anything to do with me. They won't here, +probably, if they find out." + +"Never mind," Bailly sighed. "We will seek other means. Let us get on +with our primers." + +Once or twice, when some knotty problem took George to the house during +the early morning, he found the spic-and-span neatness he had observed +at his first visit. In Bailly's service clearly someone laboured with a +love of labour, without shame or discouragement. + +One evening in August the maid who customarily opened the door was +replaced by a short, plump-looking woman well over thirty. She greeted +George with kindly eyes. + +"I daresay you're Mr. Morton. I've heard a great deal about you." + +George had never seen a face more unaffected, more friendly, more +competent. His voice was respectful. + +"Yes, ma'am." + +"And I am Mrs. Bailly. We expect much of you." + +There rushed over George a feeling that, his own ambition aside, he had +to give them a great deal. No wonder Squibs felt as he did if his ideas +of service had emerged from such a source. + +That portion of his crowded schedule George grew eventually to like. It +brought him either unrestrained scolding or else a tempered praise; and +he enjoyed his cross-country runs. Sylvia's bulldog usually accompanied +him, unleashed, for he could control the animal. With surprised eyes he +saw estates as extravagant as Oakmont, and frequently in better taste. +Little by little he picked up the names of the families that owned them. +He told himself that some day he would enter those places as a guest, +bowed to by such servants as he had been. It was possible, he promised +himself bravely, if only he could win a Yale or a Harvard game. + +He enjoyed, too, the hours he spent at the field. He could measure his +progress there as well as in Bailly's study. Green was slow with either +praise or blame, but sometimes Rogers and his clan would come down, and, +sitting in the otherwise empty stands, would audibly marvel at the +graceful trajectory of his punts. He soiled himself daily at the +tackling dummy. He sprawled after an elusive ball, falling on it or +picking it up on the run. Meantime, he had absorbed the elements of the +rules. He found them rather more complicated than the classics. + +The head coach came from the city one day. Like Green, he said nothing +in praise or blame, merely criticising pleasantly; but George felt that +he was impressed. The great man even tossed the ball about with him for +a while, teaching him to throw at a definite mark. After that Rogers and +his cronies wanted to be more in evidence than ever, but George had no +time for them, or for anything outside his work. + +His will to survive the crushing grind never really faltered, but he +resented its necessity, sometimes wistfully, sometimes with turbulence. +He despised himself for regretting certain pleasanter phases of his +serfdom at Oakmont. The hot, stuffy room on the top floor of the frame +house; the difficult books; the papers streaked with intricate and +reluctant figures, contrived frequently to swing his mind to pastoral +corners of the Planter estate. He might have held title to them, they +had been so much his own. He had used them during his free time for the +reading of novels, and latterly, he remembered, for formless dreams of +Sylvia's beauty. At least his mind had not been put to the torture +there. He had had time to listen to a bird's song, to ingratiate himself +with a venturesome squirrel, to run his hands through the long grass, to +lie half asleep, brain quite empty save for a temporal content. + +Now, running or walking in the country, he found no time for the happier +aspects of woods or fields. He had to drive himself physically in order +that his mind could respond to Bailly's urgencies. And sometimes, as has +been suggested, his revolt was more violent. He paced his room angrily. +Why did he do it? Why did he submit? Eventually his eyes would turn to +her photograph, and he would go back to his table. + +He was grateful for the chance that had let him pick up that picture. +Without its constant supervision he might not have been able to keep up +the struggle. During the worst moments, when some solution mocked him, +he would stare at the likeness while his brain fought, while, with a +sort of self-hypnosis induced by that pictured face, he willed himself +to keep on. + +One night, when he had suffered over an elusive equation beyond his +scheduled bedtime, he found his eyes, as he stared at the picture, +blurring strangely; then the thing was done, the answer proved; but +after what an effort! Why did his eyes blur? Because of the intensity of +some emotion whose significance he failed all at once to grasp. He +continued to stare at Sylvia's beauty, informed even here with a sincere +intolerance; at those lips which had released the contempt that had +delivered him to this other slavery. Abruptly the emotion, that had +seemed to leap upon him from the books and the complicated figures, +defined itself with stark, unavoidable brutality. He reached out and +with both hands grasped the photograph. He wanted to snatch his hands +apart, ripping the paper, destroying the tranquil, arrogant features. He +replaced the picture, leant back, and continued hypnotically to study +it. His hands grasped the table's edge while the blurring of his eyes +increased. He spoke aloud in a clear and sullen voice: + +"I hate you," he said. "With all my heart and soul and body I hate you." + + +IV + +About this time one partial break in the schedule came like a strong +tonic. Bailly at the close of an evening's session spoke, George +fancied, with a little embarrassment. + +"My wife wants to speak to you before you go." + +He raised his voice. + +"Martha! The battle's over for to-night." + +She came quietly in and perched herself on the arm of a chair. + +"I'm having a few people for dinner to-morrow," she explained. "There's +one young girl, so I want a young man. Won't you help me out?" + +George's elation was shot with doubt of an unexplored territory. This +promised an advance if he could find the way. He glanced inquiringly at +Bailly. + +"Women," the tutor said, "lack a sense of values. I shall be chained +anyway to my wife's ill-conceived hospitality, so you might as well +come. But we'll dine early so we won't destroy an entire evening." + +"Then at seven-thirty, Mr. Morton," Mrs. Bailly said. + +"Thank you," George answered. "I shall be very happy to come." + +As a matter of fact, he was there before seven-thirty, over-anxious to +be socially adequate. He had worried a good deal about the invitation. +Could it be traced to his confession to Bailly? Was it, in any sense, a +test? At least it bristled with perplexities. His ordinary suit of +clothing, even after an extended pressing and brushing, was, he felt, +out of place. It warned him that of the ritual of a mixed dinner he was +blankly ignorant. He established two cardinal principles. He would watch +and imitate the others. He wouldn't open his mouth unless he had to. + +Bailly, with tact, wore the disgraceful tweeds, but there were two other +men, a professor and a resident, George gathered in the rapidity of the +introduction which slurred names. These wore evening clothes. Of the two +elderly women who accompanied them one was quite dazzling, displaying +much jewellery, and projecting an air truly imperial. Side by side with +her Mrs. Bailly appeared more than ever a priestess of service; yet to +George her serene self-satisfaction seemed ornament enough. + +Where, George wondered, was the girl for whom he had been asked? + +Mrs. Bailly drew him from these multiple introductions. He turned and +saw the girl standing in the doorway, a dazzling portrait in a dingy +frame. As he faced her George was aware of a tightening of all his +defences. Her clothing, her attitude, proclaimed her as of Sylvia's +sort. He ventured to raise his eyes to her face. It was there, too, the +habit of the beautiful, the obvious unfamiliarity with life's grayer +tones. Yet she did not resemble Sylvia. Her skin was nearly white. Her +hair glinted with gold; but she, too, was lovely. George asked himself +if she would have lifted the crop, if all these fortunates reacted to a +precise and depressing formula. Somehow he couldn't imagine this girl +striking to hurt. + +Mrs. Bailly presented him. Her name was Alston, Betty + +Alston, it developed during the succeeding general conversation. He +fixed the stouter of the men in evening clothes as her father and the +imperial woman as her mother. He understood then that they were, indeed, +of Sylvia's sort, for during his cross-country work he had frequently +passed their home, an immense Tudor house in the midst of pleasant +acres. + +It was because of the girl that the pitfalls of dinner were bridged. In +the technique of accepting Mrs. Bailly's excellent courses he was always +a trifle behind her. She made conversation, moreover, surprisingly easy. +After the first few moments, during which no one troubled to probe his +past, the older people left them to themselves. She didn't ask what his +prep was, or where he lived, or any other thing to make him stammer. + +"You look like a football player," she said, frankly. + +They talked of his work. He said he had admired her home during his +runs. She responded naturally: + +"When we are really back you must come and see it more intimately." + +The invitation to enter the gates! + +He fell silent. Would it be fair to go without giving her an opportunity +to treat him as Sylvia had done? Why should she inspire such a question? +Hadn't he willed his past to oblivion? Hadn't he determined to take +every short cut? Of course he would go, as George Morton, undergraduate, +football player, magician with horses. The rest was none of her +business. + +They were in Princeton, she explained, only for a few days from time to +time, but would be definitely back when college opened. She, too, was +going to be introduced to society that winter. He wanted to ask her how +it was done. He pictured a vast apartment, dense with unpleasant people, +and a man who cried out with a brazen voice: "Ladies and gentlemen! This +is Miss Sylvia Planter. This is Miss Betty Alston." Quite like an +auction. + +"It must be wonderful to play football," she was saying. "I should have +preferred to be a man. What can a girl do? Bad tennis, rotten golf, +something with horses." + +He smiled. He could impress Betty Alston, but there was no point in +that, because she was a girl, and he could think of only one girl. + +Yet he carried home an impression of unexpected interest and kindness. +Her proximity, the rustling of her gown, the barely detectable perfume +from her tawny hair, furnished souvenirs intangible but very warm in his +memory. They made the portrait and the broken crop seem lifeless and +unimpressive. + +He forced himself to stare at Sylvia's likeness until the old hypnotic +sense returned. + + +V + +He saw Betty Alston once more before college opened, unexpectedly, +briefly, and disturbingly; but with all that he carried again to his +lodging an impression of a distracting contact. + +He was out for a morning run, wearing some ancient flannels Bailly had +loaned him, and a sweater, for autumn's first exhilaration sharpened the +air. Sylvia's bulldog barked joyously about him as he trotted through a +lane not far from the Alston place. He often went that way, perhaps +because its gates were already half open. As he turned the corner of a +hedge he came face to face with Betty. In a short skirt and knitted +jacket she was even more striking than she had been at the Bailly's. The +unexpected encounter had brought colour to her rather pale face. The +bulldog sprang for her. George halted him with a sharp command. + +"I am not afraid of him," she laughed. "Come here, savage beast." + +The dog crawled to her and licked her fingers. George saw her examining +the animal curiously. + +"I hope he didn't frighten you," he said, his cap in his hand. + +She glanced up, and at her voice George straightened, and turned quickly +away so that she couldn't see the response to her amazing question. Was +it, he asked himself, traceable to Old Planter's threats. Were they +going to try to smash him at the start and keep him out of Princeton? + +"Do you happen," Betty had said, frowning, "to know Sylvia Planter, or, +perhaps, her brother, Lambert?" + +George didn't care to lie; nor was it, his instinct told him, safe to +lie to Betty. She knew the Planters, then. But how could Old Planter +drive him out except through his parents? He wasn't going to be driven +out. He turned back slowly. In Betty's face he read only a slight +bewilderment. + +"That's a queer thing to ask," he managed. + +"The dog," she said, caressing the ugly snout, "is the image of one +Sylvia Planter was very fond of. Sylvia and I were at school together +last year. I've just been visiting her the last few days. She said she +had given her dog away." + +She drew the dog closer and read the name on the collar. + +"Roland! What was the name of her dog?" + +George relaxed. + +"That dog," he said, harshly, "belongs to me." + +She glanced at him, surprised, releasing the dog and standing up. It +wasn't Old Planter then, and his parents were probably safe enough; but +had Sylvia, he asked himself angrily, made a story for her guest out of +his unwary declaration and his abrupt vanishing from Oakmont? Did this +friendly creature know anything? If she did she would cease to be +amiable. His anger diminished as he saw the curiosity leave her face. + +"An odd resemblance! Do you know, Mr. Morton, I rather think you're +bound to meet Lambert Planter anyway. I believe he's a very important +young man at Yale. You'll have to play football a little better than he +does. His sister and he are going to visit me for a few days before he +goes back to New Haven. Perhaps you'll see him then." + +George resented the prospect. He got himself away. + +"Squibs," he told her, "sees everything. If I loiter he finds out and +scolds." + +He had an impression that she looked after him until he was out of +sight. Or was it the dog that still puzzled her? Something of her, at +least, accompanied him longer than that--her kindness, her tact in the +matter of the Planters. He would take very good care that he didn't meet +Lambert; the prospect of Sylvia's adjacence, however, filled him with a +disturbing excitement. He wanted to see her, but he felt it wouldn't be +safe to have her see him yet. + +Her picture increased his excitement, filled him with a craving for her +physical presence. He desired to look at her, as he had looked at the +photograph, to see if he could tell himself under those conditions that +he hated her. Whether that was true or not, he was more determined than +ever to make his boasts good. + + +VI + +The day of the immediate test approached and he found himself no longer +afraid of it. Even Bailly one early September evening abandoned +cynicism. + +"You've every chance, Morton," he said, puffing at his pipe, "to enter +creditably. You may have a condition in French, but what of that? We'll +have it off by the divisionals. I'll admit you're far from a dunce. +During the next ten days we'll concentrate on the examination +idiosyncrasies of my revered colleagues." + +The scholarship had, in fact, been won for George, but the necessary +work, removed from any suspicion of the servatorial, had not yet been +found. Bailly, although he plainly worried himself, told George not to +be impatient; then, just before the entrance examinations, the head +coach arrived and settled himself in Princeton. Self-assured young men +drifted to the field now every afternoon--"varsity men," the Rogers clan +whispered with awe. And there were last year's substitutes, and faithful +slaves of the scrub, over-anxious, pouring out to early practice, +grasping at one more chance. So far no Freshmen candidates had been +called, but the head coach was heard to whisper to Green: + +"We'd better work this fellow Morton with the squad until the cubs +start. He'll stand a lot of practice. Give him all the football he'll +hold. He's outkicking his ends now. Jack him up without cutting down his +distance. I'd like to see him make a tackle. He looks good at the dummy, +but you never can tell. He may be an ear-puller." + +The magic words slipped through the town. George caught arriving +Freshmen pointing him out. He overheard glowing prophecies. + +"Green says he'll outkick Dewitt." + +It didn't turn his head. To be the greatest player the game had ever +known wouldn't have turned his head, for that would have been only one +small step toward the summit from which Sylvia looked down on him with +contemptuous, inimical eyes. + +The head coach one afternoon gave the ball to a young man of no +pronounced value, and instructed him to elude George if he could. + +"You, Morton," the head coach instructed, "see that he doesn't get past +you. Remember what you've done to the dummy." + +George nodded, realizing that this was a real test to be passed with a +hundred per cent. That man with the ball had the power and the desire +to make a miserable failure of him. For the moment he seemed more than a +man, deadly, to be conquered at any cost. Schooled by his +rough-and-tumble combats at school and in the stables, George kept his +glance on the other's eyes; knew, therefore, when he was going to +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. + +Betty came gracefully down the steps, and George followed her into the +pleasant obscurity of the automobile. He could scarcely see her white +figure, but he became aware again of the delightful and singular perfume +of her tawny hair. If Sylvia had spoken he never could have sat so close +to her. He had no business, anyway---- + +She snapped on the light. She laughed. + +"I said you were bound to meet Lambert Planter." + +He had started on false ground. At any moment the ground might give +way. + +"If I wasn't quite honest about that the other morning," he said, "it +was because I had met Lambert Planter, but under circumstances I wanted +to forget." + +"I'm sorry," she said, softly, "that I reminded you; but he seemed glad +to see you this morning. It is all right now, isn't it?" + +"Yes," he answered, doubtfully. + +That thrilling quality of her voice became more pronounced. + +"I'm glad. For he's a good friend to have. He's a very real person; I +mean, a man who's likely to do big things, don't you think?" + +"Yes," he said again. + +Why was he conscious of resentment? Why did he ask himself quickly if +Lambert thought of her with equal benevolence? He pulled himself up +short. What earthly business was it of his what Betty Alston and Lambert +Planter thought of each other? But he regretted the briefness of his +companionship with Betty in the unaccustomed luxury of the car. It +surrounded him with a settled and congenial atmosphere; it lessened, +after the first moments, the sharp taste of the ambition to which he had +condemned himself. + +"Don't worry," she said, as he descended at his lodging, "you'll get in. +Dear old Squibs told me so." + +He experienced a strong impulse to touch her hand again. He thanked her, +said good-night, and turned resolutely away. + +It was only after long scrutiny of Sylvia's photograph that he attacked +Bailly's marked passages. Again and again he reminded himself that he +had actually seen her that day, and that she had either not remembered +him, or had, with a deliberate cruelty, sought to impress him with his +ugly insignificance in a crowded and pleasurable landscape. + +Then why should this other girl of the same class treat him so +differently? + +The answer came glibly. For that instant he was wholly distasteful to +himself. + +"Because she doesn't know." + +He picked up a piece of the broken riding crop, flushing hotly. He +would detach himself from the landscape for Sylvia. He would use that +crop yet. + + +X + +He worked all the next day in the examination hall. He purposely chose a +seat in the row behind Goodhue. Five or six men, clearly all friends of +Goodhue's, sat near him, each modelled more or less as he was. George +noticed one exception, a short fellow who stood out from the entire +room. At first George thought it was because he was older, then he +decided it was the light moustache, the thick hair, the eyes that lacked +lustre, the long, white fingers. The man barely lifted his examination +sheets. He glanced at them once, then set to work. He was the first to +rise and hand his papers in. The rest paused, stared enviously, and +sighed. George heard Goodhue say to the man next him: + +"How do you suppose Spike does it?" + +George wondered why they called the dainty little man Spike. + +He was slow and painstaking himself, and the room was fairly well +emptied before he finished. Except for the French, he was satisfied. He +took a deep breath. The ordeal was over. For the first time in more than +two months he was his own master. He could do anything he pleased. + +First of all, he hurried to Squibs Bailly. + +"Lend me a novel--something exciting," he began. "No, I wouldn't open a +text-book even for you to-night. The schedule's dead and buried, sir, +and you haven't given me another." + +Bailly's wrinkled face approved. + +"You wouldn't be coming at me this way if there was any doubt. You shall +have your novel. I'm afraid----" + +He paused, laughing. + +"I mean, my task with you is about done. You've more brain than a +dinosaur. It is variously wrinkled where once it was like a babe's. +Except for the French, you should handle your courses without superhuman +effort. Don't ever let me hear of your getting a condition. Your next +schedule will come from Stringham and Green." + +He limped to a bookcase and drew out a volume bound in red. + +"Without entirely wasting your time, you may amuse yourself with that." + +"'Treasure Island.'" + +George frowned doubtfully. + +"We studied something about this man. If he's good enough to get in the +school books maybe he isn't just what I'm looking for to-night." + +"Have you ever perused Nick Carter, or, perhaps Old Sleuth?" Bailly +asked. + +George smiled. + +"I know I have to forget all that." + +"In intellectual circles," Bailly agreed. + +He glanced slyly around. + +"I've scanned such matter," he whispered, "with a modicum of enjoyment, +so I can assure you the book you have in your hand possesses nearly +equal merit, yet you may discuss it without losing caste in the most +exalted places; which would seem to indicate that human judgment is +based on manner rather than matter." + +"You mean," George said, frowning, "that if a man does a rotten thing it +is the way he does it rather than the thing itself that is judged?" + +Bailly limped up and down, his hands behind his back. He faced George +with a little show of bewildered temper. + +"See here, Freshman Morton, I've taught you to think too fast. You can't +fasten a scheme of ethics on any silly aphorism of mine. Go home and +read your book. Dwell with picturesque pirates, and walk with flawless +and touching virtue. Delve for buried treasure. That, at least, is +always worth while." + +George's attitude was a challenge. + +"Remembering," he said, softly, "to dig in a nice manner even if your +hands do get dirty." + +Bailly sprawled in his chair and waved George away. "You need a +preacher," he said, "not a tutor." + + +XI + +In his room George opened his book and read happily. Never in his life +had he been so relaxed and content. Entangled in the adventures of +colourful characters he didn't hear at first the sliding of stealthy +feet in the hall, whispered consultations, sly knockings at various +doors. Then there came a rap at his own door, and he glanced up, +surprised, sweeping the photograph and the broken crop into the table +drawer. + +"Come in," he called, not heartily. + +A dozen young men crowded slowly into the room. They wore orange and +black jerseys and caps brilliant with absurd devices. They had the +appearance of judges of some particularly atrocious criminal. George had +no doubt that he was the man, for those were the days just before hazing +was frowned out of existence by an effete conservatism. + +"Get up, you Freshman," one hissed. "Put on your hat and coat, and +follow us." + +George was on the point of refusing, had his hands half up in fact, to +give them a fight; but a thrill entered his soul that he should be +qualified as a victim of such high-handed nonsense which acknowledged +him as an entity in the undergraduate world. He arose gladly, ready to +obey. Then someone grunted with disgust. + +"Come on. Duck out of here." + +"What for? This guy looks fresh as salt mackerel." + +"It's Morton. We can't monkey with him." + +The others expressed disappointment and thronged through the door in +search of victims more available. George became belligerent for an +opposite reason. + +"Why not?" he demanded. + +The leader smiled in friendly fashion. + +"You'll get all the hazing you need down at the field." + +As the last filed out and closed the door George smiled appreciation. +Even among the Sophomores he was spotted, a privileged and an important +character. + +The next morning, packed with the nervous Freshmen in a lecture room, he +heard his name read out with the sections. He fought his way into the +university offices to scan the list of conditioned men. He didn't appear +on a single slip. He had even managed the easy French paper. He attended +to the formalities of matriculating. He was free to play football, to +take up the by-no-means considerable duties of the laundry agency, to +make friends. He had completed the first lap. + +When he reported at the field that afternoon he found that the Freshmen +had a coach of their own, a young man who possessed the unreal violence +of a Sophomore, but he knew the game, and the extra invective with which +he drove George indicated that Stringham and Green had confided to him +their hopes. + +The squad was large. Later it would dwindle and its members be thrown +into a more intimate contact. Goodhue was there, a promising +quarterback. Rogers toiled with a hopeless enthusiasm. George smiled, +appreciating the other's logic. It was a good thing to try for the team, +even though one had no chance of making it. As a matter of fact, Rogers +disappeared at the first weeding-out. + +The opening fortnight was wholly pleasant--a stressing of fundamentals +that demanded little severe physical effort. Nor did the curriculum +place any grave demands on George. During the evenings he frequently +supplemented his work at the field with a brisk cross-country run, more +often than not in the vicinity of the Alston place. He could see the +lights in the huge house, and he tried to visualize that interior where, +perhaps, men of the Goodhue stamp sat with Betty. He studied those +fortunates, meantime, and the other types that surrounded him. There +were many men of a sort, of the Rogers sort particularly, who +continually suggested their receptivity; and he was invariably +courteous--from a distance, as he had seen Goodhue respond to Rogers. +For George had his eyes focused now. He had seen the best. + +The election of Freshmen class officers outlined several facts. The +various men put up for office were unknown to the class in general, were +backed by little crowds from their own schools. Men from less important +schools, and men, like George, with no preparatory past, voted wild. +These school groups, he saw, clung together; would determine, it was +clear, the social progress through college of their members. That +inevitably pointed to the upper-class club houses on Prospect Street. +George had seen them from his first days at University Field, but until +now they had, naturally enough, failed to impress him with any immediate +interest. He desired the proper contacts for the molding of his own +deportment and, to an extent even greater, for the bearing they would +have on his battle for money and position after he should leave college. +But it became clear to him now that the contest for Prospect Street had +begun on the first day, even earlier, back in the preparatory schools. + +Were such contacts possible in a serviceable measure without success in +that selfish, headlong race? Was it practicable to draw the attention of +the eager, half-blind runners to one outside the sacred little groups? +Football would open certain doors, but if there was one best club he +would have that or nothing. It might be wiser to stand brazenly aloof, +posing as above such infantile jealousies. The future would decide, but +as he left the place of the elections he had an empty feeling, a +sharpened appreciation of the hazards that lay ahead. + +Goodhue would be pointed for the highest. Goodhue would lead in many +ways. He was elected the first president of the class. + +The poor or earnest men, ignorant of everything outside their books, +come from scattered homes, quite friendless, gravitated together in what +men like Rogers considered a social quarantine. Rogers, indeed, ventured +to warn George of the risk of contagion. As chance dictated George +chatted with such creatures; once or twice even walked across the campus +with them. + +"You're making a mistake," Rogers advised, "being seen with polers like +Allen." + +"I've been seen with him twice that I can think of," George answered. +"Why?" + +"That lot'll queer you." + +George put his hand on Rogers' shoulder. + +"See here. If I'm so small that that will queer me, you can put me down +as damned." + +He walked on with that infrequently experienced sensation of having made +an advance. Yet he couldn't quite see why. He had responded to an +instinct that must have been his even in the days at Oakmont, when he +had been less than human. If he didn't see more of men like Allen it was +because they had nothing to offer him; nothing whatever. Goodhue had---- + +When their paths crossed on the campus now Goodhue nodded, for each day +they met at the field, both certainties, if they escaped injury, for the +Freshmen eleven. + +Football had ceased to be unalloyed pleasure. Stringham that fall used +the Freshmen rather more than the scrub as a punching bag for the +varsity. The devoted youngsters would take punishment from three or four +successive teams from the big squad. They became, consequently, as hard +as iron. Frequently they played a team of varsity substitutes off its +feet. George had settled into the backfield. He was fast with the ball, +but he found it difficult to follow his interference, losing patience +sometimes, and desiring to cut off by himself. Even so he made +consistent gains through the opposing line. On secondary defence he was +rather too efficient. Stringham was continually cautioning him not to +tackle the varsity pets too viciously. After one such rebuke Goodhue +unbent to sympathy. + +"If they worked the varsity as hard as they do us Stringham wouldn't +have to be so precious careful of his brittle backs. Just the same, +Morton, I would rather play with you than against you." + +George smiled, but he didn't bother to answer. Let Goodhue come around +again. + +George's kicking from the start outdistanced the best varsity punts. The +stands, sprinkled with undergraduates and people from the town, would +become noisy with handclapping as his spirals arched down the field. + +Squibs Bailly, George knew, was always there, probably saying, "I kicked +that ball. I made that run," and he had. The more you thought of it, the +more it became comprehensible that he had. + +The afternoon George slipped outside a first varsity tackle, and dodged +two varsity backs, running forty yards for a touchdown, Squibs limped on +the field, followed by Betty Alston. The scrimmaging was over. The +Freshmen, triumphant because of George's feat, streaked toward the field +house. Goodhue ran close to George. Bailly caught George's arm. Goodhue +paused, calling out: + +"Hello, Betty!" + +At first Betty seemed scarcely to see Goodhue. She held out her hand to +George. + +"That was splendid. Don't forget that you're going to make me +congratulate you this way next fall after the big games." + +"I'll do my best. I want you to," George said. + +Again he responded to the frank warmth of her fingers that seemed +unconsciously endeavouring to make more pliable the hard surface of his +mind. + +"The strength of a lion," Bailly was saying, "united to the cruel +cunning of the serpent. Heaven be praised you didn't seek the higher +education at Yale or Harvard." + +Betty called a belated greeting to Goodhue. + +"Hello, Dicky! Wasn't it a real run? I feel something of a sponsor. I +told him before college opened he would be a great player." + +Goodhue's surprise was momentarily apparent. + +"It was rather nice to see those big fellows dumped," he said. + +Betty went closer to him. + +"Aren't you coming out to dinner soon? I'll promise Green you won't +break training." + +The warm, slender fingers were no longer at George's mind. He felt +abruptly repulsed. He wanted only to get away. Her eyes caught his, and +she smiled. + +"And bring Mr. Morton. I'm convinced he'll never come unless somebody +takes him by the hand." + +George glanced at her hand. He had a whimsical impulse to reach out for +it, to close his eyes, to be led. + +Heavy feet hurried behind the little group. A voice filled with rancour +and disgust cried out: + +"You standing here without blankets just to enjoy the autumn breezes? +You ought to have better sense, Mr. Bailly." + +"It's my fault, Green," Betty laughed. + +"That's different," the trainer admitted, gallantly. "You can't expect a +woman to have much sense. Get to the showers now, and on the run." + +Goodhue and George trotted off. + +"I didn't know you were a friend of Betty Alston's," Goodhue said. + +George didn't answer. Goodhue didn't say anything else. + + +XII + +Often after those long, pounding afternoons George returned to his room, +wondering dully, as he had done last summer, why the deuce he did it. +Sylvia's picture stared the same answer, and he would turn with a sigh +to one of the novels Bailly loaned him regularly. Bailly was of great +value there, too, for he chose the books carefully, and George was +commencing to learn that as a man reads so is he very likely to think. +Whenever he spoke now he was careful to modulate his voice, to choose +his words, never to be heard without a reason. + +The little fellow with the moustache whom the Goodhue crowd called Spike +met him on the campus one day after practice. + +"My name," he announced in a high-pitched, slurred voice, "is Wandel. +You may not realize it, but you are a very great man, Morton." + +George looked him over, astonished. He had difficulty not to mock the +other's manner, nearly effeminate. + +"Why am I great, Mr. Wandel?" + +"Anybody," Wandel answered in his singing voice, "who does one thing +better than others is inevitably great." + +George smiled vindictively. + +"I suppose I ought to return the compliment. What do you do?" + +Wandel wasn't ruffled. + +"Very many things. I brew good tea for one. What about a cup now? Come +to my rooms. They're just here, in Blair tower." + +George weighed the invitation. Wandel was beyond doubt of the +fortunates, yet curiously apart from them. George's diplomacy required a +forcing of the fortunates to seek him. Wandel, for that matter, had +sought. Where George might have refused a first invitation from Goodhue +he accepted Wandel's, because he was anxious to know the man's real +purpose in asking him. + +"All right. Thanks. But I haven't much time. I want to do some reading +before dinner." + +He hadn't imagined anything like Wandel's room existed in college, or +could be conceived or executed by one of college age. The study was +large and high with a broad casement window. The waning light increased +the values Wandel had evidently sought. The wall covering and the +draperies at the three doors and the window were a dead shade of green +that, in fact, suggested a withdrawal from life nearly supernatural, at +least medieval. The half-dozen pictures were designed to complete this +impression. They were primitives--an awkward but lovely Madonna, a +procession of saints who seemed deformed by their experiences, grotesque +conceptions of biblical encounters. There were heavy rugs, also green in +foundation; and, with wide, effective spaces between, stood +uncomfortable Gothic chairs, benches, and tables. + +Two months ago George would have expressed amazement, perhaps +admiration. Now he said nothing, but he longed for Squibs' opinion of +the room. He questioned what it reflected of the pompous little man who +had brought him. + +Wandel stooped and lighted the fire. He switched the heavy green +curtains over the window. In a corner a youth stirred and yawned. + +"Hello, Dalrymple," Wandel said. "Waited long? You know that very great +man, Morton?" + +The increasing firelight played on Dalrymple's face, a countenance +without much expression, intolerant, if anything, but in a far weaker +sense than Sylvia's assurance. George recognized him. He had seen him +accompany Goodhue through the crowd the day of the first examination. +Dalrymple didn't disturb himself. + +"The football player? How do. Damn tea, Spike. You've got whiskey and a +siphon." + +George's hand had been ready. He was thankful he hadn't offered it. In +that moment a dislike was born, not very positive; the emotion one has +for an unwholesome animal. + +Wandel disappeared. After a moment he came in, wearing a fantastic +embroidered dressing gown of the pervading dead green tone. He lighted a +spirit lamp, and, while the water heated, got out a tea canister, cups, +boxes of biscuits, cigarettes, bottles, and glasses. Dalrymple poured a +generous drink. Wandel took a smaller one. + +"You," he said to George, "being a very great man, will have some tea." + +"I'll have some tea, anyway," George answered. + +The door opened. Goodhue strolled in. His eyebrows lifted when he saw +George. + +"Do you know you're in bad company, Morton?" + +"I believe so," George answered. + +Wandel was pleased. George saw Goodhue glance a question at Dalrymple. +Dalrymple merely stared. + +They sat about, sipping, talking of nothing in particular, and the +curious room was full of an interrogation. George lost his earlier fancy +of being under Wandel's inspection. It was evident to him now that +Wandel was the man to do his inspecting first. Why the deuce had he +asked him here? Dalrymple and Goodhue were clearly puzzled by the same +question. + +When he had emptied his cup George rose and put on his cap. + +"Thanks for the cup of tea, Wandel." + +"Don't go," Wandel urged. + +He waved his hands helplessly. + +"But, since you're a very distinguished person, I suppose I can't keep +you. Come again, any day this time. Every day." + +The question in Goodhue's eyes increased. Dalrymple altered his position +irritably, and refilled his glass. George didn't say good-bye, waiting +for the first move from him. Dalrymple, however, continued to sip, +unaffected by this departure. + +Goodhue, on the other hand, after a moment's hesitation, followed George +out. When they had reached the tower archway Goodhue paused. The broken +light from an iron-framed lamp exposed the curiosity and indecision in +his eyes. + +"Have you any idea, Morton," he asked, "what Spike's up to with you; I +mean, why he's so darned hospitable all of a sudden?" + +George shook his head. He was quite frank. + +"I'm not so dull," he said, "that I haven't been wondering about that +myself." + +Goodhue smiled, and unexpectedly held out his hand. + +"Good-night, see you at the field to-morrow." + +"Why," George asked as he released that coveted grasp, "do you call +Wandel 'Spike'?" + +Goodhue's voice was uneasy in spite of the laugh with which he coloured +it. + +"Maybe it's because he's so sharp." + + +XIII + +George saw a day or two later a professor's criticism in the _Daily +Princetonian_ of the current number of the _Nassau Literary Magazine_. +Driggs Wandel, because of a poem, was excitedly greeted as a man with a +touch of genius. George borrowed a copy of the _Lit_ from a neighbour, +and read a haunting, unreal bit of verse that seemed a part of the room +in which it had probably been written. Obsessed by the practicality of +the little man, George asked himself just what Wandel had to gain by +this performance. He carried the whole puzzle to Bailly that night, and +was surprised to learn that Wandel had impressed himself already on the +faculty. + +"This verse isn't genius," Bailly said, "but it proves that the man has +an abnormal control of effect, and he does what he does with no apparent +effort. He'll probably be managing editor of the _Lit_ and the +_Princetonian_, for I understand he's out for that, too. He's going to +make himself felt in his class and in the entire undergraduate body. +Don't undervalue him. Have you stopped to think, Morton, that he still +wears a moustache? Revolutionary! Has he overawed the Sophomores, or has +he too many friends in the upper classes?" + +Bailly limped up and down, ill at ease, seeking words. + +"I don't know how to advise you. I believe he'll help you delve after +some treasure, though the stains on his own hands won't be visible. +Whether it's just the treasure you want is another matter. Be +inscrutable yourself. Accept his invitations. If you can, find out what +he's up to without committing yourself. You can put it down that he +isn't after you for nothing." + +"But why?" George demanded. + +Bailly shrugged his narrow shoulders. + +"Anyway, I've told you what I could, and you'll go your own way whether +you agree or not." + +George did, as a matter of fact. His curiosity carried him a number of +times to Wandel's rooms. Practically always Dalrymple sat aloof, +sullenly sipping whiskey which had no business there. He met a number of +other men of the same crowd who talked football in friendly enough +fashion; and once or twice the suave little fellow made a point of +asking him for a particular day or hour. Always Wandel would introduce +him to some new man, offering him, George felt, as a specimen to be +accepted as a triumph of the Wandel judgment. And in every fresh face +George saw the question he continually asked himself. + +Wandel's campaign accomplished one result: Men like Rogers became more +obsequious, considering George already a unit of that hallowed circle. +But George wasn't fooled. He knew very well that he wasn't. + +Goodhue, however, was more friendly. Football, after all, George felt, +was quite as responsible for that as Betty Alston or Wandel; for it was +the combination of Goodhue at quarter and George at half that accounted +for the team's work against the varsity, and that beat the Yale and the +Harvard Freshmen. Such a consistent and effectual partnership couldn't +help drawing its members closer out of admiration, out of joy in +success, out of a ponderable dependence that each learned to place upon +the other. That conception survived the Freshman season. George no +longer felt he had to be careful with Goodhue. Goodhue had even found +his lodgings. + +"Not palatial," George explained, "because--you may not know it--I am +working my way through college." + +Goodhue's voice was a trifle envious. + +"I know. It must give you a fine feeling to do that." + +Then Betty's vague invitation materialized in a note which mentioned a +date and the fact that Goodhue would be there. Goodhue himself suggested +that George should call at his rooms that evening so they could drive +out together. George had never been before, had not suspected that +Dalrymple lived with Goodhue. The fact, learned at the door, which bore +the two cards, disquieted him, filled him with a sense nearly +premonitory. + +When he had entered in response to Goodhue's call his doubt increased. +The room seemed inimical to him, yet it was a normal enough place. What +did it harbour that he was afraid of, that he was reluctant even to look +for? + +Goodhue was nearly ready. Dalrymple lounged on a window seat. He glanced +at George languidly. + +"Will say, Morton, you did more than your share against those Crimson +Freshmen Saturday." + +George nodded without answering. He had found the object the room +contained for which he had experienced a premonitory fear. On one of the +two desks stood an elaborately framed replica of the portrait he himself +possessed of Sylvia Planter. Its presence there impressed him as a +wrong, for to study and commune with that pictured face he had fancied +his unique privilege. Nor did its presence in this room seem quite +honest, for Sylvia, he was willing to swear, wasn't the type to scatter +her likenesses among young men. George had an instinct to turn on +Dalrymple and demand a history of the print, since Goodhue, he was +certain, wouldn't have placed it there without authority. After all, +such authority might exist. What did he know of Sylvia aside from her +beauty, her arrogance, and her breeding? That was it. Her breeding made +the exposure of her portrait here questionable. + +"What you staring at?" Dalrymple asked, sullenly. + +"Is this your desk?" George demanded. + +"Yes. Why?" + +George faced him abruptly. + +"I was looking at that photograph." + +"What for?" Dalrymple demanded, sitting up. + +"Because," George answered, evenly, "it happens to be where one sees +it." + +Dalrymple flushed. + +"Deuced pretty girl," he said with an affectation of indifference. "Of +course you don't know her." + +"I have seen her," George said, shortly. + +He felt that a challenge had been passed and accepted. He raised his +voice. + +"How about it, Goodhue?" + +"Coming." + +Dalrymple opened his mouth as if to speak, but Goodhue slipped into the +room, and George and he went down the stairs and climbed into Goodhue's +runabout. + +"I didn't know," George said when they had started, "that you lived with +Dalrymple." + +"We were put together at school, so it seemed simple to start out here." + +George was glad to fancy a slight colour of apology, as if such a +companionship needed a reason. + +It was a pleasant and intimate little dinner to which they drove. Mr. +and Mrs. Alston recollected meeting George at the Baillys', and they +were kind about his football. A friend of Betty's from a neighbouring +house made the sixth. George was not uncomfortable. His glass had shown +him that in a dinner suit he was rather better looking than he had +thought. Observation had diminished his dread of social lapses. There +flowed, however, rather too much talk of strange worlds, which included +some approaching gaieties in New York. + +"You," Betty said casually to him, "must run up to my great affair." + +Her aunt, it appeared, would engineer that a short time before the +holidays. George was vague. The prospect of a ballroom was terrifying. +He had danced very little, and never with the type of women who would +throng Betty Alston's debut. Yet he wanted to go. + +"Betty," her mother said, dryly, "will have all the lions she can trap." + +George received an unpleasant impression of having been warned. It +didn't affect him strongly, because warnings were wasted there; he was +too much the slave of a photograph and a few intolerable memories. +Sylvia would almost certainly be at that dance. + +Wandel appeared after dinner. + +"I tried to get Dolly to come," he said, "but he was in a most +villainous temper about something, and couldn't be budged. Don't mind +saying he missed a treat. I hired a pert little mare at Marlin's. If I +can find anything in town nearly as good I'll break the two to tandem +this winter." + +George's suppressed enthusiasm blazed. + +"I'd like to help you. I'd give a good deal for a real fight with a +horse." + +He was afraid he had plunged in too fast. He met the surprise of the +others by saying he had played here and there with other people's +horses; but the conversation had drifted to a congenial topic, and it +got to polo. + +"Because a man was killed here once," Wandel said, "is no reason why the +game should be damned forever." + +"If you young men," Mr. Alston offered, "want to get some ponies down in +the spring, or experiment with what I've got, you're welcome to play +here all you please, and it might be possible to arrange games with +scrub teams from Philadelphia and New York." + +"Do you play, Mr. Morton?" Betty asked, interestedly. + +"I've scrubbed around," he said, uncertainly. + +She laughed. + +"Then he's a master. That's what he told dear old Squibs about his +football." + +George wanted to get away from horses. He could score only through +action. Talking was dangerous. He was relieved when he could leave with +Goodhue and Wandel. + +The runabout scurried out of Wandel's way. The pert little mare sensed a +rival in the automobile, and gave Wandel all the practice he wanted. +George smiled at the busy little man as his cart slithered from side to +side of the driveway. + +"That's Spike's one weakness," Goodhue laughed as they hurried off. +"He's not a natural horseman, but he loves the beasts, so he takes his +falls. By the way, I rather think I can guess what he's up to with you." + +"What?" George asked. + +Goodhue shook his head. + +"Learn from Spike. Anyway, I may be wrong." + +Then why had Goodhue spoken at all? To put him on his guard? + +"Wandel," George promised himself, "will get away with nothing as far as +I am concerned." + +Yet all that night the thought of the little man made him uncomfortable. + + +XIV + +George watched his first big varsity game the following Saturday. It was +the last of the season, against Yale. He sat with Goodhue and other +members of the Freshman eleven in an advantageous part of the stands. +The moment the blue squad, greeted by a roar, trotted on the field, he +recognized Lambert Planter's rangy figure. Lambert's reputation as a +fullback had come to Princeton ahead of him, and it had scarcely been +exaggerated. Once he had torn through the line he gave the Princeton +backs all they wanted to do. He kicked for Yale. Defensively he was the +deadliest man on the field. He, George and Goodhue agreed, would +determine the outcome. As, through him, the balance of the contest +commenced to tip, George experienced a biting restlessness. It wasn't +the prospect of the defeat of Princeton by Yale that angered him so much +as the fact that Lambert Planter would unquestionably be the cause. +George felt it unjust that rules should exist excluding him from that +bruising and muddy contest. More than anything else just then he wanted +to be on the field, stopping Planter, avoiding the reluctance of such an +issue. + +"We ought to be out there, Morton," Goodhue muttered. "If nothing +happens, we will be next year." + +"It's that fellow Planter," George answered. "He could be stopped." + +"You could stop him," Goodhue said. "You could outkick him." + +George's face was grim. + +"I'm stronger than Planter," he said, simply. "I could beat him." + +The varsity, however, couldn't. Lambert, during the last quarter, +slipped over the line for the deciding touchdown. The game ended in a +dusky and depressing autumn haze. George and Goodhue watched sullenly +the enemy hosts carry Planter and the other blue players about the +field. Appearing as if they had survived a disaster, they joined the +crowd of men and women, relatives and friends of the players, near the +field house. The vanquished and the substitutes had already slipped +through and out of sight. The first of the steaming Yale men appeared +and threaded a path toward the steps. Lambert, because he had been +honoured most, was the last to arrive, and at that moment out of the +multitude there came into George's vision faces that he knew, as if they +had waited to detach themselves for this spectacular advent. + +He saw the most impressive one first of all, and he stood, as he had +frequently stood before her portrait, staring in a mood of wilful +obstinacy. It was only for a few moments, and she was quite some +distance away. Before he could appreciate the chance, she had withdrawn +herself, after a quick, approving tap of her brother's shoulder, among +the curious, crowding people. George had seen her face glow with a happy +pride in spite of her effort at repression; but in the second face which +he noticed there was no emotion visible at all. The hero's mother simply +nodded. Dalrymple stood between mother and daughter, smiling inanely. + +Lambert forged ahead, filthy and wet. The steam, like vapour from an +overworked animal, wavered about him. The Baillys and the Alstons pushed +close to George and Goodhue, who were in Lambert's path, pressed there +and held by the anxious people. + +At sight of Betty, Lambert paused and stretched out his hand. She was, +George thought, whiter than ever. + +"You'll say hello even to an Eli?" + +She gave her hand quickly, the colour invading her pallor. For an +instant George thought Lambert was going to draw her closer, saw his +lips twitch, heard him say: + +"Don't hold it against me, Betty." + +Certainly something was understood between these two, or Lambert, at +least, believed so. + +Betty freed her hand and caught at George's arm. + +"Look at him," she said clearly, indicating Planter. "You're going to +take care of him next fall. You're not going to let him laugh at us +again." + +George managed a smile. + +"I'll take care of him, Miss Alston." + +Lambert's dirty face expanded. + +"These are threats! And it's--George. Then we're to have a return bout +next fall. I'll look forward to it. Hello, Dick. Good-bye, Betty. Till +next fall--George." + +He passed on, leaving an impression of confidence and conquest. + +"Why," Betty said, impulsively, in George's ear, "does he speak to you +that way? Why does he call you George like that?" + +For a moment he looked at her steadily, appealingly. + +"It's partly my own fault," he said at last, "but it hurts." + +Her voice was softer than before. + +"That's wrong. You mustn't let little things hurt, George." + +For the first time in his memory he felt a stinging at his eyes, the +desire for tears. He didn't misunderstand. Her use of his first name was +not a precedent. It had been balm applied to a wound that she had only +been able to see was painful. Yet, as he walked away with Goodhue, he +felt as if he had been baptized again. + + +XV + +Wandel, quite undisturbed, joined them. + +"You and Dicky," the little man said, "look as if you had come out of a +bad wreck. What's up? It's only a game." + +"Of course you're right," George answered, "but you have to play some +games desperately hard if you want to win." + +"Now what are you driving at, great man?" Wandel wanted to know. + +"Come on, Spike," Goodhue said, irritably. "You're always looking for +double meanings." + +George walked on with them, desolately aware of many factors of his life +gone awry. The game; Lambert's noticeable mockery, all the more +unbearable because of its unaffectedness; Dalrymple's adjacence to +Sylvia--these remembrances stung, the last most of all. + +"Come on up, you two," Goodhue suggested as they approached the building +in which he lived, "I believe Dolly's giving tea to Sylvia Planter and +her mother." + +George wanted to see if the photograph was still there, but he couldn't +risk it. He shook his head. + +"Not into the camp of the enemy?" Wandel laughed. + +Of course, George told himself as he walked off, Wandel's words couldn't +possibly have held any double meaning. + +He fought it out that night, sleeping scarcely at all. In the rush of +his progress here he had failed to realize how little he had really +advanced toward his ultimate goal. Lambert had offhand, perhaps +unintentionally, shown him that afternoon how wide the intervening space +still stretched. Was it because of moral cowardice that he shrank from +challenging a crossing? The answer to such a challenge might easily mean +the destruction of all he had built up, the heavy conditioning of his +future which now promised so abundantly. + +He faced her picture with his eyes resolute, his jaw thrust out. + +"I'll do it," he told the lifeless print. "I'll make you know me. I'll +teach your brother not to treat me as a servant who has forgotten his +place." + +The last, in any case, couldn't be safely put off. Lambert's manner had +already aroused Betty's interest. Had she known its cause she might not +have resented it so sweetly for George. There was no point in fretting +any more. His mind was made up to challenge at the earliest possible +moment. + +In furtherance of his resolution he visited his tailor the next day, and +during the evening called at the Baillys'. He came straight to the +point. + +"I want some dancing lessons," he said. "Do you know anybody?" + +Bailly limped up, put his hands on George's shoulder, and studied him. + +"Is this traceable to Wandel?" + +"No. To what I told you last summer." + +"He's going to Betty Alston's dance," Mrs. Bailly cried. + +"If I'm asked," George admitted, "but as a general principle----" + +Mrs. Bailly interrupted, assuming control. + +"Move that table and the chairs," she directed the two men. "You'll keep +my husband's secret--tinkling music hidden away between grand opera +records. It will come in handy now." + +George protested, but she had her own way. Bailly sat by, puffing at his +pipe, at first scornful. + +"I hate to see a football player pirouetting like a clown." + +But in a little while he was up, awkwardly illustrating steps, his +cheeks flushed, his cold pipe dangling from his lips. + +"You dance very well as it is," Mrs. Bailly told George. "You do need a +little quieting. You must learn to remember that the ballroom isn't a +gridiron and your partner the ball." + +And at the end of a fortnight she told him he was tamed and ready for +the soft and perfumed exercise of the dance floor. + +He was afraid Betty wouldn't remember. Her invitation had been informal, +his response almost a refusal. + +On free afternoons Goodhue and he often ran together, trying to keep in +condition, already feeling that the outcome of next year's big games +would depend on them. They trotted openly through the Alston place, +hoping for a glimpse of Betty as a break in their grind. When she saw +them from the house she would come out and chat for a time, her yellow +hair straying in the wind, her cheeks flushed from the cold. During +these brief conferences it was made clear that she had not forgotten, +and that George would go up with Goodhue and be a guest at his home the +night of the dance. + +George was grateful for that quality of remoteness in Goodhue which at +first had irritated him. Now he was well within Goodhue's vision, and +acceptably so; but the young man had not shown the slightest interest in +his past or his lack of the right friends before coming to Princeton. At +any moment he might. + +The Goodhue house was uptown between Fifth and Madison avenues. It was +as unexpected to George as Wandel's green study had been. The size of +its halls and rooms, the tasteful extravagance of its decorations, the +quiet, liveried servants took his breath. It was difficult not to say +something, to withhold from his glance his admiration and his lack of +habit. + +There he was at last, handing his hat and coat to one who bent +obsequiously. He felt a great contempt. He told himself he was unjust, +as unjust as Sylvia, but the contempt persisted. + +There were details here more compelling than anything he had seen or +fancied at Oakmont. The entire household seemed to move according to a +feudal pattern. Goodhue's father and mother welcomed George, because +their son had brought him, with a quiet assurance. Mrs. Goodhue, George +felt, might even appreciate what he was doing. That was the outstanding, +the feudal, quality of both. They had an air of unprejudiced judgment, +of removal from any selfish struggle, of being placed beyond question. + +Goodhue and George dined at a club that night. They saw Wandel and +Dalrymple, the latter flushed and talking louder than he should have +done in an affected voice. They went to the theatre, and afterward drove +up Fifth Avenue to Betty's party. George was dazzled, and every moment +conscious of the effort to prevent Goodhue's noticing it. His excitement +increased as he came to the famous establishment in the large ballroom +of which Betty was waiting, and, perhaps, already, Sylvia. To an extent +the approaching culmination of his own campaign put him at ease; lifted +him, as it were, above details; left him free to face the moment of his +challenge. + +The lower halls were brilliant with pretty, eager faces, noisy with +chatter and laughter, a trifle heady from an infiltration of perfumes. + +Wandel joined them upstairs and took George's card, returning it after a +time nearly filled. + +"When you see anybody you particularly want to dance with," he advised +secretly, "just cut in without formality. The mere fact of your presence +ought to be introduction enough. You see everybody here knows, or thinks +he knows, everybody else." + +George wondered why Wandel went out of his way, and in that particular +direction. Did the little man suspect? The succeeding moments brushed +the question aside. + +Betty was radiant, lovelier in her white-and-yellow fashion than George +had ever seen her. He shrank a little from their first contact, all the +more startling to him because he was so little accustomed to the ritual +familiarity of dancing. With his arm around her, with her hand in his, +with her golden hair brushing his cheek, with her lips and eyes smiling +up at him, he felt like one who steals. Why not? Didn't people win their +most prized possessions through theft of one kind or another? It was +because those pliant fingers were always at his mind that he wanted to +release them, wanted to run away from Betty since she always made him +desire to tell her the truth. + +"I'm glad you could come. It isn't as bad as football, is it? Have we +any more? If I show signs of distress do cut in if you're not too busy." + +He overcame his fear of collisions, avoiding other couples smoothly and +rhythmically. Dalrymple, he observed, was less successful, apologizing +in a high, excited voice. As in a haze George watched a procession of +elderly women, young girls, and men of every age, with his own tall +figure and slightly anxious face greeting him now and then from a +mirror. This repeated and often-unexpected recognition encouraged him. +He was bigger and better looking than most; in the glasses, at least, he +appeared as well-dressed. More than once he heard girls say: + +"Who is that big chap with Betty Alston?" + +With all his heart he wanted to ask Betty why she had been so kind to +him from the beginning, why she was so kind now. He longed to tell her +how it had affected him. She glanced up curiously. Without realizing it +his grasp had tightened. He relaxed it, wondering what had been in his +mind. It was this odd proximity to a beautiful girl who had been kind to +him that had for a moment swung him from his real purpose in coming +here, the only purpose he had. He resumed his inspection of the crowding +faces. He didn't see Lambert or Sylvia. Had he been wrong? It was +incredible they shouldn't appear. + +The music stopped. + +"Thanks," he said. "Three after this." + +His voice was wistful. + +"I did like that." + +He desired to tell her that he didn't care to dance with any one else, +except Sylvia, of course. + +"I enjoyed it, too. Will you take me back?" + +But her partner met them on the way, and he commenced to trail his. + +It was halfway through the next number that he knew he had not planned +futilely. It was like Sylvia to arrive in that fashion--a distracting +element in a settled picture, or as one beyond the general run for whom +a special welcome was a matter of course. To George's ears the orchestra +played louder, as if to call attention to her. To his eyes the dancers +slackened their pace. The chatter certainly diminished, and nearly +everyone glanced toward the door where she stood a little in advance of +her mother and two men. + +George was able to judge reasonably. In dress and appearance she was the +most striking woman in the room. Her dark colouring sprang at one, +demanding attention. George saw Dalrymple unevenly force a path in her +direction. He caught his breath. The dance resumed its former rhythm. In +its intricacies Sylvia was for a time lost. + +Sometime later Lambert drifted in. George saw him dancing with Betty. He +also found Sylvia. He managed to direct his partner close to her a +number of times. She must have seen him, but her eyes did not waver or +her colour heighten. He wouldn't ask for an introduction. There was no +point. His imagination pictured a number of probable disasters. If he +should ask her to dance would she recognize him, and laugh, and demand, +so that people could hear, how he had forced a way into this place? + +George relinquished his partner to a man who cut in. From a harbour +close to the wall he watched Sylvia, willing himself to the point of +action. + +"I will make her know me before I leave this dance," he said to himself. + +Dalrymple had her now. His weak face was too flushed. He was more than +ever in people's way. George caught the distress in Sylvia's manner. He +remembered Wandel's advice, what Betty had asked him to do for her. He +dodged, without further reflection, across the floor, and held out his +hand. + +"If I may----" + +Without looking at him she accepted his hand, and they glided off, while +Dalrymple stared angrily. George scarcely noticed. There was room in his +mind for no more than this amazing and intoxicating experience. She was +so close that he could have bent his head and placed his lips on her +dark hair--closer than she had been that unforgettable day. The +experience was worthless unless she knew who he was. + +"She must know," he thought. + +If she did, why did she hide her knowledge behind an unfathomable +masquerade? + +"That was kind of you," he heard her say. "Poor Dolly!" + +She glanced up. Interrogation entered her eyes. + +"I can't seem to remember----" + +"I came from Princeton with Dick Goodhue," he explained. "It seemed such +a simple thing. Shouldn't I have cut in?" + +He looked straight at her now. His heart seemed to stop. She had to be +made to remember. + +"My name is George Morton." + +She smiled. + +"I've heard Betty talk of you. You're a great football player. It was +very kind. Of course it's all right." + +But it wasn't. The touch of her hand became unbearable to George because +she didn't remember. He had to make her remember. + +They were near the entrance. He paused and drew her apart from the +circling dancers. + +"Would you mind losing a little of this?" he asked, trying to keep his +voice steady. "It may seem queer, but I have something to tell you that +you ought to know." + +She studied him, surprised and curious. + +"I can't imagine----" she began. "What is it?" + +It was only a step through the door and to an alcove with a red plush +bench. The light was soft there. No one was close enough to hear. She +sat down, laughing. + +"Don't keep me in suspense." + +He, too, sat down. He spoke deliberately. + +"The last two times I've seen you you wouldn't remember me. Even now, +when I've told you my name, you won't." + +Her surprise increased. + +"It's about you! But I said Betty had----Who are you?" + +He bent closer. + +"If I didn't tell you you might remember later. Anyway, I wouldn't want +to fight a person whose eyes were closed." + +Her lips half parted. She appeared a trifle frightened. She made a +movement as if to rise. + +"Just a minute," he said, harshly. + +He called on the hatred that had increased during the hours of his +mental and physical slavery, a hatred to be appeased only through his +complete mastery of her. + +"It won't take much to remind you," he hurried on. "Although you talk to +me as if I were a man now, last summer I was a beast because I had the +nerve to touch you when you were thrown from your horse." + +She stood up quickly, reaching out for the alcove curtain. Her contralto +voice was uneven. + +"Stop! You shouldn't have said that. You shouldn't have told me." + +All at once she straightened, her cheeks flaming. She started for the +ballroom. He sprang after her, whispering over her shoulder: + +"Now we can start fair." + +She turned and faced him. + +"I don't know how you got here, but you ask for a fight, Mr. Morton----" + +He smiled. + +"I am Mr. Morton now. I'm getting on." + +Then he knew again that sickening sensation of treacherous ground eager +to swallow him. + +"Are you going to run and tell them," he asked, softly, "as you did your +father last summer?" + +She crossed the threshold of the ballroom. He watched her while she +hesitated for a moment, seeking feverishly someone in the brilliant, +complacent crowd. + + +XVI + +George watched Sylvia, fighting his instinct to call out a command that +she should keep secret forever what he had told her. It was intolerable +to stand helpless, to realize that on her sudden decision his future +depended. Did she seek her mother, or Lambert, who would understand +everything at the first word? Nevertheless, he preferred she should go +to Lambert, because he could forecast too easily the alternative--Mrs. +Planter's emotionless summoning of Betty and her mother; perhaps of +Goodhue or Wandel or Dalrymple; the brutal advertisement of just what he +was to all the people he knew, to all the people he wanted to know. That +might mean the close of Betty's friendliness, the destruction of the +fine confidence that had developed between him and Goodhue, a violent +reorganization of all his plans. He gathered strength from a warm +realization that with Squibs and Mrs. Squibs Sylvia couldn't possibly +hurt him. + +He became ashamed of his misgivings, aware that for nothing in the +world, even if he had the power, would he rearrange the last five +minutes. + +He saw her brilliant figure start forward and take an uneven course +around the edge of the room until a man caught her and swung her out +among the dancers. George turned away. He was sorry it was Wandel who +had interfered, but that would give her time to reflect; and even if she +blurted it out to Wandel, the little man might be decent enough to +advise her to keep quiet. + +George wandered restlessly across the hall to the smoking-room. How long +would the music lilt on, imprisoning Sylvia in the grasp of Wandel or +another man? + +He asked for a glass of water, and took it to a lounge in front of the +fire. Here he sat, listening to the rollicking music, to the softer +harmonies of feminine voices that seemed to define for him compelling +and pleasurable vistas down which he might no longer glance. When the +silence came Sylvia would go to her mother or Lambert. + +"My very dear--George." + +Lambert himself bent over the back of the lounge. George guessed the +other had seen him enter and had followed. All the better, even if he +had come to attack. George had things to say to Lambert, too; so he +glanced about the room and was grateful that, except for the servants, +it held only some elderly men he had never seen before, who sat at a +distance, gossiping and laughing. + +"Where," Lambert asked, "will I run into you next?" + +"Anywhere," George said. "Whenever we're both invited to the same place. +I didn't come without being asked, so my being here isn't funny." + +Lambert walked around and sat down. All the irony had left his face. He +had an air of doubtful disapproval. + +"Maybe not funny," he said, "but--odd." + +George stirred. How long would the music and the laughter continue to +drift in? + +"Why?" + +"You've travelled a long way," Lambert mused. "I wonder if in football +clothes men don't look too much of a pattern. I wonder if you haven't +let yourself be carried a little too far." + +"Why?" George asked again. + +"Princeton and football," Lambert went on, "are well enough in their +way; but when you come to a place like this and dance with those girls +who don't know, it seems scarcely fair. Of course, if they knew, and +wanted you still--that's the whole point." + +"They wouldn't," George admitted, "but why should they matter if the +people that count know?" + +Lambert glanced at him. Was the music's quicker measure prophetic of the +end? + +"What do you mean?" Lambert asked. + +"What you said last fall has worried me," George answered. "That's the +reason I came here--so that your sister would know me from Adam. She +does, and she can do what she pleases about it. It's in her hands now." + +Lambert reddened. + +"You've the nerve of the devil," he said, angrily. "You had no business +to speak to my sister. The whole thing had been forgotten." + +George shook his head. + +"You hadn't forgotten it. She told me that day that I shouldn't forget. +I hadn't forgotten it. I never will." + +"I can't talk about it," Lambert said. + +He looked squarely at George. + +"Here's what puts your being here out of shape: You're ashamed of what +you were. Aren't you?" + +"I've always thought," George said, "you were man enough to realize it's +only what I am and may become that counts. I wouldn't say ashamed. I'm +sorry, because it makes what I'm doing just that much harder; because +you, for instance, know about it, and might cause trouble." + +Lambert made no difficulty about the implied question. + +"I don't want to risk causing trouble for any one unjustly. It's up to +you not to make me. But don't bother my sister again." + +"Let me get far enough," George said, "and you won't be able to make +trouble--you, or your sister, or your father." + +Lambert grinned, the doubt leaving his face as if he had reached a +decision. + +"I wouldn't bank on father. I'd keep out of his sight." + +The advice placed him, for the present, on the safe side. Sylvia's +decision remained, and just then the music crashed into a silence, +broken by exigent applause. George got up, thrusting his hands in his +pockets. The orchestra surrendered to the applause, but was Sylvia +dancing now? + +Voices drifted in from the hall, one high and obdurate; others better +controlled, but persistent in argument. Lambert grimaced. George +sneered. + +"But that's all right, because he didn't have to work for his living." + +"If you don't come a cropper," Lambert said, "you'll get fed up with +that sort of thinking. Dolly's young." + +Dalrymple was the first in the room, flushed, a trifle uneven in his +movements. Goodhue and Wandel followed. Goodhue smiled in a pained, +surprised way. Wandel's precise features expressed nothing. + +"Why not dancing, Lambert, old Eli?" Dalrymple called jovially. "Haul +these gospel sharks off----Waiter! I say, waiter! Something bubbly, dry, +and nineteen hundred, if they're doing us that well." + +The others didn't protest. They seemed to arrange themselves as a +friendly screen between Dalrymple and the elderly men. George didn't +care to talk to Dalrymple in that condition--there was too much that +Dalrymple had always wanted to say and hadn't. He started for the door, +but Wandel caught his arm. + +"Wait around, very strong person," he whispered. "Dolly doesn't know it, +but he's leaving in a minute." + +George shook his head, and started on. Dalrymple glanced up. + +"Morton!" he said. + +Goodhue took the glass from the waiter, but Dalrymple, grinning a shamed +sort of triumph and comprehension, reached out for it and sipped. + +"Not bad. Great dancer, Morton. Around the end, and through the centre, +and all that----" + +"Keep quiet," Goodhue warned him. + +George knew that the other wouldn't. He shrank from the breaking of the +sullen truce between them. Dalrymple glanced at his cuffs, spilling a +little of the wine. + +"Damned sight more useful to stick to your laundry--it's none too good." + +Quite distinctly George caught Lambert's startled change of countenance +and his quick movement forward, Goodhue's angry flush, Wandel's apparent +unconcern. In that moment he measured his advance, understood all he had +got from Squibs and books, from Betty, from Goodhue, from Princeton; +but, although he easily conquered his first impulse to strike, his rage +glowed the hotter because it was confined. As he passed close he heard +Lambert whisper: + +"Good man!" + +But even then Wandel wouldn't let him go, and the music had stopped +again, and only the undefinable shadows of women's voices reached him. +He tried to shake off Wandel who had followed him to the hall. He +couldn't wait. He had to enter that moving, chattering crowd to find out +what Sylvia had decided. + +"Go downstairs, great man," Wandel was whispering, "get a cab, and wait +in it at the door, so that you will be handy when I bring the infant +Bacchus out." + +"I'd rather not," George said, impatiently. "Someone else will do." + +"By no means. Expediency, my dear friend, and the general welfare. +Hercules for little Bacchus." + +He couldn't refuse. Wandel and Goodhue, and, for that matter all of +Dalrymple's friends, those girls in there, depended on him; yet he knew +it was a bad business for him and for Dalrymple; and he wanted above all +other things to pass for a moment through that brilliant screen that +moved perpetually between him and Sylvia. + +He waited in the shadows of the cab until Dalrymple and Wandel left the +building. Wandel motioned the other into the cab. Dalrymple obeyed, +willingly enough, swinging his stick, and humming off the key. Probably +Wandel's diplomacy. Wandel jumped in, called an address to the driver, +and slammed the door. + +"Where are you taking him?" George asked. + +For the first time Dalrymple seemed to realize who the silent man in the +shadows was. + +"I'm not going on any party with Morton," he said, sullenly. + +"You can go to the devil," Wandel said, pleasantly, "as long as you keep +away from decent people until you're decent yourself." + +"No," George said. "He's going home or I have nothing more to do with +it." + +"Perhaps you're right," Wandel agreed, "but you can fancy I had to offer +him something better than that to get him out." + +He tapped on the pane and gave the driver the new address. Dalrymple +started to rise. + +"Won't go home--you keep your dirty hands off me, Morton. You----" + +"Hercules!" softly from Wandel. + +George grasped Dalrymple's arms, pulled him down, held him as in a +vise. Dalrymple raved. Wandel laughed pleasantly. + +"Dirty hands," flashed through George's brain. Did Dalrymple know +anything, or was it an instinctive suspicion, or merely the explosion of +helpless temper and dislike? + +The ride was brief, and the block in which Dalrymple lived was, +fortunately, at that moment free of pedestrians. Wandel descended and +rang the bell. When the door was opened George relaxed his grasp. +Dalrymple tried to spring from the opposite side of the cab. George +caught him, lifted him, carried him like a child across the sidewalk, +and set him down in the twilight of a hall where a flunky gaped. + +"There's your precious friend," he accused Wandel. + +He returned to the cab, rubbing his hands as if they needed cleansing. + +"There's no one like you, great man," Wandel said when he had come back +to the cab. "You've done Dolly and everyone he would have seen to-night +a good turn." + +But George felt he had done himself a bad one. During the rest of his +time at Princeton, and afterward in New York, he would have a dangerous +enemy. Dirty hands! Trust Dalrymple to do his best to give that +qualification its real meaning. And these people! You could trust them, +too, to stand by Dalrymple against the man who had done them a good +turn. It had been rotten of Wandel to ask it, to take him away at that +vital moment. Anyway, it was done. He forgot Dalrymple in his present +anxiety. The ride seemed endless. The ascent in the elevator was a +unique torture. The cloak-room attendants had an air of utter +indifference. When he could, George plunged into the ballroom, escaping +Wandel, threading the hurrying maze to the other end of the room where +earlier in the evening he had seen Sylvia's mother sitting with Mrs. +Alston. George passed close, every muscle taut. Mrs. Planter gave no +sign. Mrs. Alston reached over and tapped his arm with her fan. He +paused, holding his breath. + +"Betty asked me to look for you," she said. "Where have you been? She +was afraid you had found her party tiresome. You haven't been dancing +much." + +He answered her politely, and walked on. He braced himself against the +wall, the strain completely broken. She hadn't told. She hadn't demanded +that her mother take her home. She hadn't said: "Betty, what kind of men +do you ask to your dances?" Why hadn't she? Again he saw his big, +well-clothed figure in a glass, and he smiled. Was it because he was +already transformed? + +Here she came, dancing with Goodhue, and Goodhue seemed trying to lead +her close. George didn't understand at first that he silently asked for +news of Dalrymple. His own eyes studied Sylvia. Her face held too much +colour. She gave him back his challenge, but the contempt in her eyes +broadened his smile. He managed a reassuring nod to Goodhue, but +Dalrymple, for the time, was of no importance. Sylvia was going to +fight, and not like a spoiled child. He must have impressed her as being +worthy of a real fight. + +He faced the rest of the evening with new confidence. He forgot to be +over-careful with these people whose actions were unstudied. He dodged +across the floor and took Betty from Lambert Planter while Lambert +raised his eyebrows, relinquished her with pronounced reluctance, and +watched George guide her swiftly away. Maybe Lambert was right, and he +ought to tell Betty, but not now. To-night, against all his +expectations, he found himself having a good time, enjoying more than +anything else this intimate and exhilarating progress with Betty. Always +he hated to give her up, but he danced with other girls, and found they +liked to dance with him because he was big, and danced well, and was +Dicky Goodhue's friend and Betty's, and played football; but, since he +couldn't very well ask Sylvia, he only really cared to dance with Betty. + +He was at Betty's table for supper. He didn't like to hear these pretty +girls laughing about Dalrymple, but then with them Dalrymple must have +exercised a good deal of restraint. It ought to be possible to make them +see the ugly side, to bare the man's instinct to go from this party to +another. Then they wouldn't laugh. + +Lambert sat down for awhile. + +"Where's Sylvia?" Betty asked. + +Lambert shrugged his shoulders. + +"It's hard enough to keep track of you, Betty. Sylvia's a sister." + +George gathered that Sylvia's absence from that table had impressed them +both. He knew very well where she was, across the room, focus for as +large a gathering as Betty's, chiefly of young men, eager for her +brilliancy. Lambert went on, glancing at George his questions of the +smoking-room. + +It wasn't long before the dawn when George said polite things with +Goodhue and Wandel, and after their pattern. In the lower hall he +noticed that all these pleasure seekers, a while ago flushed and happy, +had undergone a devastating change. Faces were white. Gowns looked +rumpled and old. The laughter and chatter were no longer impulsive. + +"The way one feels after a hard game," he thought. + +Goodhue offered to take Wandel in and drop him. The little man alone +seemed as fresh and neat as at the start of the evening. + +"Had a good time, great person?" he asked as they drove off. "But then +why shouldn't great men always have good times?" + +Wandel's manner suggested that he had seen to George's good time. What +he had actually done was to involve him in an open hostility with +Dalrymple. The others didn't mention that youth. Was there a tactful +thought for him in their restraint? + +They left Wandel at an expensive bachelor apartment house overlooking +the park. George gathered from Goodhue, as they drove on, that Wandel's +attitude toward his family was that of an old and confidential friend. + +"You see Driggs always has to be his own master," he said. + + +XVII + +Because of the restless contrast of that trip George brought back to +Princeton a new appreciation; yet beneath the outer beauty there, he +knew, a man's desires and ambitions lost none of their ugliness. He +stared at Sylvia's portrait, but it made him want the living body that +he had touched, that was going to give him a decent fight. Already he +planned for other opportunities to meet her, although with her attitude +what it was he didn't see how he could use them to advance his cause; +and always there was the possibility of her resenting his persistence to +the point of changing her mind about telling. + +He had decided to avoid Dalrymple as far as possible, but that first +night, as he drowsed over a book, he heard a knock at his door, not +loud, and suggestive of reluctance and indecision. He hid the photograph +and the riding crop, and called: + +"Come in!" + +The door opened slowly. Dalrymple stood on the threshold, his weak face +white and perverse. George waited, watching him conquer a bitter +disinclination. He knew what was coming and how much worse it would make +matters between them. + +"It seems," the tortured man said, "that I was beastly rude to you last +night. I've come to say I didn't mean it and am sorry." + +"You've come," George said, quietly, "because Goodhue and Wandel have +made you, through threats, I daresay. If you hadn't meant it you +wouldn't have been rude in just that way. I'm grateful to Goodhue and +Wandel, but I won't have your apologies, because they don't mean a damn +thing." + +Dalrymple's face became evil. He started to back out. + +"Wait a minute," George commanded. "You don't like me because I'm +working my way through college. That's what you shot at me last night +when you'd drunk enough to give you the nerve, but it's been in your +mind all along. I'd pound a little common-sense and decency into you, +only I wouldn't feel clean after doing it." + +That, to an extent, broke down his severity. It sounded queer, from him. +If Lambert Planter could have heard him say that! + +"Let the others think they've done us a good turn," he went on. "We have +to live in the same class without clawing each other's faces every time +we meet, but you can't pull the wool over my eyes, and I won't try to +pull it over yours. Now get out, and don't come here alone again." + +He felt better and cleaner after that. When Dalrymple had gone he +finished his chapter and tumbled into bed. + + +XVIII + +George was glad of the laundry, indeed, as the holidays approached. It +gave him a sound excuse for not dashing joyously from Princeton with the +rest, but it didn't cure the depression with which he saw the college +empty. He wandered about a campus as deserted as a city swept by +pestilence, asking himself what he would have done if his father and +mother hadn't exiled him as thoroughly as Old Planter had. There was no +point thinking about that; it wasn't even a question. He took long walks +or stayed in his room, reading, and once or twice answering regretfully +invitations that had sprung from encounters at Betty's party. It was +nice to have them, but of course he couldn't go to such affairs alone +just yet. Besides, he didn't have the money. + +Squibs Bailly limped all the way up his stairs one day, scolding him for +sulking in his tent. + +"I only heard last night that you were in town. I'm not psychic. Why +haven't you been around?" + +"I didn't want to bother----" + +Bailly interrupted him. + +"I'm afraid I didn't appreciate you went quite so much alone." + +"Altogether alone," George said. "But I don't want anybody to feel sorry +for me because of that. It has some advantages." + +"You're too young to say such things," Bailly said. + +He made George go to the Dickinson Street house for Christmas dinner. +There was no other guest. The rooms were bright with holly, and a very +small but dazzling Christmas tree stood in a corner, bearing a gift for +him. Mrs. Bailly, as he entered, touched his cheek with her lips and +welcomed him by his first name. She created for him an illusion that +made him choke a trifle. She made him feel as if he had come home. + +"And," he thought, "Squibs and she know." + +He wondered if it was that knowledge that made Squibs go into his social +views one evening when he sat with him in the study. It was then that +George realized he had no such views apart from his own case. Vaguely he +knew that somewhere outside of Princeton strikes multiplied these days, +that poor people complained of the cost of food and housing, that +communistic propaganda was talked with an increasing freedom, that now +and then a bomb burst, destroying more often than not the people it was +designed to help. He saw that Squibs sought to interest him, and he gave +a close attention while the tutor elaborated his slight knowledge of the +growing unrest. + +"But it's all so far away, sir," he said. "I've so much of more +importance to me to bother about right here." + +Bailly relighted his pipe. + +"The happy, limited vision of youth!" he sighed. "You'll be through your +a, b, c's before you know it. Are you going to face such big issues +without any forethought?" + +He smoked for a few moments, then commenced to speak doubtfully. + +"And in another sense it isn't as far away as you think. It all goes on +_in petto_, right here in undergraduate Princeton. The views a man takes +away from college should be applicable to the conditions he meets +outside." + +"I don't quite see what you mean, sir." + +Why was Bailly going at it so carefully? + +"I mean," Bailly said, "that here you have your poor men, your earnest +men, and your lords of the land. I mean there is no real community of +interest here. I mean you've made friends because you're bigger and +better looking than most, and play football like a demon. You haven't +made any friends simply because you are poor and earnest. And the poor +students suffer from the cost of things, and the rich men don't know and +don't care. And the poor men, and the men without family or a good +school behind them, who haven't football or some outstanding +usefulness, are as submerged as the workers in a mine. Prospect Street +is Fifth Avenue or Park Lane, and the men who can't get in the clubs, +because of poverty or lack of prominence, remind me of the ragged ones +who cling to the railings, peering through at plenty with evil in their +hearts." + +"You're advocating communism, sir?" + +Bailly shook his head. + +"I'm advocating nothing. I'm trying to find out what you advocate." + +"I can't help feeling," George said, stubbornly, "that a man has to look +after himself." + +And as he walked home he confessed freely enough in his own mind: + +"I'm advocating George Morton. How can Squibs expect me to bother with +any one else when I have so far to go?" + + +XIX + +He thrust Squibs' uncomfortable prods from his brain. He applied himself +to his books--useful books. Education and culture were more important to +him than the physical reactions of overworked labour or the mental +processes of men who advocated violence. Such distracting questions, +however, were uncomfortably in the air. Allen, one of the poor men +against whom the careful Rogers had warned him long ago, called on him +one cold night. The manner of his address made George wonder if Squibs +had been talking to him, too. + +"Would like a few minutes' chat, Morton. No one worth while's in +Princeton. It won't queer you to have me in your room." + +No, George decided. That was an opening one might expect from Allen. The +man projected an appreciable power from his big, bony figure; his +angular face. George had heard vaguely that he had worked in a factory, +preparing himself for college. He knew from his own observation that +Allen wasn't above waiting at commons, and he had seen the lesser men +turn to him as a leader. + +"Sit down," George said, "and don't talk like an ass. You can't queer +me. What do you want me to do--offer to walk to classes with my arm over +your shoulder? There's too much of that sensitive talk going around." + +"You're a plain speaker," Allen said. "So am I. You'll admit you've seen +a lot more of the pretty crowd than you have of me and my friends. I +thought it might be useful to ask you why." + +"Because," George answered, "I'm in college to get everything I can. You +and your crowd don't happen to have the stuff I want." + +Allen fingered a book nervously. + +"I came," he said, "to see if I couldn't persuade you that we have." + +"I'm listening," George said, indifferently. + +"Right on the table!" Allen answered, quickly. "You're the biggest poor +man in the class. You're logically the poor men's Moses. They admire +you. You've always been talked of in terms of the varsity. Everybody +knows you're Princeton's best football player. The poor men would do +anything for you. What will you do for them?" + +"I won't have you split the class that way," George cried. + +"Every class," Allen said, "is split along that line, only this class is +going to let the split be seen. You work your way through college, but +you run with a rich crowd, led by the hand of Driggs Wandel." + +So even Allen had noticed that and had become curious. + +"Wandel," Allen went on, "will use you to hurt us--the poor men; and +when he's had what he wants of you he'll send you back to the muck +heap." + +George shook his head, smiling. + +"No, because you've said yourself that whatever power I have comes from +football and not from an empty pocket-book." + +"Use all the power you have," Allen urged. "Come in with us. Help the +poor men, and we'll know how to reward you." + +"You're already thinking of Sophomore elections?" George asked. "I don't +care particularly for office." + +Allen's face reddened with anger. + +"I'm thinking of the clubs first. What I said when I came in is true. +The selfish men intriguing for Prospect Street don't dare be friendly +with the poor men; afraid it might hurt their chances to be seen with a +poler. By God, that's vicious! It denies us the companionship we've come +to college to find. We want all the help we can get here. The clubs are +a hideous hindrance. Promise me you'll keep away from the clubs." + +George laughed. + +"I haven't made up my mind about the clubs," he said. "They have bad +features, but there's good in them. The club Goodhue joins will be the +best club of our time in college. Suppose you knew you could get an +election to that; would you turn it down?" + +The angular face became momentarily distorted. + +"I won't consider an impossible situation. Anyway, I couldn't afford it. +That's another bad feature. If you want, I'll say no, a thousand times +no." + +"I wouldn't trust you," George laughed, "but you know you haven't a +chance. So you want to smash the thing you can't get in. I call _that_ +vicious. And let me tell you, Allen. You may reform things out of +existence, but you can't destroy them with a bomb. Squibs Bailly will +tell you that." + +"You think you'll make a good club," Allen said. + +"I'll tell you what I think," George answered, quite unruffled, "when I +make up my mind to stand for or against the clubs. Squibs says half the +evils in the world come from precipitancy. You're precipitate. Thrash it +out carefully, as I'm doing." + +He wondered if he had convinced Allen, knowing very well that his own +attitude would be determined by the outcome of the chance he had to +enter Goodhue's club. + +"We've got to make up our minds now," Allen said. "Promise me that +you'll keep out of the clubs and I'll make you the leader of the class. +You're in a position to bring the poor men to the top for once." + +George didn't want to break with Allen. The man did control a large +section of the class, so he sent him away amicably enough, merely +repeating that he hadn't made up his mind; and ending with: + +"But I won't be controlled by any faction." + +Allen left, threatening to talk with him again. + +George didn't sleep well that night. Squibs and Allen had made him +uncomfortable. Finally he cleared his mind with the reflection that his +private attitude was determined. No matter whom it hurt he was going to +be one of the fortunates with a whip in his hand; but he, above most +people, could understand the impulses of men like Allen, and the +restless ones in the world, who didn't hold a whip, and so desired +feverishly to spring. + + +XX + +The cold weather placed a smooth black floor on Lake Carnegie. George +went down one evening with the Baillys. They brought Betty Alston, who +was just home from New York and had dined with them. A round moon smiled +above the row of solemn and vigilant poplars along the canal bank. The +shadows of the trees made you catch your breath as if on the edge of +perilous pitfalls. + +Going down through the woods they passed Allen. Even in that +yellow-splashed darkness George recognized the bony figure. + +"Been skating?" he called. + +"Hello, Morton! No, I don't skate." + +"Then," George laughed, "why don't you smash the ice?" + +Allen laughed back mirthlessly, but didn't answer; and, as they went on, +Betty wanted to know what it was all about. George told her of Allen's +visit. + +"But congenial people," she said, "will always gather together. It would +be dreadful to have one's friends arbitrarily chosen. You'll go to a +club with your friends." + +"But Allen says the poor men can't afford it," he answered. "I'm one of +the poor men." + +"You'll always find a way to do what you want," she said, confidently. + +But when they were on the lake the question of affording the things one +wanted slipped between them again. + +George had a fancy that Mrs. Bailly guided her awkward husband away from +Betty and him. Why? At least it was pleasant to be alone with Betty, +gliding along near the bank, sometimes clasping hands at a half-seen, +doubtful stretch. Betty spoke of it. + +"Where are my guardians?" + +"Let's go a little farther," he urged. "We'll find them easily enough." + +It didn't worry her much. + +"Why did you come back so soon?" she asked. + +He hesitated. He had hoped to avoid such questions. + +"I haven't been away." + +She glanced up, surprised. + +"You mean you've been in Princeton through the holiday?" + +"Yes, I feel I ought to go easy with what little I have." + +"I knew you were working your way through," she said, "but I never +guessed it meant as much denial as that." + +"Don't worry," he laughed, "I'll make money next summer." + +"I wish I'd known. And none of your friends thought!" + +"Why should they? They're mostly too rich." + +"That's wrong." + +"Are you driving me into Allen's camp?" he asked. "You can't; for I +expect to be rich myself, some day. Any man can, if he goes about it in +the right way. Maybe Allen doubts his power, and that's the reason he's +against money and the pleasant things it buys. Does it make any +difference to you, my being poor for a time?" + +"Why should it?" she asked, warmly. + +"Allen," he said, "couldn't understand your skating with me." + +Why not tell Betty the rest in this frozen and romantic solitude they +shared? He decided not. He had risked enough for the present. When she +turned around he didn't try to hold her, skating swiftly back at her +side, aware of a danger in such solitude; charging himself with a +scarcely definable disloyalty to his conception of Sylvia. + + +XXI + +He fancied Betty desired to make up for her thoughtlessness during the +holidays when she asked him for dinner on a Saturday night. With that +dinner, no matter what others might think of his lack of money and +background, she had put herself on record, for it was a large, formal +party sprinkled with people from New York, and drawing from the +University only the kind of men Allen was out to fight. Wandel, George +thought, rather disapproved of his being there, but as a result, he made +two trips to parties in New York during the winter. Both were failures, +for he didn't meet Sylvia, yet he heard of her always as a dazzling +success. + +He answered Dalrymple's cold politeness with an irritating indifference. +In the spring, however, he detected a radical alteration in Dalrymple's +manner. + +By that time, the scheme discussed carelessly at the Alstons' in the +fall had been worked out. On good afternoons, when their work allowed, a +few men, all friends of the Alstons, drove out, and, with passable +ponies, played practice matches at polo on the field Mr. Alston had had +arranged. The neighbours fell into a habit of concentrating there, and +George was thrown into intimate contact with them, seeing other gates +open rather eagerly before him, for he hadn't miscalculated his ability +to impress with horses. When Mr. Alston had first asked him he had +accepted gladly. Because of his long habit in the saddle and his +accuracy of eye he played better from the start than these other +novices. As in football, he teamed well with Goodhue. + +"Goodhue to Morton," Wandel complained, "or Morton to Goodhue. What +chance has a mere duffer like me against such a very distinguished +combination?" + +It was during these games that Goodhue fell into the practice of +shouting George's first name across the field, and when George became +convinced that such familiarity was not chance, but an expression of a +deepening friendship, he responded unaffectedly. It was inevitable the +others should adopt Goodhue's example. Even Dalrymple did, and George +asked himself why the man was trying to appear friendly, for he knew +that in his heart Dalrymple had not altered. + +It filled George with a warm and formless pleasure to hear Betty using +his Christian name, to realize that a precedent had this time been +established; yet it required an effort, filled him with a great +confusion, to call her familiarly "Betty" for the first time. + +He chatted with her at the edge of the field while grooms led the ponies +up and down. + +"What are your plans for the summer?" she asked. + +"I don't quite know what will happen." + +"We," she said, "will be in Maine. Can't you run up in August? Dicky +Goodhue's coming then." + +He looked at her. He tried to hide his hunger for the companionship, the +relaxation such a visit would give. He glanced away. + +"I wish I could. Have you forgotten I'm to make money? I've got to try +to do that this summer, Betty." + +There, it was out. Colour stole into her white cheeks. + +"I'm sorry," she said. + +He had another reason for refusing. He was growing afraid of Betty. He +was conscious of an increasing effort to drive her memory from the +little room where Sylvia's portrait watched. It was, he told himself, +because he didn't see Sylvia oftener, couldn't feel his heart respond to +the exciting enmity in her brilliant eyes. + +Goodhue and Dalrymple, it developed, were parting, amicably enough as +far as any one knew. + +"Dolly thinks he'll room alone next year," was Goodhue's explanation. +Dalrymple explained nothing. + +Driving back to town one afternoon Goodhue proposed to George that he +replace Dalrymple. + +"Campus rooms," he said, "aren't as expensive as most in town." + +He mentioned a figure. George thought rapidly. What an opportunity! And +aside from what Goodhue could do for him, he was genuinely fond of the +man. George craved absolute independence, and he knew Goodhue would give +him all of that he asked for. + +"I'd like to," he said. + +Goodhue smiled. + +"That's splendid. I think we'll manage together." + +Wandel frowned at the news. So did Allen. Allen came frequently now to +talk his college socialism. George listened patiently, always answering: + +"I've made up my mind to nothing, except that I'll take my friends where +I find them, high or low. But I'm not against you, Allen." + +Yet George was uneasy, knowing the moment for making up his mind +wouldn't be long delayed. He understood very well that already some men +knew to what club they'd go more than a year later. Secretly, perhaps +illegally, the sections for the clubs were forming in his class. Small +groups were quietly organizing under the guidance of the upper classes. +During Sophomore year these small groups would elect other men to the +limit of full membership. It was perfectly clear that unless he went in +ahead of Dalrymple his chances of making the club he wanted were +worthless. As a result of his talks with Allen, moreover, he felt that +Wandel didn't want him. If Wandel could persuade Goodhue that George +could serve the interests of the fortunates best from the outside the +issue would be settled. + +"But I won't be used that way," George decided. "I'm out for myself." + +Along that straight line he had made his plans for the summer. Somehow +he was going to study the methods of the greatest financial market in +the country, so that later he could apply them serviceably to his own +fortune. Bailly had other ideas. One night while they lounged on the +front campus listening to senior singing the long tutor suggested that +he take up some form of manual labour. + +"It would keep you in good condition," he said, "and it might broaden +your vision by disclosing the aims and the dissatisfactions of those who +live by the sweat of their brows." + +George frowned. + +"I know enough of that already. I've been a labourer myself. I haven't +the time, sir." + +Bailly probably knew that he was dealing with a point of view far more +determined and mature than that of the average undergraduate. He didn't +argue, but George felt the need of an apology. + +"I've got to learn how to make money," he said. + +"Money isn't everything," Bailly sighed. + +"I've started after certain things," George justified himself. "Money's +one of them. I'll work for next to nothing this summer if I have to. +I'll be a runner, the man who sweeps out the office, anything that will +give me a chance to watch and study Wall Street. I'm sorry if you don't +approve, sir." + +"I didn't say that," Bailly answered, "but the fact was sufficiently +clear." + +Yet George knew perfectly well a few days later that it was Bailly who +had spoken about his ambition to Mr. Alston. + +"Blodgett, I fancy," Mr. Alston said, "will offer you some small start." + +He handed George a letter addressed to one Josiah Blodgett, of the firm +of Blodgett and Sinclair. + +"Good luck, and good-bye until next fall." + +"If you do change your mind----If you can manage it----" Betty said. + +So George, two or three days before commencement, left Princeton for +Wall Street, and presented his letter. + +The offices of Blodgett and Sinclair were gorgeous and extensive, raw +with marble, and shining with mahogany. They suggested a hotel in bad +taste rather than a factory that turned out money in spectacular +quantities. + +"Mr. Blodgett will see you," a young man announced in an awed voice, as +if such condescension were infrequent. + +In the remote room where Blodgett lurked the scheme of furnishing +appeared to culminate. The man himself shared its ornamental grossness. +He glanced up, his bald head puckering half its height. George saw that +although he was scarcely middle-aged Blodgett was altogether too fat, +with puffy, unhealthily coloured cheeks. In such a face the tiny eyes +had an appearance nearly porcine. The man's clothing would have put an +habitue of the betting ring at ease--gray-and-white checks, +dove-coloured spats, a scarlet necktie. Pudgy fingers twisted Mr. +Alston's letter. The little eyes opened wider. The frown relaxed. A bass +voice issued from the broad mouth: + +"If you've come here to learn, you can't expect a million dollars a +week. Say fifteen to start." + +George didn't realize how extraordinarily generous that was. He only +decided he could scrape along on it. + +"Mr. Alston," the deep voice went on, "tells me you're a great football +player. That's a handicap. All you can tackle here is trouble, and the +only kicking we have is when Mundy boots somebody out of a job. He's my +office manager. Report to him. Wait a minute. I'd give a ping-pong +player a job if Mr. Alston asked me to. He's a fine man. But then I'm +through. It's up to the man and Mundy. If the man's no good Mundy +doesn't even bother to tell me, and it's twenty stories to the street." + +George started to thank him, but already the rotund figure was pressed +against the desk, and the tiny eyes absorbed in important-looking +papers. + +Mundy, George decided, wasn't such an ogre after all. He wore glasses. +He was bald, thin, and stoop-shouldered. He had the benign expression of +a parson; but behind that bald forehead, George soon learned, was stored +all the knowledge he craved, without, however, the imagination to make +it personally very valuable. + +If he didn't sweep the office at first, George approximated such labour, +straightening the desks of the mighty, checking up on the contents of +waste-paper baskets, seeing that the proper people got mail and +newspapers, running errands; and always, in the office or outside, he +kept his ears open and his eyes wide. He absorbed the patter of the +Street. He learned to separate men into classes, the wise ones, who +always made money, and the foolish, who now and then had good luck, but +most of the time were settling their losses. And at every opportunity he +was after what Mundy concealed behind his appearance of a parson. + +At night he dissected the financial journals, watching the alterations +in the market, and probing for the causes; applying to this novitiate +the same grim determination he had brought to Squibs Bailly's lessons a +year before. Never once was he tempted to seek a simple path to fortune. + +"When I speculate," he told himself, "there'll be mighty little risk +about it." + +Even in those days his fifteen dollars a week condemned him to a cheap +lodging house near Lexington Avenue, the simplest of meals, and +practically no relaxation. He exercised each morning, and walked each +evening home from the office, for he hadn't forgotten what Princeton +expected from him in the fall. + +Sylvia's photograph and the broken riding crop supervised his labours, +but he knew he couldn't hope, except by chance, to see her this summer. + +One Saturday morning Goodhue came unexpectedly into the office and +carried him off to Long Island. George saw the tiny eyes of Blodgett +narrow. + +Blodgett, perhaps because of Mr. Alston's letter, had condescended to +chat with George a number of times in the outer office. On the Monday +following he strolled up and jerked out: + +"Wasn't that young Richard Goodhue I saw you going off with Saturday?" + +"Yes sir." + +"Know him well?" + +"Very. We're in the same class. We're rooming together next year." + +Blodgett grunted and walked on, mopping his puffy face with a shiny blue +handkerchief. George wondered if he had displeased Blodgett by going +with Goodhue. He decided he hadn't, for the picturesquely dressed man +stopped oftener after that, chatting quite familiarly. + +Whatever one thought of Blodgett's appearance and manner, one admired +him. George hadn't been in the Street a week before he realized that the +house of Blodgett and Sinclair was one of the most powerful in America, +with numerous ramifications to foreign countries. There was no phase of +finance it didn't touch; and, as far as George could see, it was all +Josiah Blodgett, who had come to New York from the West, by way of +Chicago. In those offices Sinclair was scarcely more than a name in gold +on various doors. Once or twice, during the summer, indeed, George saw +the partner chatting in a bored way with Blodgett. His voice was high +and affected, like Wandel's, and he had a house in Newport. According to +office gossip he had little money interest in the firm, lending the +prestige of his name for what Blodgett thought it was worth. As he +watched the fat, hard worker chatting with the butterfly man, George +suddenly realized that Blodgett might want a house in Newport, too. Was +it because he was Richard Goodhue's room-mate that Blodgett stopped him +in the hall one day, grinning with good nature? + +"If I were a cub," he puffed, "I'd buy this very morning all the Katydid +I could, and sell at eighty-nine." + +George whistled. + +"I knew something was due to happen to Katydid, but I didn't expect +anything like that." + +"How did you know?" Blodgett demanded. + +He shot questions until he had got the story of George's close +observation and night drudgery. + +"Glad to see Mundy hasn't dropped you out the window yet," he grinned. +"Maybe you'll get along. Glad for Mr. Alston's sake. See here, if I were +a cub, and knew as much about Katydid as you do, I wouldn't hesitate to +borrow a few cents from the boss." + +"No," George said. "I've a very little of my own. I'll use that." + +He had, perhaps, two hundred dollars in the bank at Princeton. He drew a +check without hesitation and followed Blodgett's advice. He had +commenced to speculate without risk. Several times after that Blodgett +jerked out similar advice, usually commencing with: "What does young +Pierpont Morgan think of so and so?" And usually George would give his +employer a reasonable forecast. Because of these discreet hints his +balance grew, and Mundy one day announced that his salary had been +raised ten dollars. + +All that, however, was the brighter side. Often during those hot, heavy +nights, while he pieced together the day's complicated pattern, George +envied the fortunates who could play away from pavements and baking +walls. He found himself counting the days until he would go back to +Princeton and football, and Betty's charm; but even that prospect was +shadowed by his doubt as to how he would emerge from the club tangle. + +He didn't meet Sylvia, but one day he saw Old Planter step from an +automobile and enter the marble temple where he was accustomed to +sacrifice corporations and people to the gods of his pocket-book. The +great man used a heavy stick and climbed the steps rather slowly, +flanked by obsequious underlings, gaped at by a crowd, buzzing and +over-impressed. Somehow George couldn't fancy Blodgett with the gout--it +was too delightfully bred. + +He peered in the automobile, but of course Sylvia wasn't there, nor, he +gathered from his mother's occasional notes to thank him for the little +money he could send her, was she much at Oakmont. + +"I'll see her this fall," he told himself, "and next winter. I've +started to do what I said I would." + +As far as Wall Street was concerned, Blodgett evidently agreed with him. + +"I can put up with you next summer," he said at parting. "I'll write Mr. +Alston you're fit for something besides football." + +Mundy displayed a pastoral sadness. + +"You ought to stay right here," he said. "College is all right if you +don't want to amount to a hill of beans. It's rotten for making money." + +Nevertheless, he agreed to send George a weekly letter, giving his wise +views as to what was going on among the money makers. They all made him +feel that even in that rushing place his exit had caused a perceptible +ripple. + + +XXII + +The smallness, the untidiness, the pure joy of Squibs Bailly's study! + +The tutor ran his hands over George's muscles. + +"You're looking older and a good deal worn," he said, "but thank God +you're still hard." + +Mrs. Bailly sat there, too. They were both anxious for his experiences, +yet when he had told them everything he sensed a reservation in their +praise. + +"I think I should turn my share of the laundry back," he said, +defiantly. "I've something like three thousand dollars of my own now." + +"Does it make you feel very rich?" Mrs. Bailly asked. + +He laughed. + +"It's a tiny start, but I won't need half of it to get through the +winter." + +Bailly lighted his pipe, stretched his legs, and pondered. + +"You're giving the laundry up," he said, finally, "because--because it +savours of service?" + +George didn't get angry. He couldn't with Squibs in the first place; +and, in the second, hadn't that thought been at the bottom of his mind +ever since Dalrymple's remark about dirty hands? + +"I don't need it any more," he said, "and I'd like to have you dispose +of it where it will do the most good." + +His voice hardened. + +"But to somebody who wants to climb, not to any wild-eyed fellow who +thinks he sees salvation in pulling down." + +"You've just returned from the world," Bailly said, "and all you've +brought is three thousand dollars and a bad complexion. I wish you'd +directed your steps to a coal mine. You'd have come back richer." + + +XXIII + +Goodhue got in a few hours after George. There was a deep satisfaction +in their greetings. They were glad to be together, facing varsity +football, looking ahead to the pleasures and excitements of another +year, but George would have been happier if he could have shared his +room-mate's unconcern about the clubs. Of course, Goodhue was settled. +Did he know about George? George was glad the other couldn't guess how +carefully he had calculated the situation--to take the best, or a +dignified stand against all clubs with Allen getting behind him with all +the poor and unknown men. But wasn't that exactly Wandel's game? + +Stringham and Green were glad enough to see him, but Green thought he +had been thoughtless not to have kept a football in the office for +kicking goals through transoms. + +It was good to feel the vapours of the market-place leaving his lungs +and brain. Goodhue and he, during the easy preliminary work, resumed +their runs. He felt he hadn't really gone back. If he didn't get hurt he +would do things that fall that would drive the perplexed frown from +Bailly's forehead, that would win Betty's applause and Sylvia's +admiration. Whatever happened he was going to take care of her brother +in the Yale game. + +Betty was rather too insistent about that. She had fallen into the habit +again of stopping George and Goodhue on their runs for a moment's +gossip. + +"See here, Betty," Goodhue laughed once, "you're rather too interested +in this Eli Planter." + +George had reached the same conclusion--but why should it bother him? It +was logical that Betty and Lambert should be drawn together. He blamed +himself for a habit of impatience that had grown upon him. Had it come +out of the strain of the Street, or was it an expression of his +knowledge that now, at the commencement of his second year, he +approached the culmination of his entire college course? With the club +matter settled there would remain little for him save a deepening of +useful friendships and a squeezing of the opportunity to acquire +knowledge and a proper manner. For the same cause, the approaching +election of officers for Sophomore year was of vital importance. It was +generally conceded that the ticket put through now, barring accident, +would be elected senior year to go out into the world at the head of the +class. The presidency would graduate a man with a patent of nobility, as +one might say. George guessed that all of Wandel's intrigues led to the +re-election of Goodhue. He wanted that influential office in his own +crowd. Even now George couldn't wholly sound Wandel's desires with him. +He yielded to the general interest and uneasiness. Squibs had been +right. Princeton did hold a fair sample of it all. He understood that +very much as this affair was arranged he would see the political +destinies of the country juggled later. + +Allen got him alone, begging for his decision. + +"Have you been asked for a club yet?" + +"None of your business," George said, promptly. + +"You've got to make up your mind in a hurry," Allen urged. "Promise me +now that you'll leave the clubs alone, then I can handle Mr. Wandel." + +"You're dickering with him?" George asked, quickly. + +"No. Mr. Wandel is trying to dicker with me." + +But George couldn't make up his mind. There were other problems as +critical as the clubs. Could he afford to fight Dick Goodhue for that +high office? If only he could find out what the Goodhue crowd thought of +him! + +He had an opportunity to learn one evening, and conquered a passionate +desire to eavesdrop. As he ran lightly up the stairs to his room he +heard through the open study door Wandel and Goodhue talking with an +unaccustomed heat. + +"You can't take such an attitude," Wandel was saying. + +"I've taken it." + +"Change your mind," Wandel urged. "I've nursed him along as the only +possible tie between two otherwise irreconcilable elements of the class. +I tell you I can't put you over unless you come to your senses." + +George hurried in and nodded. From their faces he gathered there had +been a fair row. Wandel grasped his arm. George stiffened. Something was +coming now. It wasn't quite what he had expected. + +"How would you like," Wandel said, "to be the very distinguished +secretary of your class?" + +George gazed from the window at the tree-bordered lawns where lesser men +contentedly kicked footballs to each other. + +"It ought to be what the class likes," he muttered. "I'm really only +interested in seeing Dicky re-elected." + +"If," Wandel said, "I told you it couldn't be done without your +distinguished and untrammelled name on the ticket?" + +George flushed. + +"What do you mean by untrammelled?" + +"You stop that, Spike," Goodhue said, more disturbed than George had +ever seen him. "It's indecent. I won't have it." + +George relaxed. Untrammelled had certainly meant free from the taint of +the clubs. He was grateful Goodhue had interfered. + +"Why don't you run for something yourself, Mr. Wandel?" he asked, dryly. + +Goodhue laughed. + +"Carry your filthy politics somewhere else." + +He and George, with an affectation of good nature, pushed Wandel out of +the room. They looked at each other. Neither said anything. + +George had to call upon his will to keep his attention on his books that +night. In return for Allen's support for Goodhue Wandel wanted to give +Allen for a minor place on the ticket a poor man untrammelled by the +clubs. The realization angered George. Aside from any other +consideration he couldn't permit himself to be bartered about to save +any one--even Goodhue. But was Goodhue trying to spare him at a +sacrifice? George, with a vast relief, decided that that was so when +Goodhue mentioned casually one day that he was a certainty for the club. + +"Don't say anything about it," he advised. "The upper classmen have been +getting a few of us together. I'm glad you're among us. We'll elect the +full section later." + +"Of course I came here a stranger," George began, trying to hide his +pleasure. + +"Quite a lot of us have learned to know you pretty well," Goodhue +smiled. + +George wouldn't accept this coveted gift without putting himself on +record. + +"I needn't ask you," he said, "if Dalrymple's already in." + +Goodhue shook his head. + +"Maybe later." + +"I think," George said, distinctly, "that the men who are responsible +for my election should know I'll hold out against Dalrymple." + +"You're a conscientious beggar," Goodhue laughed. "It's your own +business now, but there'll be a nice little rumpus just the same." + +George was conscientious with Allen, too. + +"I feel I ought to tell you," he said, "that I've made up my mind, if +I'm asked, to join a club. Anything that has so much to offer can't be +as bad as you think." + +Without answering Allen flushed and walked off angrily. + +It was the next day that the parties gathered on the top floor of +Dickinson Hall for the election. George went as an amused spectator. He +had played the game on the level and had destroyed his own chances, but +he was afraid he had destroyed Goodhue's, too, or Goodhue had destroyed +his own by insisting on taking George into the club. That was a +sacrifice George wanted to repay. + +Wandel, as usual, was undisturbed. Allen's angular figure wandered +restlessly among the groups. George had no idea what the line-up was. + +George sensed weakness in the fact that, when the nominations were +opened, Wandel was the first on his feet. He recited Goodhue's virtues +as an athlete and a scholar. Like a real political orator at a +convention he examined his record as president the previous year. He +placed him in nomination amid a satisfactory applause. Now what was +coming? Who did Allen have? + +When he arose Allen wore an air of getting through with a formality. He +insisted on the fact that his candidate was working his way through +college, and would always be near the top scholastically. He represented +a section of the class that the more fortunate of the students were +prone to forget. And so on--a condensation of his complaints to George. +The room filled with suspense, which broke into loud laughter when Allen +named a man of absolutely no importance or colour, who couldn't poll +more than the votes of his personal friends. A trick, George guessed it, +and everyone else. But Wandel was quickly moving that the nominations be +closed. Allen glanced around with a worried, expectant air. Then George +saw that Rogers was up--a flushed, nervous figure--and had got the +floor. He spoke rapidly, nearly unintelligibly. + +"My candidate doesn't need any introduction," he recited. "All factions +can unite on him--the man that smashed the Yale and Harvard Freshmen. +The man who is going to smash the Yale and Harvard varsities this +year--George Morton!" + +A cheer burst out, loud, from the heart. George saw that it came from +both sides. The poor men had been stampeded, too. + +Goodhue was on his feet, his arms upraised, demanding recognition. +Suddenly George realized what this meant to Goodhue, and temper replaced +his amazement. He sprang up, shouting: + +"I won't have it----" + +A dozen pairs of hands dragged him down. A dozen voices cried in his +ears: + +"Shut up, you damned fool!" + + +XXIV + +Goodhue got the floor and withdrew his name, but the chairman wouldn't +see or hear George. He declared the nominations closed. It was as if he +and all the lesser men, who weren't leading factions, had seen in +George the one force that could pull the class together. The vote was +perfunctory, and Allen lazily moved to make it unanimous. George took +the chair, frowning, altogether unhappy in his unforeseen victory. He +had a feeling of having shabbily repaid Goodhue's loyalty and sacrifice, +yet it hadn't been his fault; but would Goodhue know that? + +"Speech! Shoot something, George! Talk up there, Mr. President!" + +He'd give them a speech to chew over. + +"Back-door politicians have done their best to split the class. The +class has taken matters into its own hands. There isn't going to be a +split. It won't be long before you'll have Prospect Street off your +minds. That seems to be two thirds of the trouble. Let's forget it, and +pull together, and leave Princeton a little better than we found it. If +you think anything needs reform let's talk about it openly and sensibly, +clubs and all. I appreciate the honour, but Dick Goodhue ought to have +had it, would have had it, if he hadn't been born with a silver spoon. +Ought a man's wealth or poverty stand against him here? Think it over. +That's all." + +There was no opposition to Goodhue's election as Secretary. + +Allen slipped to George at the close of the meeting. + +"About what I'd have expected of you, anyway." + +But George was looking for Goodhue, found him, and walked home with him. + +"Best thing that could have happened," Goodhue said. "They're all +marvelling at your nerve for talking about Prospect Street as you did." + +George spied Rogers, and beckoned the freshly prominent youth. + +"See here, young man, please come to my room after practice." + +Rogers, with a frightened air, promised. Wandel appeared before, quite +as if nothing had happened. He wouldn't even talk about the election. + +"Just the same, Warwick," George said, "I'm not at all sure a poler +named Allen couldn't tell you something about juggling crowns." + +"A penetrating as well as a great president," Wandel smiled. "I haven't +thanked you yet for joining our club." + +George looked straight at him. + +"But I've thanked Dicky for it," he said. + +Rogers, when he arrived after Wandel's departure, didn't want to +confess, but George knew how to get it out of him. + +"You've put your finger in my pie without my consent," he said. "I'll +hold that against you unless you talk up. Besides, it won't go beyond +Goodhue and me. It's just for our information." + +"All right," Rogers agreed, nervously, "provided it doesn't go out of +this room. And there's no point mentioning names. A man we all know came +to me this morning and talked about the split in the class. He couldn't +get Goodhue elected because he didn't have any way of buying the support +of the poor men. Allen, he figured, was going to nominate a lame duck, +and then have somebody not too rich and not too poor spring his own +name, figuring he would get the votes of the bulk of the class which +just can't help being jealous of Goodhue and his little crowd. This chap +thought he could beat Allen at that game by stampeding the class for you +before Allen could get himself up, and he wanted somebody representative +of the bulk of the class, that holds the balance of power, to put you in +nomination. He figured even the poor men would flock to you in spite of +Allen's opposition." + +"And what did he offer you?" George sneered. + +Rogers turned away without answering. + +"Like Driggs," Goodhue said, when Rogers had gone. "He couldn't have +what he wanted, but he got about as good. Politically, what's the +difference? Both offices are in his crowd, but he's avoided making you +look like his president." + +George grinned. + +"I don't wonder you call him Spike." + + +XXV + +George, filled with a cold triumph, stared for a long time at Sylvia's +portrait that night. If she thought of him at all she would have to +admit he had come closer. At Princeton he was as big a man as her rich +brother was at Yale. He belonged to a club where her own kind gathered. +Give him money--and he was going to have that--and her attitude must +alter. He bent the broken crop between his fingers, his triumph fading. +He had come closer, but not close enough to hurt. + +The Baillys and Betty congratulated him at practice the next day. + +"You were the logical man," Betty said, "but the politicians didn't seem +to want you." + +Bailly drew him aside. + +"It was scandal in the forum," he said, "that money and the clubs were +an issue in this election." + +George fingered his headgear, laughing unpleasantly. + +"Yes, and they elected a poor man; a low sort of a fellow with a +shadowed past." + +"Forget your past," Bailly pled, "and remember in the present that the +poor men, who helped elect you, are looking for your guidance. They need +help." + +"Then," George said, "why didn't they get themselves elected so they +could help themselves?" + +"Into the world there are born many cripples," Bailly said, softly. +"Would you condemn them for not running as fast as the congenitally +sound?" + +"Trouble is, they don't try to run," George answered. + +He looked at the other defiantly. Bailly had to know. It was his right. + +"I can guess what house I'm going to on Prospect Street." + +"Which?" Bailly sighed. + +"To the very home of reaction," George laughed. "But it's easier to +reform from the inside." + +"No," Bailly said, gravely. "The chairs are too comfortable." + +He pressed George's arm. + +"It isn't the clubs here that worry me in relation to you. It's the +principle of the lights behind the railing in the restless world. Try +not to surrender to the habit of the guarded light." + +George was glad when Stringham called from the field. + +"Jump in here, Morton!" + +He took his turn at the dummy scrimmage. Such exercise failed to offer +its old zest, nor was it the first day he had appreciated that. The +intrusion of these unquiet struggles might be responsible, yet, with +them determined in his favour, his anxiety did not diminish. Was Bailly +to blame with his perpetual nagging about the outside world where grave +decisions waited? George frankly didn't want to face them. They seemed +half-decipherable signposts which tempted him perplexingly and +precariously from his path. What had just happened, added to the passage +of a year and his summer in Wall Street, had brought that headlong world +very close, had outlined too clearly the barriers which made it +dangerous; so even here he spent some time each night studying the +changing lines in the battle for money. + +Yet Goodhue, with a settled outlook, shared George's misgivings at the +field. + +"It isn't the fun it was Freshman year," he grumbled one night. "We used +to complain then that they worked us too hard. Now I don't believe they +work us hard enough." + +That was a serious doubt for two men who realized they alone might save +inferior if eager material from defeat; and it grew until they resumed +surreptitiously the extra work they had attempted hitherto only outside +of the season or just at its commencement. Then it had not interfered +with Green's minutely studied scheme of physical development. Now it +did. The growth of their worry, moreover, measured the decline of their +condition. These apprehensions had a sharper meaning for George than for +his room-mate. Almost daily he saw his picture on the sporting pages of +newspapers. "Morton of Princeton, the longest kicker in the game." "The +keystone of the Princeton attack." "The man picked to lead Stringham's +hopes to victory over Harvard and Yale." And so on. Exaggeration, George +told himself, that would induce the university, the alumni, the Baillys, +Betty, and Sylvia--most of all Sylvia--to expect more than he could +reasonably give at his best. + +"Don't forget you've promised to take care of Lambert Planter----" + +In some form Betty repeated it every time George saw her. It irritated +him--not that it really made any difference--that Lambert Planter should +occupy her mind to that extent. No emotion as impersonal as college +spirit would account for it; and somehow it did make a difference. + +George suspected the truth a few days before the Harvard game, and +persuaded Goodhue to abandon all exercise away from Green's watchful +eye; but he went on the field still listless, irritable, and stale. + +That game, as so frequently happens, was the best played and the +prettiest to watch of the season. George wondered if Sylvia was in the +crowd. There was no question about her being at New Haven next week. He +wanted to save his best for that afternoon when she would be sure to see +him, when he would take her brother on for another thrashing. But it +wasn't in him to hold back anything, and the cheering section, where +Squibs sat, demanded all he had. To win this game, it became clear after +the first few plays, would take an exceptional effort. Only George's +long and well-calculated kicking held down the Harvard attack. Toward +the close of the first half a fumble gave Princeton the ball on +Harvard's thirty-yard line, and Goodhue for the first time seriously +called on George to smash the Harvard defence. With his effort some of +the old zest returned. Twice he made it first down by inches. + +"Stick to your interference," Goodhue was begging him between each play. + +Then, with his interference blocked and tumbling, George yielded to his +old habit, and slipped off to one side at a hazard. The enemy secondary +defence had been drawing in, and there was no one near enough to stop +him within those ten yards, and he went over for a touchdown, and +casually kicked the goal. + +When, a few minutes later, he walked off the field, he experienced no +elation. He realized all at once how tired he was. Like a child he +wanted to go to Stringham and say: + +"Stringham, I don't want to play any more games to-day. I want to lie +down and rest." + +He smiled as he dreamed of Stringham's reply. + +It was Stringham, really, who came to him as he sat silently and with +drooping shoulders in the dressing-room. + +"What's wrong here? When you're hurt I want to know it." + +George got up. + +"I'm not hurt. I'm all right." + +Green arrived and helped Stringham poke while George submitted, wishing +they'd leave him alone so he could sit down and rest. + +"We've got to have him next week," Stringham said, "but this game isn't +won by a long shot." + +"What's the matter with me?" George asked. "I'll play." + +He heard a man near by remark: + +"He's got the colour of a Latin Salutatorian." + +They let him go back, nevertheless, and at the start he suffered his +first serious injury. He knew when he made the tackle that the strap of +his headgear snapped. He felt the leather slide from his head, +experienced the crushing of many bodies, had a brief conviction that the +sun had been smothered. His next impression was of bare, white walls in +a shaded room. His brain held no record of the hushing of the multitude +when he had remained stretched in his darkness on the trampled grass; of +the increasing general fear while substitutes had carried him from the +field on a stretcher; or of the desertion of the game by the Baillys, by +Betty and her father, by Wandel, the inscrutable, even by the +revolutionary Allen, by a score of others, who had crowded the entrance +of the dressing room asking hushed questions, and a few moments later +had formed behind him a silent and frightened procession as he had been +carried to the infirmary. Mrs. Bailly told him about it. + +"I saw tears in Betty's eyes," she said, softly, "through my own. It was +so like a funeral march." + +"And you missed the end of the game?" George asked. + +She nodded. + +"When my husband knew Harvard had scored he said, 'That wouldn't have +happened if George had been there.' And it wouldn't have." + +But all George could think of was: + +"Squibs missed half a game for me, and there were tears in Betty's +eyes." + +Tears, because he had suggested the dreadful protagonist of a funeral +march. + +His period of consciousness was brief. He drifted into the darkness once +more, accompanied by that extraordinary and seductive vision of Betty in +tears. It came with him late the next morning back into the light. +Sylvia's portrait was locked in a drawer far across the campus. What +superb luxury to lie here with such a recollection, forecasting no near +physical effort, quite relaxed, dreaming of Betty, who had always meant +rest as Sylvia had always meant unquiet and absorbing struggle. + +He judged it wise to pretend to be asleep, but hunger at last made him +stir and threw him into an anxious agitation of examinations by +specialists, of conferences with coaches, and of doubts and prayers and +exhortations from everyone admitted to the room; for even the +specialists were Princeton men. They were non-committal. It had been a +nasty blow. There had been some concussion. They would guarantee him in +two weeks, but of course he didn't have that long. One old fellow turned +suspiciously on Green. + +"He was overworked when he got hurt." + +"I'll be all right," George kept saying, "if you'll fix a headgear to +cover my new soft spot." + +And finally: + +"I'll be all right if you'll only leave me alone." + +Yet, when they had, Squibs came, totally forgetful of his grave problems +of the classes, foreseeing no disaster nearly as serious as a defeat by +Yale--"now that we've done so well against Harvard, and would have done +better if you hadn't got hurt"--limping the length of the sick-room +until the nurse lost her temper and drove him out. Then Goodhue arrived +as the herald of Josiah Blodgett, of all people. + +"This does me good," George pled with the nurse. + +And it did. For the first time in a number of weeks he felt amused as +Blodgett with a pinkish silk handkerchief massaged his round, unhealthy +face. + +"Thought you didn't like football," George said. + +"Less reason to like it now," Blodgett jerked out. "Only sensible place +to play it is the front yard of a hospital. Thought I'd come down and +watch you and maybe look up what was left afterward." + +George fancied a wavering of the little eyes in Goodhue's direction, and +became even more amused, for he believed a more calculating man than +Blodgett didn't live; yet there seemed a real concern in the man's +insistence that George, with football out of the way, should spend a +recuperative Thanksgiving at his country place. George thought he would. +He was going to work again for Blodgett next summer. + +Betty and Mrs. Bailly were the last callers the nurse would give in to, +although she must have seen how they helped, one in a chair on either +side of the bed; and it was difficult not to look at only one. In her +eyes he sought for a souvenir of those tears, and wanted to tell her how +sorry he was; but he wasn't really sorry, and anyway she mustn't guess +that he knew. Why had Mrs. Bailly bothered to tell him at all? Could her +motherly instinct hope for a coming together so far beyond belief? His +memory of the remote portrait reminded him that it was incredible in +every way. He sighed. Betty beckoned Mrs. Bailly and rose. + +"Don't go," George begged, aware that he ought to urge her to go. + +"Betty was having tea with me," Mrs. Bailly offered. + +"I would have asked to be brought anyway," Betty said, openly. "You +frightened us yesterday. We've all wanted to find out the truth." + +There was in her eyes now at least a reminiscent pain. + +"Don't worry," he said, "I'll take care of Lambert Planter for you after +all." + +She stooped swiftly and offered her hand. + +"You'll take care of yourself. It would be beastly if they let you play +at the slightest risk." + +He grasped her hand. The touch of her flesh, combined with such a +memory, made him momentarily forgetful. He held her hand too long, too +firmly. He saw the colour waver in her pale cheeks. He let her hand go, +but he continued to watch her eyes until they turned uncertainly to Mrs. +Bailly. + +When they had left he slept again. He slept away his listlessness of the +past few weeks. As he confided to his callers, who were confined to an +hour in the afternoon, he did nothing but sleep and eat. He was more +content than he had been since his indifferent days, long past, at +Oakmont. All these people had deserted the game for him when he was no +longer of any use to the game. Then he had acquired, even for such +clashing types as Wandel and Allen, a value that survived his football. +He had advanced on a road where he had not consciously set his feet. He +treasured that thought. Next Saturday he would reward these friends, for +he was confident he could do it now. By Wednesday he was up and dressed, +feeling better than he had since the commencement of the season. If only +they didn't hurt his head again! The newspapers helped there, too. If he +played, they said, it would be under a severe handicap. He smiled, +knowing he was far fitter, except for his head, than he had been the +week before. + +Until the squad left for New Haven he continued to live in the +infirmary, watching the light practice of the last days without even +putting on his football clothes. + +"The lay-off won't hurt me," he promised. + +Stringham and Green were content to accept his judgment. + +As soon as he was able he went to his room and got Sylvia's portrait. He +disciplined himself for his temporary weakness following the accident. +He tried to force from his memory the sentiment aroused by Betty's tears +through the thought that he approached his first real chance to impress +Sylvia. He could do it. He was like an animal insufficiently exercised, +straining to be away. + + +XXVI + +He alone, as the squad dressed in the gymnasium, displayed no signs of +misgiving. Here was the climax of the season. All the better. The larger +the need the greater one's performance must be. But the others didn't +share that simple faith. + +He enjoyed the ride to the field in the cold, clear air, through +hurrying, noisy, and colourful crowds. He liked the impromptu cheers +they gave the team, sometimes himself particularly. + +In the field dressing-room, like men condemned, the players received +their final instructions. Already they were half beaten because they +were going to face Yale--all but George, who knew he was going to play +better than ever, because he was going to face one Yale man, Lambert +Planter, with Sylvia in the stands. He kept repeating to himself: + +"I will! I _will_!" + +He laughed at the others. + +"There aren't any wild beasts out there--just eleven men like ourselves. +If there's going to be any wild-beasting let's do it to them." + +They trotted through an opening into a vast place walled by men and +women. At their appearance the walls seemed to disintegrate, and a +chaotic noise went up as if from that ponderous convulsion. + +George dug his toes into the moist turf and looked about. Sylvia was +there, a tiny unit in the disturbed enclosure, but if she had sat alone +it would have made no difference. His incentive would have been +unaltered. + +Again the convulsion, and the Yale team was on the field. George singled +Planter out--the other man that Sylvia would watch to-day. He did look +fit, and bigger than last year. George shrugged his shoulders. + +"I will!" + +Nevertheless, he was grateful for his week of absolute rest. He smiled +as the crowd applauded his long kicks to the backs. He wasn't exerting +himself now. + +The two captains went to the centre of the field while the teams trotted +off. Lambert came up to George. + +"The return match," he said, "and you won't want another." + +George grinned. + +"I've heard it's the Yale system to try to frighten the young opponent." + +"You'll know more about the Yale system after the first half," Lambert +said, and walked on. + +George realized that Lambert hadn't smiled once. In his face not a trace +of the old banter had shown. Yale system or Yale spirit, it possessed +visible qualities of determination and peril, but he told himself he +could lick Lambert and smile while doing it. + +At the whistle he was off like a race horse, never losing sight of +Lambert until he was reasonably sure the ball wouldn't get to him. They +clashed personally almost at the start. Yale had the ball, and Lambert +took it, and tore through the line, and lunged ahead with growing speed +and power. George met him head on. They smashed to the ground. As he +hugged Lambert there for a moment George whispered: + +"Nothing fantastic about that, is there? Now get past me, Mr. Planter." + +The tackle had been vicious. Lambert rose rather slowly to his feet. + +George's kicks outdistanced Lambert's. Once he was forced by a Princeton +fumble, and a march of thirty yards by Yale, to kick from behind his own +goal line. He did exert himself then, and he outguessed the two men +lying back. As a result Yale put the ball in play on her own thirty-yard +line, while the stands marvelled, the Princeton side demonstratively, +yet George, long before the half was over, became conscious of something +not quite right. Since beyond question he was the star of his team he +received a painstaking attention from the Yale men. There is plenty of +legitimate roughness in football, and it can be concentrated. In every +play he was reminded of the respect Yale had for him. Perpetually he +tried to spare his head, but it commenced to ache abominably, and after +a tackle by Lambert, to repay him for some of his own deadly and painful +ones, he got up momentarily dazed. + +"Let's do something now," he pled with Goodhue, when, thanks to his +kicks, they had got the ball at midfield. He wanted a score before this +silly weakness could put him out. With a superb skill he went after a +score. His forward passes to Goodhue and the ends were well-conceived, +beautifully executed, and frequently successful. Many times he took the +ball himself, fighting through the line or outside of tackle to run +against Lambert or another back. Once he got loose for a run of fifteen +yards, dodging or shaking off half the Yale team while the stands with +primeval ferocity approved and prayed. + +That made it first down on Yale's five-yard line. He was absolutely +confident that the Yale team could not prevent his taking the ball over +in the next few plays. + +"I will! I will! I will!" he said to himself. + +Alone, he felt, he could overcome that five yards against the eleven of +them. + +"Let's have it, Dicky," he whispered. "I'm going over this play or the +next. Shoot me outside of tackle." + +On the first play Goodhue fumbled, and a Yale guard fell on the ball. +George stared, stifling an instinct to destroy his friend. The chance +had been thrown away, and his head made him suffer more and more. Then +he saw that Goodhue wanted to die, and as they went back to place +themselves for the Yale kick, George said: + +"You've proved we can get through them. Next time!" + +Would there be a next time? And Goodhue didn't seem to hear. With all +his enviable inheritance and training he failed to conceal a passionate +remorse; his conviction of a peculiar and unforgivable criminality. + +In the dressing-room a few minutes later some of the players bitterly +recalled that ghastly error, and a coach or two turned furiously on the +culprit. It was too bad Squibs and Allen weren't there to watch +George's white temper, an emotion he didn't understand himself, born, he +tried to explain it later, of his hurt head. + +"Cut that out!" he snarled. + +The temper of one of the coaches--an assistant--flamed back. + +"It was handing the game on a----" + +George reached out and caught the shoulders of that man who during the +season had ordered him around. The ringing in his head, the increasing +pain, had destroyed all memory of discipline. + +"Say another word and I'll throw you out of here." + +The room fell silent. Some men gasped. The coach shrank from the furious +face, tried to elude the powerful grasp. Stringham hurried up. George +let the other go. + +"Mr. Stringham," he said, quietly, "if there's any more of this I'll +quit right now, and so will the rest of the team if they've any pluck." + +Stringham motioned the coach away, soothed George, led him to a chair, +where Green and a doctor got off his battered headgear. George wanted to +scream, but he conquered the brimming impulse, and managed to speak +rationally. + +"You've done all you can for us. We've got to play the game ourselves, +and we're not giving anything away. We're not making any mistakes we can +help." + +Goodhue came up and gripped his shoulder. The touch quieted him. + +"This man oughtn't to go back, Green," the doctor announced. + +George stiffened. He hadn't made that score. He hadn't smashed Lambert +Planter half enough. Better to leave the field on a stretcher, and in +darkness again, than to quit like this: to walk out between the halves; +not to walk back. He began to lie, overcoming a physical agony of which +he had never imagined his powerful body capable. + +"No, that doesn't hurt, nor that," he replied, calmly, to the doctor's +questions. "Don't think I'm nutty because I lost my temper. My head's +all right. That gear's fine." + +So they let him go back, and he counted the plays, willing himself to +receive and overcome the pounding each down brought him, continuing by +pure force of will to outplay Lambert; to save his team from dangerous +gains, from possible scores; nearly breaking away himself half-a-dozen +times, although the Princeton eleven was tiring and much of the play was +in its territory. + +The sun had gone behind heavy clouds. A few snowflakes fluttered down. +It was nearly dark. In spite of his exertions he felt cold, and knew it +for an evil sign. Once or twice he shivered. His throbbing head gave him +an illusion of having grown enormously so that it got in everybody's +way. Instinctively he caught a Yale forward pass on his own thirty-yard +line and tore off, slinging tacklers aside with the successful fury of a +young bull all of whose dangerous actions are automatic. He had come a +long way. He didn't know just how far, but the Yale goal posts were +near. Then, quite consciously, he saw Lambert Planter cutting across to +intercept him. The meeting of the two was unavoidable. He thought he +heard Lambert's voice. + +"Not past me!" + +Lambert plunged for the tackle. George's right hand shot out and smashed +open against Lambert's face. He raced on, leaving Lambert sprawled and +clawing at the ground. + +The quarterback managed to bring him down on the eight-yard line, then +lost him; yet, before George could get to his feet others had pounced, +and his heavy, awkward head had crashed against the earth again. + +They dragged him to his feet. For a few moments he lurched about, +shaking off friendly hands. + +"Only five minutes more, George," somebody prayed. + +Only five minutes! Good God! For him each moment was a century of +unspeakable martyrdom. Flecks of rain or snow touched his face, lifted +in revolt. The contact, wet and cold, cleared his brain a trifle--let in +the screaming of the multitude, hoarse and incoherent, raised at first +in thanksgiving for his run, then, after its close, altering to menacing +disappointment and command. What business had they to tell him what to +do? Up there, warm and comfortable, undergoing no exercise more violent +than occasional excited rising and sitting down, they had the selfish +impudence to order him to make a touchdown. Why should he obey, or even +try? He had done his job, more than any one could reasonably have asked +of him. He had outplayed Lambert, gained more ground than any man on the +field, made more valuable tackles. Could he really impress Sylvia any +further? Why shouldn't he walk off now in the face of those unjust +commands to the rest he had earned and craved with all his body and +mind? + +"Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown! Morton! Morton! Morton!" + +Damn them! Why not, indeed, walk off, where he wouldn't have to listen +to that thoughtless and autocratic impertinence? + +He glanced down at his blackened hands, at his filthy breeches, at his +jersey striped about the sleeves with orange; and with a wave of +self-loathing he knew why he couldn't go. He had sworn never to wear +anything like livery again, yet here he was--in livery, a servant to men +and women who asked dreadful things without troubling even to +approximate the agony of obedience. + +"I'll not be a servant," he had told Bailly. + +Bailly had made him one after all, and an old phrase of the tutor's +slipped back: + +"Some day, young man, you'll learn that the world lives by service." + +George had not believed. Now for a moment his half-conscious brain knew +Bailly had been right. He had to serve. + +He knocked aside the sponge Green held to his face. He indicated the +bucket of cold water the trainer had carried out. + +"Throw it over my head," he said, "the whole thing. Throw it hard." + +Green obeyed. He, too, who ought to have understood, was selfish and +imperious. + +"You make a touchdown!" he commanded hoarsely. + +The water stung George's eyes, rushed down his neck in thrilling +streams, braced him for the time. The teams lined up while the +Princeton stands roared approval that their best servant should remain +on the job. + +Goodhue called the signal for a play around the left tackle. Every Yale +player was confident that George would take the ball, sensed the +direction of the play, and, over-anxious, massed there, all but the +quarter, who lay back between the goal posts. George saw, and turned +sharply, darting to the right. Suddenly he knew, because of that +over-anxiety of Yale, that he had a touchdown. Only the Yale quarterback +had a chance for the tackle, and he couldn't stop George in that +distance. + +Out of the corner of his eye George noticed Goodhue standing to the +right and a little behind. He, too, must have seen the victorious +outcome of the play, and George caught in his attitude again that air of +a unique criminal. They'd hold that fumble against Dicky forever +unless--if Goodhue had the ball the Yale quarter couldn't even get his +hands on him until he had crossed the line. + +"Dicky!" + +The dejected figure sprang into action. Without weighing his sacrifice, +without letting himself think of the crime of disobeying a signal, of +the risks of a hurried throw or of another fumble, George shot the ball +across, then forged ahead and put the Yale quarterback out of the play, +while Goodhue strolled across the line and set the ball down behind the +goal posts. + +As he went back to kick the goal George heard through the crashing +cacophony from the stands Goodhue's uncertain voice: + +"Why didn't you make that touchdown yourself? It was yours. You had it. +You had earned it." + +"It was the team's," George answered, shortly. "I might have been +spilled. Sure thing for you." + +"You precious idiot!" Goodhue whispered. + +As George kicked the goal there came to him again, across his pain, that +sensation of being on a road he had not consciously set out to explore. +He wondered why he was so well content. + +Eternity ended. With the whistle and the crunching of the horn George +staggered to his feet. Goodhue and another player supported him while +the team clustered for a cheer for Yale. The Princeton stands were a +terrific avalanche descending upon that little group. Green tried to +rescue him, shouting out his condition; but the avalanche wouldn't have +it. It dashed upon him, tossed him shoulder high, while it emitted +crashing noises out of which his name emerged. + +Goodhue was up also, and the others. Goodhue was gesturing and talking, +pointing in his direction. Soon Goodhue and the others were down. The +happy holocaust centred its efforts on George. Why? Had Goodhue given +things away about that touchdown? Anyhow, they knew how to reward their +servants, these people. + +They carried George on strong shoulders at the head of their careening +procession. His dazed brain understood that they desired to honour the +man who had done the giant's share, the one who had made victory +possible, and he sensed a wrong, a sublime ignorance or indifference +that they should carry only him. The victory went back of George Morton. +He bent down, screaming into the ears of his bearers. + +"Squibs Bailly! He found me. If it wasn't for him I wouldn't have played +to-day. Bailly, or let me down! Bailly made that run! I tell you, Bailly +played that game!" + +In his earnestness he grew hysterical. + +Maybe it was because they wanted to humour the hero, or perhaps they +caught his own hysteria, realizing what Bailly had done for him. They +stopped in front of the stands to which Bailly's bad foot had condemned +him during this triumphant march. They commenced a high-pitched, frantic +chant. + +"We want Squibs Bailly! We want Squibs Bailly! We want Squibs Bailly!" + +George waved his hands, holding the column until the slender figure, +urged by the spectators remaining in the stands, came down with +difficulty and embarrassment to be caught and lifted tenderly up beside +George. + +Then, with these two aloft in the very front, the wild march was resumed +through the Yale goal posts while Squibs' wrinkled face twitched, while +in his young eyes burned the unsurpassable light of a hopeless wish +miraculously come true. + + +XXVII + +Green rescued George when his head was drooping and his eyes blurred. He +got him to the gymnasium and stretched him out there and set the doctors +to work on his head. + +A voice got into George's brain. Who was talking? Was it Goodhue, or +Stringham? + +"I guess you can see him, but he's pretty vague. Played the whole game +with a broken head. Lied to the doctors." + +George forced his eyes open. Lambert Planter, still in his stained +football clothes, bent over him. + +"Hello, Planter!" + +Lambert grasped the black hand. + +"Hello, George Morton!" + +That was all. Lambert went away, but George knew that what he had really +said was: + +"It's only what you've made of yourself that counts." + + +XXVIII + +At Princeton they kept him in the infirmary for a few days, but he +didn't like it. It filled him with a growing fear. Since it made no +particular difference now how long he was ill, they let him see too many +callers. He distrusted hero worship. Most of all was he afraid when such +devotion came from Betty. + +"Being a vicarious hero," Mrs. Bailly said, "has made my husband the +happiest man in Princeton." + +After that she didn't enter the conversation much, and again George +sensed, with a reluctant thrill, a maternal caring in her heart for him. + +"You never ought to have gone back in the second half," Betty said. + +"If I hadn't," he laughed, "who would have taken care of Lambert Planter +for you?" + +"Squibs says you might have been killed." + +"He's a great romancer," George exploded. + +"Just the same, it was splendid of you to play at all." + +She touched the white bandage about his head. + +"Does it hurt a great deal?" + +"No," he said, nearly honestly. "I only let them keep me here to cut +some dull lectures." + +He glanced at Betty wistfully. + +"Did I take care of Lambert Planter as you wanted?" + +She glanced away. + +"Are you punishing me? Haven't you read the papers? You outplayed him +and every man on the field." + +"That was what you wished?" + +She turned back with an assumption of impatience. + +"What do you mean?" + +He couldn't tell her. He couldn't probe further into her feelings for +Lambert, her attitude toward himself. He had to get his mind in hand +again. + +Betty brought her mother one day. Mrs. Alston was full of praise, but +she exuded an imperial distaste for his sick-room. Both times he had to +overcome an impulse to beg Betty not to go so soon. That more than +anything else made him afraid of himself. It was, he felt, an excellent +change to escape to an active life. + +Blodgett's place gave him a massive, tasteless welcome. It was one of +those houses with high, sloping roofs, numerous chimneys, and much +sculptured stone, slightly reminiscent of Mansart, and enormously +suggestive of that greatest architect of all, the big round dollar. In +its grounds it fitted like a huge diamond on a flowered shirt-front. +There were terraces; and a sunken garden, a little self-conscious with +coy replicas of regency sculpture; and formal walks between carefully +barbered trees and hedges. It convinced George that his original choice +of three necessities had been wise. Blodgett had the money, but he +didn't have Squibs Bailly and Goodhue or the things they personified. +And how Blodgett coveted The Goodhue Quality! George told himself that +was why he had been asked, because he was so close to Goodhue. But +Blodgett let him see that there was another motive. After those games +George was temporarily one of the nation's famous men. + +It wasn't until he had arrived that George understood how near +Blodgett's place was to Oakmont--not more than fifteen miles. He was +interested, but he had no idea, even if the Planters were there for +Thanksgiving, that he would see any of them. + +At Blodgett's bachelor enormity people came and went. At times the huge, +over-decorated rooms were filled, yet to George they seemed depressingly +empty because he knew they didn't enclose the men and the women Blodgett +wanted. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, indeed, motored out for Thanksgiving +dinner--a reluctant concession, George gathered, to a profitable +partnership. Blodgett brought him forth as a specimen, and the specimen +impressed, for it isn't given to everyone to sit down at the close of +the season with the year's most famous football player. It puzzled +George that in the precious qualities he craved he knew himself superior +to everyone in the house except these two who made him feel depressingly +inferior. Would he some day reach the point where he would react +unconsciously, as they did, to every social emergency? + +When the dinner party had scattered, Blodgett and he walked alone on the +terrace in an ashen twilight. There the surprise was sprung. It was +clearly no surprise to his host, who beamed at George, pointing to the +drive. + +"I 'phoned him he would find an old football friend here if he'd take +the trouble to drive over." + +"But you didn't tell him my name?" George gasped. + +"No, but why----" + +Blodgett broke off and hurried his heavy body to the terrace edge to +greet these important arrivals. + +Lambert sprang from the runabout he had driven up and helped Sylvia +down. She was bundled in becoming furs. The sharp air had heightened her +rich colouring. How beautiful she was--lovelier than George had +remembered! Here was the tonic to kill the distracting doubts raised by +Betty. Here was the very spring of his wilful ambition. Glancing at +Sylvia, Betty's tranquil influence lost its power. + +At her first recognition of him she stopped abruptly, but Lambert ran +across and grasped his hand. + +"How do, Morton. Never guessed Blodgett's message referred to you." + +George disapproved of Blodgett's methods. Why had the man made him a +mystery at the very moment he used him as a bait to attract Lambert and +Sylvia? Wasn't he important enough, or was it only because he was a +Princeton man and Blodgett had feared some enmity might linger? + +Lambert's manner, at least, was proof that he had, indeed, meant to give +George a message that night in the dressing-room at New Haven. George +appreciated that "How do, Morton"--greeting at last of a man for a man +instead of a man for a servant or a former servant; nor was Lambert's +call to his sister without a significance nearly sharp enough to hurt. + +"Sylvia! Didn't you meet this strong-armed Princetonian at Betty's dance +a year ago?" + +George understood that she had no such motives as Lambert's for altering +her attitude, so much more uncompromising from the beginning than his. +There had been no contact or shared pain. Only what she might have +observed from a remote stand that Saturday could have affected her. How +would she respond now? + +She advanced slowly, at first bewildered, then angry. But Blodgett had +nothing but his money to recommend him to her. She wouldn't, George was +certain, bare any intimacies of emotion before him. + +"I rather think I did." + +In her eyes George recognized the challenge he had last seen there. + +"Thanks for remembering me," he said rather in Wandel's manner. + +"A week ago Saturday----" she began, uncertainly, as though her +remembering needed an apology. + +"Who could forget the great Morton?" Lambert laughed. "With a broken +head he beat Yale. That was a hard game to lose." + +"I'd heard," she said, indifferently, "that you had been hurt." + +George would have preferred words as ugly and unforgettable as those she +had attacked him with the day of her accident. She turned to Blodgett. +George had an instinct to shake her as she chatted easily and casually, +glancing at him from time to time. He could have borne it better if she +hadn't included him at all. + +He was glad her brother occupied him. Lambert was for dissecting each +play of the game, and he made no attempt to hide the admiration for +George it had aroused. He gave the impression that he knew very well men +didn't do such things--particularly that little trick with +Goodhue--unless they were the right sort. + +Blodgett said something about tea. They strolled into the house. A fire +burned in the great hall. That was the only light. George came last, +directly after Sylvia. + +"So you're a friend of Mr. Blodgett's!" she said with an intonation +intended to hurt. + +"I wouldn't have expected," he answered, easily, "to find you a caller +here." + +She paused and faced him. Lights from the distant fire got as far as her +face, disclosing her contempt. He wouldn't let her speak. + +"I won't have you think I had anything to do with bringing you. I never +guessed until I saw your brother drive up." + +She didn't believe him, or she tried to impress him with that affront. +Blodgett and Lambert had gone on into the library. They remained quite +alone in the huge, dusky hall, whose shadow masses shifted as the fire +blazed and fell. For the first time since their ancient rides he could +talk to her undisturbed. He wouldn't let that fact tie his tongue. She +couldn't call him "stable boy" now, although she did try to say "beast" +in another way. This solitude in the dusk, shared with her, stripped +every distracting thought from his mind. He was as hard as steel and +happy in his inflexibility. + +"You believe me," he said. + +She shook her head and turned for the door. + +"Let me say one thing," he urged. "It's rather important." + +She came back through the shadows, her attitude reminiscent of the one +she had assumed long ago when she had sought to hurt him. He caught his +breath, waiting. + +"There is nothing," she said, shivering a little in spite of the hall's +warmth and the furs she still wore, "that you would think of saying to +me if you had changed at all from the impertinent groom I had to have +discharged." + +He laughed. + +"Oh! Call me anything you please, only I've always wanted to thank you +for not making a scene at Miss Alston's dance a year ago." + +He would be disappointed if that failed to hurt back. The thought of +Sylvia Planter making a scene! At least it fanned her temper. + +"What is there," she threatened, defensively, "to prevent my telling Mr. +Blodgett, any one I please, now?" + +"Nothing, except that I'm a trifle more on my feet," he answered. "I'm +not sure your scandal would blow me over. We're going to meet again +frequently. It can't he helped." + +"I never want," she said, as if speaking of something unclean and +revolting, "to see you again." + +His chance had come. + +"You're unfair, because it was you yourself, Miss Planter, who warned me +I shouldn't forget. I haven't. I won't. Will you? Can't we shake hands +on that understanding?" + +With a hurried movement she hid her hands. + +"I couldn't touch you----" + +"You will when we dance." + +He thought her lips trembled a little, but the light was uncertain. + +"I will never dance with you again." + +"I'm afraid you'll have to," he said with a confident smile, "unless you +care to make a scene." + +She drew away, unfastening her cloak, her eyes full of that old +challenge. + +"You're impossible," she whispered. "Can't you understand that I dislike +you?" + +His heart leapt, for didn't he hate her? + + +XXIX + +Lambert appeared in the doorway. + +"Blodgett's rung for tea----" + +He glanced curiously from one to the other. The broken shadows disclosed +little, but the fact that she had lingered at all was arresting. + +"What's up, Sylvia?" + +She went close to her brother. + +"This--this old servant has been impertinent again." + +Lambert smiled. + +"He's rather more than that now, sis. That's over--forgotten. Still if +the Princeton fellow Morton's been impertinent----" + +He spread his arms, smiling. + +"Have I got to submit myself to a trouncing more than once a year?" + +Sylvia shrugged her shoulders. + +"No," she said, impatiently. "You say it's forgotten. All right." + +George knew it would never be forgotten now by either of them. Lambert's +unruffled attitude made him uneasy. Her brother's scoffing response to +her accusation suggested that Lambert saw, since they would be more or +less thrown together, a beneficial side to such encounters as the one +just ended. For George didn't dream that Lambert had forgotten, either, +those old boasts. + +Another depressing thought made him bad company for Blodgett after the +callers had driven away. It came from a survey, following his glimpse of +Sylvia's beauty, of all the blatant magnificence with which Blodgett had +surrounded himself. Blodgett after dinner, a little flushed with wine, +and the triumph of having had in his house on the same day two Sinclairs +and two Planters, attempted an explanation. + +"I didn't build this, Morton, or my place in town, just for Josiah +Blodgett." + +George wasn't in a mood for subtleties of expression. + +"I've often wondered why you haven't married. With your money you ought +to have a big choice." + +Blodgett sipped a liqueur. He smiled in a self-satisfied way. + +"Money will buy about anything--even the kind of a wife you want. I'm in +no hurry. When I marry, young man, it will be the right kind." + +And George understood that he meant by the right kind some popular and +well-bred girl who would make the Blodgett family hit a social average. + +He carried that terrifying thought of marriage back to Princeton. He had +no fear Sylvia would ever look seriously in Blodgett's direction. Money +could scarcely bribe her. This, however, was her second season. Of +course she would marry someone of her own immediate circle. She could +take her choice. When that happened what would become of his +determination and his boasts? Frequently he clenched her riding crop and +swore: + +"Nothing--not even that--can keep me from accomplishing what I've set +out to do. I'll have my way with her." + +He shrank, nevertheless, from the thought of her adopting such a +defence. It was intolerable. He read the New York papers with growing +suspense. As an antidote he attacked harder than ever his study of cause +and effect in the Street. With football out of the way he could give a +good deal of time to that, and Blodgett now and then enclosed a hint in +Mundy's letters. It was possible to send a fair amount of money to his +parents; but his mother's letters never varied from their formality of +thanks and solicitations as to his health. His father didn't write at +all. Of course, they couldn't understand what he was doing. The shadow +of the great Planter remained perpetually over their little home. + +Another doubt troubled George. With the club matter out of the way, and +the presidency of the class his, and a full football garland resting on +his head, was he wasting his time at Princeton? The remembrance of +Blodgett steadied him. He needed all that Princeton and its +companionships could give. + +Purposefully he avoided Betty. Was she, indeed, responsible for that +softness he had yielded to in the infirmary and during the final game? +In his life, he kept telling himself, there was no room for sentiment. +Sentiment was childish, a hindrance. Hadn't he decided at the start that +nothing should turn him from his attempt for the summit? Still he +couldn't avoid seeing Betty now and then in Princeton, or at the dances +in New York to which he went with Goodhue. The less he saw of Betty, +moreover, the stronger grew his feeling of something essential lacking +from his life; and it bothered that, after a long separation, she was +invariably friendly instead of reproachful. He found that he couldn't +look at her eyes without hungrily trying to picture them wet with tears +for him. + +To some extent other demands took his mind from such problems. The +rumpus Goodhue had foreseen developed. Important men came or wrote from +New York or Philadelphia in Dalrymple's cause, but at the meetings of +the section George sat obdurate, and, when the struggle approached a +crisis, Goodhue came out openly on the side of his room-mate. + +"You can have Dalrymple in the club," was George's ultimatum, "or you +can have me, but you can't have us both." + +If George resigned, Goodhue announced, he would follow. Dalrymple was +doomed. The important men went back or ceased writing. Then Wandel +slipped Rogers into the charmed circle--the payment of a debt; and +George laughed and left the meeting, saying: + +"You can elect anybody you please now." + +Cynically, he was tempted to try to force Allen in. + +"You're not honest even with your own group," he said afterward to +Wandel. + +The club lost its value as a marker of progress. Besides, he didn't +look forward to eating with that little snob, Rogers, for two years. Nor +did he quite care for Wandel's reply. + +"You've enough class-consciousness for both of us, heroic and puissant +Apollo." + +For the first time George let himself go with Wandel. + +"You'll find Apollo Nemesis, little man, unless you learn to say what +you mean in words of one syllable." + +And the discussion of the clubs went on, breeding enmities but +determining no radical reform. + +The struggle at Princeton was over. George looked often at the younger +men, who didn't have to prepare themselves minutely for the greater +struggle just ahead, envying them their careless play, their proneness +to over-indulgence in beer and syncopated song. While he worked with +high and low prices and variations in exchange he heard them calling +cheerily across the campus, gathering parties for poker or bridge or a +session at the Nassau. Goodhue, even Wandel, found some time for +frivolity. George strangled his instinct to join them. He had too much +to do. In every diversion he took he wanted to feel there was a phase +personally valuable to him. + +He counted the days between his glimpses of Sylvia, and tried not to +measure the hours dividing his meetings with Betty. If only he dared let +himself go, dared cease battle for a little, dared justify Sylvia's +attitude! Even Goodhue noticed his avoidance of Betty. + +He encountered Sylvia in New York; asked her to dance with him; was +refused; cut in when she was, in a sense, helpless; and glided around +the room with a sullen, brilliant body that fairly palpitated with +distaste. + +Even during the summer he ran into her once on Long Island. Then he was +always missing her. Perhaps she had learned to avoid him. He shrank each +morning from his paper, from any bit of rumour connecting her with a +man; and Blodgett, he noticed, was still making money for a bachelor +bank account. + +He came to conceive a liking for his flabby employer, although he was +quite sure Blodgett wouldn't have bothered with him a moment if he +hadn't been a prominent college man with such ties among the great as +Blodgett hadn't been able to knot himself. What was more to the point, +the stout man admired George's ambition. He was more generous with his +surreptitious advice. He paid a larger salary which he admitted was less +than George earned during that summer. George, therefore, went back to +Princeton with fuller pockets. Again Mundy was loath to let him depart. + +"You know more about this game than men who've worked at it for years." + +His face of a parson grimaced. + +"You'd soon be able to hire me, if you'd stick on the job instead of +going back to college to get smashed up at football." + +George, however, didn't suffer much damage that year. He played +brilliantly through a season that without him would have been far more +disastrous than it was. + +When it was all over Squibs sat one night silently for a long time. At +last he stirred, lighted his pipe, and spoke. + +"I ought to say to you, George, that I was as satisfied with you in +defeat as I was in victory." + +"I outplayed Planter, anyway, didn't I?" + +Bailly studied him. + +"Did that mean more to you than having Princeton beaten?" + +"It kept Princeton from being beaten worse than it was." + +"Yes," Bailly admitted, "and, perhaps, you are right to find a personal +victory somewhere in a general defeat." + +"But you really think it selfish," George said. + +"I wish," Bailly answered, "I could graft on your brain some of Allen's +mental processes, even his dissatisfactions." + +"You can't," George said, bluntly. "I'm tired of Allen's smash talk. +Most people like him could be bought with the very conditions they +attack." + +Bailly arose and limped up and down. When he spoke his voice vibrated +with an unaccustomed passion: + +"I don't know. I don't think so. But I want you to realize that +prostrate worship of the fat old god success is as wicked as any other +idolatry. I want you to understand that Allen and his kind may be +sincere and right, that a vision unblinded by the bull's-eye may see +the target all awry. My fear goes back to your first days here. You are +still ashamed of service." + +"I've served," George said, hotly. + +"Was it real service," Bailly asked gently, "or a shot at the +bull's-eye?" + +Almost involuntarily George clapped his fingers to his head. + +"You're wrong, sir," he cried. "I've served when nothing but the thought +of service brought me through." + +Mrs. Bailly hurried in. She put one hand on George's shoulder. With the +other she patted his hair. + +"What's he scolding my boy for?" + +George grinned at Bailly. + +"Don't you see, sir, if I were as bad as you think she couldn't do +that?" + +Bailly nodded thoughtfully. + +"If you've served as you say you must be merely hiding the good." + + +XXX + +To himself at times George acknowledged his badness, in Bailly's terms +at least. He sometimes sympathized with Allen's point of view, even +while he heckled that angular man who often sat with him and Goodhue, +talking about strikes, and violence, and drunkenness as the quickest +recreation for men who had no time for play. He longed to tell Allen in +justification that he had walked out of the working class himself. +Later, staring at Sylvia's portrait, he would grow hard again. Men, he +would repeat, wanted to smash down obstacles only because they didn't +have the strength to scramble over. He had the strength. But Bailly +would intrude again. What about the congenitally unsound? + +"I'm not unsound," he would say to himself, studying the picture. + +And he suspected that it was because he didn't want to be good that he +was afraid of seeing too much of Betty Alston and her kindliness and the +reminiscence of tears in her eyes. If Squibs only knew how blessedly +easy it would be to turn good, to let ambition and Sylvia slip into a +remote and ugly memory! More frequently now he stared at her portrait, +forcing into his heart the thought of hatred and into her face the +expression of it; for the more hatred there was between them, the +smaller was the chance of his growing weak. + +He longed for the approaching escape from his gravest temptation. When +he was through college and definitely in New York he would find it +simpler to be hard. For that matter, why should he grow weak? He had +achieved a success far beyond the common. He would graduate president of +his class, captain of the football team, although he had tried to throw +both honours to Goodhue; member of the club that had drawn the best men +of his year, a power in the Senior Council; the man who had done most +for Princeton; a high-stand scholar; and, most important of all, one who +had acquired with his education a certain amount of culture and an ease +of manner in any company. Allen was still angular, as were most of those +other men who had come here, like George, with nothing behind them. + +In his success he saw no miracle, no luck beyond Squibs' early interest. +What he had won he had applied himself to get with hardness, cold +calculation, an indomitable will. He had kept his eyes open. He had used +everybody, everything, to help him climb toward Sylvia out of the valley +of humiliation. The qualities that had brought him all that were good +qualities, worth clinging to. As he had climbed he would continue in +spite of Bailly or Allen or Betty. But when he thought of Betty he had +to fight the tears from his own eyes. + +A little while before his graduation he went to her, knowing he must do +something to make her less kind, to destroy the impression she gave him +of one who, like Mrs. Bailly, always thought of him at his best. + +He walked alone through a bland moonlight scented with honeysuckle from +the hedges. His heart beat as it had that day four years ago when he had +unintentionally let Sylvia know his presumptuous craving. + +Two white figures strolled in front of the house. He went up, striving +to overcome the absurd reluctance in his heart. It wasn't simple to +destroy a thing as beautiful as this friendship. Betty paused and +turned, drawing her mother around. + +"I thought you'd quite forgotten us, George." + +Nor did he want to kill the welcome in her voice. + +"You're leaving Princeton very soon," Mrs. Alston said. "I'm glad you've +come. Of course, it isn't to say good-bye." + +He wondered if she didn't long for a parting to be broken only by +occasional meetings in town. He wondered if she didn't fear for Betty. +If there had been no Sylvia, if he had dared abandon the hard things and +ask for Betty, this imperious woman would have put plenty of searching +questions. But, he reflected, if it hadn't been for Sylvia he never +would have come so far, never would have come to Betty. Every +consideration held him on his course. + +He feared that Mrs. Alston, in her narrow, careful manner, wouldn't give +him an opportunity to speak to Betty alone. He was glad when they went +in and found Mr. Alston, who liked and admired him. When he left there +must come a chance. As he said good-night, indeed, Betty followed him to +the hall, and he whispered, so that the servant couldn't hear: + +"Betty, I've a confession. Won't you walk toward the gate with me?" + +The colour entered her white face as she turned and called to her +mother: + +"I'll walk to the gate with George." + +From the room he fancied a rustling, irritated acknowledgment. + +But she came, throwing a transparent scarf over her tawny hair, and they +were alone in the moonlight and the scent of flowers, walking side by +side across grass, beneath the heavy branches of trees. + +"See here, Betty! I've no business to call you that--never have had. +Without saying anything I've lied to you ever since I've been in +Princeton. I've taken advantage of your friendship." + +She paused. The thick leaves let through sufficient light to show him +the bewilderment in her eyes. Her voice was a little frightened. + +"You can't make me believe that. You're not the sort of man that does +such things. I don't know what you're talking about." + +"Thanks," he said, "but you're wrong, and I can't go away without +telling you just what I am." + +"You're just--George Morton," she said with a troubled smile. + +He tried not to listen. He hurried on with this killing that appealed to +him as necessary. + +"Remember the day in Freshman year, or before, wasn't it, when you +recognized Sylvia Planter's bulldog? It was her dog. She had given him +away--to me, because she had set him on me, and instead of biting he had +licked my face. So she said to take him away because she could never +bear to see him again." + +Betty's bewilderment grew. She spoke gropingly. + +"I guessed there had been something unusual between you and the +Planters. What difference does it make? Why do you tell me now? Anything +as old as that makes no difference." + +"But it does," he blurted out. "I know you too well now not to tell +you." + +"But you and Lambert are good friends. You dance with Sylvia." + +"And she," he said with a harsh laugh, "still calls me an impertinent +servant." + +Betty started. She drew a little away. + +"What? What are you talking about?" + +"Just that," he said, softly. + +He forced himself to a relentless description of his father and mother, +of the livery stable, of the failure, of his acceptance of the privilege +to be a paid by the week guardian on a horse of the beautiful Sylvia +Planter. The only point he left obscure was the sentimental basis of his +quarrel with her. + +"I _was_ impertinent," he ended. "She called me an impertinent servant, +a stable boy, other pleasant names. She had me fired, or would have, if +I hadn't been going anyway. Now you know how I've lied to you and what I +am!" + +He waited, arms half raised, as one awaits an inevitable blow. For a +minute she continued to stare. Then she stepped nearer. Although he had +suffered to win an opposite response, she did what he had forced Lambert +Planter to do. + +"No wonder Lambert admires you," she said, warmly. "To do so much from +such a beginning! I knew at first you were different from--from us. +You're not now. It's----" + +She broke off, drawing away a little again. He struggled to keep his +hands from her white, slender figure, from her hair, yellow in the +moonlight. + +"You don't understand," he said, desperately. "This thing that you say +I've become is only veneer. It may have thickened, but it's still +veneer." + +It hurt to say that more than anything else, for all along he had been +afraid it was the truth. + +"Underneath the veneer," he went on, "I'm the mucker, the stable boy if +you like. If I were anything else I would have told you all this years +ago. Betty! Betty!" + +She drew farther away. He thought her voice was frightened, not quite +clear. + +"Please! Don't say anything more now. I'd rather not. I--I----Listen! +What difference does it make to me or anybody where you came from? +You're what you are, what you always have been since I've known you. It +was brave to tell me. I know that. I'm going now. Please----" + +She moved swiftly forward, stretching out her hand. He took it, felt its +uncertain movement in his, wondered why it was so cold, tightened his +grasp on its delightful and bewitching fragility. Her voice was +uncertain, too. It caressed him as he unconsciously caressed her hand. + +"Good-night, George." + +He couldn't help holding that slender hand tighter. She swayed away, +whispering breathlessly: + +"Let me go now!" + +He opened his fingers, and she ran lightly, with a broken laugh, across +the lawn away from him. + +The moonlight was like the half light of a breathless chapel, and the +scent of flowers suggested death; yet he had not killed what he had come +to kill. + +When he couldn't see her white figure any more George Morton, greatest +of football players, big man of his class, already with greedy fingers +in the fat purse of Wall Street, flung himself on the thick grass and +fought to keep his shoulders from jerking, his throat from choking, his +eyes from filling with tears. + + + + +PART III + +THE MARKET-PLACE + + +I + +George left Princeton with a sense of flight. The reception of a diploma +didn't interest him, nor did the cheers he received class day or on the +afternoon of the Yale baseball game when, beneath a Japanese parasol, he +led the seniors in front of admiring thousands who audibly identified +him for each other. + +The man that had done most for Princeton! He admitted he had done a good +deal for himself. Of course, Squibs was right and he was abnormally +selfish; only it was too bad Betty couldn't have thought so. He had +tried to make her and had failed, he told himself, because Betty +couldn't understand selfishness. + +He avoided during those last days every chance of seeing her alone; but +even in the presence of others he was aware of an alteration in her +manner, to be traced, doubtless, to the night of his difficult +confession. She was kinder, but her eyes were often puzzled, as if she +couldn't understand why he didn't want to see her alone. + +He counted the moments, anxious for Blodgett and the enveloping +atmosphere of his marble-and-mahogany office. That would break the last +permanent tie. He would return to Princeton, naturally, but for only a +day or two now and then, too short a time to permit its influences +appreciably to swerve him. + +Without meaning to, he let himself soften on the very edge of his +departure when the class sang on the steps of Nassau Hall for the last +time, then burned the benches about the cannon, and in lock step, hands +on shoulders, shuffled slowly away like men who have accomplished the +interment of their youth. + +A lot of these mourning fellows he would never meet again; but he would +see plenty of Goodhue and Wandel and other useful people. Why, then, did +he abruptly and sharply regret his separation from all the others, even +the submerged ones who had got from Princeton only an education taken +like medicine and of about as much value? In the sway of this mood, +induced by permanent farewells, he came upon Dalrymple. + +"There's no point saying good-bye to you," George offered, kindly. + +Of course not. They would meet each other in town too frequently, +secreting a private enmity behind publicly worn masks of friendship. +George was wandering on, but Dalrymple halted him. The man was a trifle +drunk, and the sentiment of the moment had penetrated his narrow mind. + +"Not been very good friends, George, you and I." + +Even then George shrank from his apologies, since he appreciated their +precise value. + +"Why don't you forget it?" he asked, gruffly. + +Dalrymple nodded, but George knew in the morning the other would regret +having said as much as he had. + +Immediately after that sombre dissolution of the class George said +good-bye to the Baillys. Although it was quite late they sat waiting for +him in the study, neat and serene as it had been on that first day a +hundred years ago. The room was quite the same except that Bill +Gregory's picture had lost prominence while George's stood in the place +of honour--an incentive for new men, although George was confident +Squibs didn't urge certain of his qualities on his youngsters. + +Squibs looked older to-night, nearly as old, George thought, as the +disgraceful tweeds which he still wore. Mrs. Bailly sat in the shadows. +George kissed her and sank on the sofa at her side. She put her hand out +and groped for his, clinging to his fingers with a sort of despair. For +a long time they sat without speaking. George put his arm around her and +waited for one or the other to break this silence which became +unbearable. He couldn't, because as he dreamed among the shadows there +slipped into his mind the appearance and the atmosphere of another room +where three had sat without words on the eve of a vital parting. Tawdry +details came back of stove and littered table and ungainly chairs, and +of swollen hands and swollen eyes. He had suffered an unbearable silence +then because he had found himself suddenly incapable of speaking his +companions' language. With these two the silence was more difficult, +because there was too much to say--more than ever could be said. + +He started. Suppose Squibs at the very last should use his father's +parting words: + +"It's a bad start, but maybe you'll turn out all right after all." + +His lips tightened. Would it be any truer now than it had been then? For +that matter, would Squibs have cared for him or done as much for him, if +he had been less ambitious, if he had compromised at all? + +One thing was definite: No matter what he did these two would never +demand his exile; and the old pain caught him, and he knew it was real, +and not a specious cover for his relief at not having to see his parents +again. It hurt--most of all his mother's acceptance of a judgment she +should have fought with all her soul. + +He stroked the soft hand that clung to his. From that parting he had +come to the tender and eager maternal affection of this childless woman, +and he knew she would always believe he was right. + +But she wanted him to have Betty---- + +He stood up. He was going away from home. She expressed that at the +door. + +"This is your home, George." + +Bailly nodded. + +"Never forget that. Don't let your ideas smoulder in your own brain. +Come home, and talk them over." + +George kissed Mrs. Bailly. He put his hands on Bailly's narrow +shoulders. He looked at the young eyes in a wrinkled face. + +"The thing that hurts me most," he muttered, "is that I haven't paid you +back." + +"Perhaps not altogether," Bailly answered, gravely, "but someday you +may." + + +II + +The last thing George did before leaving his dismantled room, which for +so long had sheltered Sylvia's riding crop and her photograph, was to +write this little note to Betty: + + DEAR BETTY: + + It's simpler to go without saying good-bye. + + G. M. + +Then he was hustled through the window of the railroad train, out of +Princeton, and definitely into the market-place. + +After the sentiment of the final days the crowding, unyielding +buildings, and the men that shared astonishingly their qualities, +offered him a useful restorative. He found he could approximate their +essential hardness again. + +The Street at times resembled the campus--it held so many of the men he +had learned to know at Princeton. Lambert was installed in his father's +marble temple. He caught George one day on the sidewalk and hustled him +to a luncheon club. + +"I suppose I really ought to put you up here." + +"Why?" George asked. + +"Because I'm always sure of a good scrap with you. I missed not playing +against you in the Princeton game last fall. Now there's no more +football for either of us. I like scraps." + +Blodgett, he chanced to mention later, had spent the previous week-end +at Oakmont. Blodgett had already bragged of that in George's presence. +He forgot the excellent dishes Lambert had had placed before him. + +"Have you put Blodgett up here, too?" he asked in his bluntest manner. + +Lambert shook his head. + +"That's different." + +"Not very honestly different," George said, attempting a smile. + +"You mean," Lambert laughed, "because I've never asked you to Oakmont? +Under the circumstances----" + +"I don't mean that," George said. "I mean Blodgett." + +"I can only arrange my own likes and dislikes," Lambert answered, still +amused. + +Then who at Oakmont liked the fat financier? + +Rogers was in the street, too, selling bonds with his old attitude +toward the serious side of life, striving earnestly only to spy out the +right crowd and to run with it. + +"Buy my bonds! Buy my bonds!" he would cry, coming into George's office. +"They're each and every one a bargain. Remember, what's a bargain to-day +may be a dead loss to-morrow, so buy before it's too late." + +Goodhue planned to enter a stock exchange firm in the fall, and a lot of +other men from the class would come down then after a long rest between +college and tackling the world on twenty dollars a month. Wandel alone +of George's intimates rested irresolute. George, since he had taken two +rooms and a bath in the apartment house in which Wandel lived, saw him +frequently. He could easily afford that luxury, for each summer his +balance had grown, and Blodgett, now that he had George for as long as +he could keep him, was paying him handsomely, and flattering him by +drawing on the store of special knowledge his extended and difficult +application had hoarded. + +To live in such a house, moreover, was necessary to his campaign, which, +he admitted, had lagged alarmingly. Sylvia had continued to avoid him. +She seemed to possess a special sense for the houses and the parties +where he would be, and when, in spite of this, they did meet, she tried +to impress him with a thorough indifference; or, if she couldn't avoid a +dance, with a rigid repulsion that failed to harmonize with her warm +colouring and her exquisite femininity. + +Through some means he had to get on. His restless apprehension had +grown. Her departure for Europe with her mother fed the rumours that +from time to time had connected her name with eligible men. It was even +hinted now that her mother's eyesight, which reached to social greatness +across the Atlantic, was responsible for her celibacy. + +"There'll be an announcement before she comes back," the gossip ran. +"They'll land a museum piece of a title." + +George didn't know about that, but he did realize that unless he could +progress, one day a rumour would take body. He resented bitterly her +absence this summer, but if things would carry on until the fall he +would manage, he promised himself, to get ahead with Sylvia. + +Wandel seemed to enjoy having George near, for, irresolute as he was, he +spent practically the entire summer in town. George, one night when they +had returned from two hours' suffering of a summer show, asked him the +reason. They smoked in Wandel's library. + +"I can look around better here," was all Wandel would say. + +"But Driggs! Those precious talents!" + +Wandel stretched himself in an easy chair. + +"What would you suggest, great man?" + +George laughed. + +"Do you write poetry in secret--the big, wicked, and suffering city, +seen from a tenth-story window overlooking a pretty park?" + +Vehemently Wandel shook his head. + +"You know what most of our modern American jinglers are up to--talking +socialism or anarchy to get themselves talked about. If only they +wouldn't apply such insincere and half-digested theories to their art! +It's a little like modern popular music--criminal intervals and measures +against all the rules. But crime, you see, is invariably arresting. My +apologies to the fox-trot geniuses. They pretend to be nothing more than +clever mutilators; but the jinglers! They are great reformers. Bah! They +remind me of a naughty child who proudly displays the picture he has +torn into grotesque pieces, saying: 'Come quick, mother, and see what +smart little Aleck has done.' You'll have to try again, George." + +George glanced up. His face was serious. + +"Don't laugh at me. I mean it. Politics." + +"At Princeton I wasn't bad at that," Wandel admitted, smiling +reminiscently. "But politics mixes a man with an unlovely crowd--uncouth +provincials, a lot of them, and some who are to all purposes foreigners. +Do you know, my dear George, that ability to read and write is essential +to occupying a seat in the United States Senate? I was amazed the other +day to hear it was so. You see how simple it is to misjudge." + +"Then there's room," George laughed, "for more honest, well-educated, +well-bred Americans." + +"Seems to me," Wandel drawled, "that a little broad-minded practicality +in our politics would be more useful than bovine honesty. I could +furnish that. How should I begin?" + +"You might get a start in the State Department," George suggested, +"diplomacy, a secretaryship----" + +"For once you're wrong," Wandel objected. "In this country diplomacy is +a destination rather than a route. The good jobs are frequently given +for services rendered, or men pay enormous sums for the privilege of +being taken for waiters at their own functions. To start at the +bottom----Oh, no. I don't possess the cerebral vacuity, and you can only +climb out of the service." + +"Just the same," George laughed, "you'd make a tricky politician." + +Wandel puffed thoughtfully. + +"You're a far-seeing, a far-going person," he said. "You are bound to be +a very rich man. You'll want a few practical politicians. Isn't it so? +Never mind, but it's understood if I ever run for President or coroner +you'll back me with your money bags." + +George glanced about the room, as striking and costly in its French +fashion as the green study had been. + +"You have all the money you need," he said. + +"But I'd be a rotten politician," Wandel answered, "if I spent any of my +own money on my own campaigns. So we have an understanding if the +occasion should arise----" + +With a movement exceptionally quick for him, suggesting, indeed, an +uncontrollable nervous reaction, Wandel sprang to his feet and went to +the window where he leant out. George followed him, staring over the +park's far-spread velvet, studded with the small but abundant yellow +jewels of the lamps. + +"What is it, little man? It's insufferable in town. Why don't you go +play by the sea or in the hills?" + +"Because," Wandel answered, softly, "I can't help the feeling that any +occasion may arise. I don't mean our little politics, George. Time +enough for them. I don't want to go. I am waiting." + +George understood. + +"You mean the murders at Sarajevo," he said. "You're over-sensitive. Run +along and play. Nothing will come of that." + +"Tell me," Wandel said, turning slowly, "that you mean what you say. +Tell me you haven't figured on it already." + +George shrugged his shoulders. + +"You're discreet. All right. I have figured, because, if anything should +come of it, it offers the chance of a lifetime for making money. Mundy's +put me in touch with some useful people in London and Paris. I want to +be ready if things should break. I hope they won't. Honestly, I very +much doubt if they will. Even Germany will think twice before forcing a +general war." + +"But you're making ready," Wandel whispered, "on the off-chance." + +George pressed a switch and got more light. It was as if a heavy shadow +had filled the delightful room. + +"We're growing fanciful," he said, "seeing things in the dark. By the +way, you run into Dalrymple occasionally? I'm told he comes often to +town." + +Wandel left the window, nodding. + +"How long can he keep it up?" George asked. + +"I'm not a physician." + +"No, no. I mean financially. I gather his family live up to what they +have." + +"I daresay it would pain them to settle Dolly's debts frequently," +Wandel smiled. + +"Then," George said, slowly, "he is fairly sure to come to you--that is, +if this keeps up." + +"Why," Wandel asked, "should I encourage Dolly to be charitable to rich +wine agents and under-dressed females?" + +George shook his head. + +"If he asks you for help don't send him to the money lenders. Send him +discreetly to me. If I didn't have what he'd want, I daresay I could get +it." + +Wandel stared, lighting another cigarette. + +"I'd like to keep him from the money lenders," George said, easily. + +He didn't care whether Wandel thought him a forgiving fool or a +calculating scoundrel. Goodhue and Wandel had long since seen that he +had been put up at a number of clubs. The two had fancied they could +control Dalrymple's resentments. George, following his system, preferred +a whip in his own hand. He harboured no thought of revenge, but he did +want to be able to protect himself. He would use every possible means. +This was one. + +"We'll see," Wandel said. "It's too bad great men don't get along with +little wasters." + + +III + +More than once George was tempted to follow Sylvia, trusting to luck to +find means of being near her. Such a trip might, indeed, lead to profit +if the off chance should develop. Still that could be handled better +from this side, and it was, after all, a chance. He must trust to her +coming back as she had gone. His place for the present was with Blodgett +and Mundy. + +The chance, however, was at the back of his head when he encountered +Allen late one hot night in a characteristic pose in Times Square. Allen +still talked, but his audience of interested or tolerant college men had +been replaced by hungry, ragged loafers and a few flushed, well-dressed +males of the type that prefers any diversion to a sane return home. +Allen stood in the centre of this group. His arms gestured broadly. His +angular face was passionate. From the few words George caught his +sympathy for these failures was beyond measure. He suggested to them the +beauties of violence, the brilliancies of the social revolution. The +loafers commented. The triflers laughed. Policemen edged near. + +"Free liquor!" a voice shrilled. + +Allen shook his fist, and continued. The proletariat would have to take +matters into its own hands. + +"Fine!" a hoarse and beery listener shouted, "but what'll the cops say +about it?" + +The edging policemen didn't bother to say anything at first. They +quietly scattered the scarecrows and the laggards. They indicated the +advisability of retreat for the orator. Then one burst out at Allen. + +"God help the proletariat if I have to take it before McGloyne at the +station house." + +And George heard another sneer: + +"Social revolution! They've been trying to throw Tammany out ever since +I can remember." + +George got Allen away. The angular man was glad to see him. + +"You look overworked," George said. "Come have a modest supper with me." + +Allen was hungry, but he managed to grumble discouragement over his +food. + +"They laugh. They'll stop listening for the price of a glass of beer." + +"Maybe," George said, kindly, "they realize it's no good trying to help +them." + +"They've got to be helped," Allen muttered. + +"Then," George suggested, "put them in institutions, but don't expect me +nor any one else to approve when you urge them to grab the leadership of +the world. You must have enough sense to see it would mean ruin. I know +they're not all like this lot, but they're all a little wrong or they +wouldn't need help." + +"It's because they've never had a chance," Allen protested. + +It came to George that Allen had never had a chance either, and he +wondered if he, too, could be led aside by the price of a glass of beer. + +"You all want what the other fellow's got," he said. "From that one +motive these social movements draw the bulk of their force. A lot for +nothing is a perfect poor man's creed." + +"You're a heathen, Morton." + +"That is, a human being," George said, good naturedly. "You're another, +Allen, but you won't acknowledge it." + +Because he believed that, George took the other's address. Allen was +loyal, aggressive, and extraordinarily bright, as he had proved at +Princeton. It might be convenient to help him. Besides, he hated to see +a man he knew so well waste his time and look like a fool. + + +IV + +By late July the off chance had pretty thoroughly defined itself except +to the blind. Blodgett, however, was still skeptical. He thought +George's plans were sound, provided a war should come. But there +wouldn't be any war. His correspondents were optimistic. + +"Have I your permission to use Mundy in his off time?" George asked. + +"As far as I'm concerned," Blodgett said, "Mundy can play parchesi in +his off time." + +George telephoned Lambert Planter and sent a telegram to Goodhue. He +took them to luncheon and had Mundy there, too. He outlined his plans +for the formation of the firm of Morton, Planter, and Goodhue. + +"He's called the turn of the cards," Mundy offered. + +Such cards as he possessed George placed on the table. He furnished the +idea, and the preliminary organization, and what money he had. He took, +therefore, the major share of the profits. The others would give what +time to the business they could, but it was their money he wanted, and +the credit their names would give the firm. Mundy and he had made lists +of buyers and sellers. No man in the Street was better equipped than +Mundy to pick such a force. If Lambert and Goodhue agreed, these men +could be collected within a week. Some would go to Europe. Others would +scatter over the United States. It would cost a lot, but it meant an +immeasurable amount in return, for the war was inevitable. + +Goodhue and Lambert were as skeptical as Blodgett, but they agreed to +give him what he needed to get his organization started. By that time, +he promised them, they would see how right he was, and then he could use +more of their money. + +"It's the nearest I've ever come to gambling," he thought as he left +them. "Gambling on a war!" + +Because of his confidence, before a frontier had been crossed he had +bought or contracted for large quantities of shoes and cloths and +waterproofing. He had taken options on stock in small and wavering +automobile concerns, and outlying machine shops and foundries, some of +them already closed down, some struggling along without hope. + +"If the war lasts a month," he told his partners, "those stocks will +come from the bottom of nothing to the sky." + +Goodhue became thoroughly interested at last. He cancelled his vacation +and installed himself in the offices George had rented in Blodgett's +building. With the men Mundy had picked, and under Mundy's tutelage, he +took charge of the routine. George went to Blodgett the first of August. + +"I want to quit," he said. "I've got a big thing. I want to give it all +my time." + +Blodgett mopped his face. His grin was a little sheepish. + +"I want to invest some money in your firm," he jerked out. + +"I can use it," George said. + +"You've got Goodhue there," Blodgett went on in a complaining way, "and +Mundy's working nights for you. Don't desert an old man without notice. +I'll give you plenty of time upstairs. Other things may come off here. I +can use you." + +"If you want to pay me when you know my chief interest is somewhere +else," George said, "it's up to you." + +"When I think I'm getting stung I'll let you know," Blodgett roared. + +George sent for Allen, and urged him to go to London to open an office +with an expert Lambert had got from his father's marble temple. Allen +would be a check on the more experienced men whose scruples might not +stand the temptations of this vast opportunity. Allen said he couldn't +do it; couldn't abandon the work he had already commenced. + +"There'll be precious little talk of socialism," George said, "until +this thing is over. It's a great chance for a man to study close up the +biggest change the world has ever undergone. Those fellows will want +everything, and I'll give them everything I can lay my hands on. I'm +ahead of a lot of jobbers here. I'll pay you well to see I don't get +robbed on that side. Come on. Take a shot at hard facts for a change." + +Allen gasped at the salary George mentioned. He hesitated. He went. +George was glad to have helped him. He experienced also an ugly sense of +triumph. He felt that he wanted to tell Squibs Bailly right away. + +Sylvia and her mother, he heard later, had come home out of the turmoil, +unacquainted with the discomforts of people who had travelled without +the Planter prestige. Whether the war was to blame or not, she had +returned without a single rumour touching fact. He didn't see her right +away, because she clung to Oakmont. More and more, as his success +multiplied, keeping pace with the agony in Europe, he longed to see her. +All at once a return to Oakmont was, in a sense, forced upon him, but he +went without any thought of encountering Sylvia, hoping, indeed, to +avoid her. + +It was like his mother to express her letter with telegraphic bluntness +without, however, going to the expense of actually wiring. Where he had +expected her customary stiff gratitude for money sent he found a +scrawled announcement of his father's death, and her plans for the +funeral the following afternoon. + +"Of course you won't come," she ended. + +Yet it seemed to him that he should go, to arrange her future. This was +the moment to snap the last enslaving tie between the Mortons and +Oakmont. There was, of course, the chance of running into Sylvia, or +some visitor who might connect him with the little house. Suppose +Dalrymple, for example, should be staying with the Planters as he often +did? George shrugged his shoulders. Things were coming rather rapidly to +him. Besides, it was extremely unlikely that any one from the great +house would see the Morton ceremony. The instincts of those people +would be to avoid such sights. + + +V + +About his return there was a compelling thrill. He drove from the +station in one of the cheap automobiles that had made his father +practically a pensioner of the Planters. With an incredulous +appreciation that he had once accepted its horizon as the boundary of +his life, he examined the familiar landscape and the scar made upon it +by the village. Curtly he refused to satisfy the driver's curiosity. He +had some business at the little house on the Planter estate. + +There, through the nearly stripped trees, it showed, almost audibly +confessing its debt to the Planter carpenters, painters, and gardeners. +In a clouded light late fall flowers waved from masses of dead leaves. +Their gay colours gave them an appearance melancholy and apprehensive. + +Here he was back at last, and he wasn't going in at the great gate. + +He walked around the shuttered house and crossed the porch where his +father had liked to sit on warm evenings. He rapped at the door. Feet +shuffled inside. The door swayed open, and his mother stood on the +threshold. Most of the changes had come to him, but in her red eyes +sparkled a momentary and mournful importance. At first she didn't +recognize her son. + +"What is it?" + +George stooped and kissed her cheek. + +"I'm sorry, Mother." + +Instead of holding out her arms she drew away, staring with fascination, +a species of terror, at his straight figure, at his clothing, at his +face that wouldn't coarsen now. When she spoke her voice suggested a +placating of this stranger who was her son. + +"I didn't think you'd come. I can't believe you're George--my Georgie." + +Over her shoulders in the shadowed house he saw the inquisitive faces of +women. It was clear that for them such an arrival was more divertive +than the sharing of a sorrow that scarcely touched their hearts. + +George went in. He remembered most of the faces that disclosed +excitement while fawning upon his prosperity. He received an unpleasant +impression that these poor and ignorant people concealed a dangerous +envy, that they would be glad to grasp in one moment, even of violence, +all that it had taken him years of difficult struggle to acquire. +Whether that was so or not they ought not to stand before him as if his +success were a crown. He tried to keep contempt from his voice. + +"Please sit down. I want to talk to my mother. Where----" + +With slow steps she crossed the kitchen and opened the door of the +parlour, beckoning. He followed, knowing what he would find in that +uncomfortable, gala room of the poor. + +He closed the door. In the half light he saw standing on trestles an +oblong box altogether too large for the walls that seemed to crowd it. +He had no feeling that anything of his father was there. He realized +with a sense of helpless regret that all that remained to him of that +unhappy man were the ghosts of such emotions as avarice, fear, and the +instinct to sacrifice one's own flesh and blood for a competence. + +"Why don't you look at him, George?" + +"I don't think he'd care to have me looking at him now." + +She wiped her eyes. + +"You are too bitter against your father. After all, he was a good man." + +"Why should death," he asked her, musingly, "make people seem better +than they were in life? It isn't so." + +"That's wicked. If your father could rise----" + +His attention was caught by an air of pointing the oblong box had, as if +to something infinitely farther than ambition and success, yet so close +it angered him he couldn't see or touch it. His father had gone there, +beyond the farthest horizon of all. Old Planter couldn't make trouble +for him now. He was quite safe. + +Over in Europe, he reflected, they didn't have enough coffins. + +The oblong box for the first time made him think of that war, that was +making him rich, in terms of life instead of dollars and cents. He felt +dissatisfied. + +"There should be more light here," he said, defensively. + +But his mother shook her head. + +He arranged a chair for her and sat near by while they discussed the +details of her departure. She let him see that she shrank from leaving +the house, against which, nevertheless, she had bitterly complained ever +since Old Planter had got it. Evidently she wanted to linger in her +familiar rut, awaiting with the attitude of a martyr whatever fate might +offer. That was the reason people had to be helped, because they +preferred vicious inertia to the efforts and risks of change. Then why +did they want the prizes of those who had had the courage to go forth +and fight? Why couldn't Squibs see that? + +Patiently George told her she needn't worry about money again. She had a +sister who years ago had married and moved West to a farm that was not +particularly flourishing. Undoubtedly her sister would be glad to have +her and her generous allowance. So his will overcame his mother's +reluctance to help herself. She glanced up. + +"Who is that?" + +He listened. The women in the kitchen were standing again. Light feet +crossed the floor. + +"Maybe somebody from the big house," his mother whispered. "They sent +Simpson last night." + +For a moment the entire building was as silent as the oblong box. Then +the door opened. + +Sylvia Planter slipped in and closed the door. + +George caught his breath, studying her as she hesitated, accustoming +herself to the insufficient light. She wore a broad-brimmed hat that +gave her the charm and the grace of a portrait by Gainsborough. When she +recognized him, indeed, she seemed as permanently caught as a portrait. + +"Miss Sylvia!" his mother worshipped. + +"They told me I would find you here," Sylvia said, uncertainly. "I +didn't know----" + +She broke off, biting her lip. George strolled around the oblong box to +the window, turning there with a slow bow. Even across that desolate, +dead shell, the obstinate distaste and the challenge were lively in her +glance. + +"It was very kind of you to come," he said. + +But he was sorry she had come. To see him in such surroundings was a +stimulation of the ugly memories he had struggled to destroy. He read +her instinct to hurt him now as she had hurt the impertinent man, +Morton, who had lived in this house. + +"When one of our people is in trouble----" she began, deliberately. "I +thought I might be of some help to your mother." + +Even over the feeling of security George had just tried to give her the +old menace reached the uneasy woman. + +"You--you remember him, Miss Sylvia?" + +"Very well," Sylvia answered. "He used to be my groom." + +"The title comes from you," George said, dryly. + +His mother's glance fluttered from one to the other. What did she +expect--Old Planter stalking in to carry out his threats? + +"After all these years I scarcely knew him myself." + +Sylvia's colour heightened. He appraised her rising temper. + +"Bad servants," he said, "linger in good employers' memories." + +"I know, Miss Sylvia," his mother burst out, "that he wasn't to come +back here, but----" + +She unclasped her nervous hands. One indicated the silent cause of his +disobedience. George moved toward the door. Sylvia stepped quickly +aside. He felt, like a physical wave, her desire to hurt. + +"At such a time," she said, "it's natural he should come back to his +home. I think my father would be glad to have him with his mother." + +George shrugged his shoulders, slipped out, navigated the shoals of +whispering women, and reached the clean air. He buttoned his overcoat +and shuffled through the dead leaves beneath the trees until he found +himself at the spot where Lambert and he had fought. He recalled his +hot boasts of that day. Fulfilment had seemed simple enough then. The +scene just submitted reminded him how short a distance he had actually +travelled. + +He knew she would pass that way on her return to the big house, so he +waited, and when he heard her feet disturbing the dead leaves he didn't +turn. She came closer than he had expected, and he heard her contralto +voice, quick and defiant: + +"I hadn't expected to see you. I didn't quite realize what I was saying. +I should have had more respect for any one's grief." + +Having said that, she was going on, but he turned and stopped her. As he +looked at her he reflected that everything had altered since that +day--she most of all. Then the woman had been a little visible in the +child. Now, he fancied, the child survived in the woman only through the +persistence of this old quarrel. He stared at her lips, recalling his +boast that no man should touch them unless it were George Morton. He was +no nearer them than he had been that day. Unless he got nearer some man +would. It was incredible that she hadn't married. She would marry. + +"In the sense you mean, I have no grief," he said. + +"Then I needn't have bothered. I once said you were a--a----" + +"Something melodramatic. A beast, I think it was," he answered. "If you +don't mind I'll walk on with you for a little way." + +"No," she said. + +"If you please." + +"You've no perception," she cried, angrily. + +"Don't you think it time," he suggested, "that you ceased treating me +like a groom? It isn't very convincing to me. I doubt if it is to you. I +fancy it's really only your pride. I don't see why you should have so +much where I am concerned." + +Her hand made a quick gesture of repulsion. + +"You've not changed. You may walk on with me while I tell you this: If +you were like the men I know and can be friends with you'd leave me +alone. Will you stop this persecution? It comes down to that. Will you +stop forcing me to dance with you, to listen to you?" + +He smiled, shaking his head. + +"I'll make you dance with me more than ever. I've seen very little of +you lately. I hope this winter----" + +She stopped, facing him, her cheeks flaming. + +"You see! You remind me every time I meet you of just what you are, just +what you came from, just what you said and did that day." + +"That is my aim," he smiled. + +He moved his hand in the direction of the little house. + +"When we're all like that will it make much difference who our fathers +and mothers were?" + +She shivered. She started swiftly away. + +"Miss Planter!" + +The unexpectedness of the naked command may have brought her around. He +walked to her. + +"When will you realize," he asked, "that it is unforgivable to turn your +back on life?" + +Had he really meant to suggest that she could possess life only through +him? Doubtless the sublime effrontery of that interpretation reached +her. She commenced to laugh, her colour rising. She glanced away, and +her laughter died. + +"You may as well understand," he said, "that I am never going to leave +you alone." + +She started across the leaf-strewn grass. He kept pace with her. + +"Are you going to force me to make a scene?" she asked. + +"Except with your father," he said, "I don't think it would make much +difference." + +He felt that if she had had anything in her hands then she would have +struck at him. + +"It's not because I'm a beast," he said, quietly, "that I have no grief +for my father. He was through. Life had nothing to offer him. He had +nothing to offer life. Don't think I'm incapable of grief. I experienced +it the day I thought you might be dead. That was because you had so +much to offer life--rather more than life had to offer you." + +He saw her shrink from him but she walked on, repressing her pain and +her anger. + +"Since I've known intimately girls of your class," he said, "I've +realized that not all of them would have turned and tried to wound as +you did that day. Some would have laughed. Some would have been sorry +and sympathetic. I don't think many would have made such a scene." + +He smiled down at her. + +"I want you to realize it is your own fault. You started this. I'm not +scolding. I'm glad you were such a little fury. Otherwise, I might have +gone on working for your father or for somebody else's father. But +you're to blame for my persistence, so learn to put up with it. As long +as I keep the riding crop with which you tried to cut my face I'll +remember what I said I'd do, and I'll do it." + +She didn't answer, but if she tried to give him the impression she +wasn't listening she failed utterly. + +Around a curve in the path came a bent, white old man, bundled in a +heavy muffler and coat. In one hand he carried a thick cane. The other +rested on the arm of a young fellow of the private secretary stamp. +There, George acknowledged, advanced the single person with whom a scene +might make a serious difference, yet a more compelling thought crept in +and overcame his sense of danger. That was the type of man who made +wars. That man, indeed, was helping to finance this war. George was +obsessed by the dun day: by the leaves, fallen and rotten; by the memory +of the oblong box. Everything reminded him that not far away Death +marched with a bland, black triumph, greeting science as an ally instead +of an enemy. + +"Suppose," he mused, "America should get in this thing." + +At last she spoke. + +"What did you say? Do you see my father?" + +He nodded. + +"Wouldn't it be wiser," she asked, "to leave me alone?" + +"Your father," he said, "looks a good deal older." + +Old Planter had, in fact, gone down hill since George's last glimpse of +him in New York, or else he didn't attempt here to assume a strength he +no longer possessed. He was quite close before he gave any sign of +seeing the pair, and then he muttered to his secretary who answered with +a whisper. He limped up and took Sylvia's hand. + +"Where has my little girl been?" + +She laughed harshly. + +"To a rendezvous in the forest. You shouldn't let me go out alone." + +Planter glanced from clouded eyes at George. His lips between the white +hair smiled amiably. + +"I don't believe I remember----" + +"It's one of Lambert's business friends," Sylvia said, hastily. "Mr. +Morton." + +The old man shifted his cane and held out his hand. + +"Lambert," he joked, "says he's going to make more money through you +than I can hope to leave him. You seem to have got the jump on a lot of +shrewd men. I'll see you at dinner? Lambert isn't coming to-night?" + +George briefly clasped the hand of the big man. + +"I must go back to town this afternoon." + +"Then another time." + +Planter shifted his cane and leant again on his secretary. + +"Let's get on, Straker. Doctor's orders." + +"Why," George asked when Sylvia and he were alone, "didn't you spring at +the chance?" + +"I prefer to fight my own battles," she said, shortly. + +"Don't you mean," he asked, quizzically, "that you're a little ashamed +of what you did that day?" + +She shook her head. + +"I was a frightened child. I have changed." + +"Isn't it," he laughed, "a little because I, too, have changed? It never +occurred to your father to connect me with the Mortons living on his +place." + +Again she shook her head, turning away. He held out his hand. + +"I must go back. Let's admit we've both changed. Let us be friends." + +She didn't answer. She made no motion to take his hand. + +"One of the promises I made that day," he reminded her, "was to teach +you not to be afraid of my touch." + +"Does it amuse you to threaten me?" she asked. + +Suddenly he reached out, caught her right hand before she could avoid +him, and gave it a quick pressure. + +"Of course you're right," he laughed. "Actions are more useful than +threats." + +While she stared, flushed and incredulous, at the hand he had pressed, +George walked swiftly away, tingling with life, back to the house of +death. + + +VI + +At the funeral he submitted to the amazed scrutiny of the country +people. They couldn't hurt him, because they impinged not at all on his +world; but he was relieved when the oblong box had been consigned to the +place reserved for it, and he could, after arranging the last details of +his mother's departure, take the train back to New York. + +Blodgett didn't even bother to ask where he had been. He was content +these days to let George go his own way. He hadn't forgotten that the +younger man had seen farther off than he the greatest opportunity for +money making the world had ever offered the greedy. He personally was +more interested in the syndicating of foreign external loans. The +Planters weren't far from the head of that movement, and George rather +resented his stout employer's working hand in hand with the Planters. +George longed to ask him how often he was trying to appear graceful at +Oakmont these days. + +The firm of Morton, Planter, and Goodhue had grown so rapidly that it +took practically all of George's and Lambert's time. Mundy, to whom +George had given a small interest, asked Blodgett if he couldn't leave +to devote himself entirely to the offices upstairs. + +"Go to it," Blodgett agreed, good naturedly. "Draw your profits and your +salary from Morton after this." + +George mulled over the sacrifice. Did it mean that Blodgett was so close +to the Planters that a merger was possible? + +"There's no use," he told Blodgett. "I'm earning practically nothing in +your office, because I'm never here. I want to resign." + +"Run along, sonny," Blodgett said. "Your salary is a small portion of +the profits your infant firm is bringing me. I like you around the +office once a day. Old Planter hasn't fired his boy, has he, and he's +upstairs all the time, and he's taken over some of the old man's best +clerks." + +"He's Mr. Planter's son," George reminded him. + +"And ain't you like a good son to me," the other leered, "making money +for papa Blodgett?" + +"Why did you let Mundy go so peacefully?" George asked, suspiciously. + +"Because," Blodgett said, "he's been here a good many years, and he can +make more money this way. Didn't want to stand in his light, and I had +somebody in view." + +But George wouldn't credit Blodgett with such altruism. Why was the man +so infernally good natured, exuding an oily content? Goodhue hinted at a +reason one day when they were talking of Sinclair and his lack of +interest in the office. + +"I've heard rather privately," Goodhue said, "that Sinclair got pretty +badly involved a few months ago. If it hadn't been for Blodgett he'd +have gone on the rocks a total wreck. Josiah puffed up and towed him +away whole. Naturally Sinclair and his lady are grateful. I daresay this +winter Blodgett's receiving invitations he's coveted, and if he gives +any parties himself he'll have some of the people he's always wanted." + +George hid his disapproval. Blodgett didn't even have a veneer. Money +was all he could offer. And was Sinclair a great fool, or Blodgett the +cleverest man in Wall Street, that Sinclair didn't know who had involved +him and why? + +As a matter of fact, Blodgett did appear at several dances, wobbling +about the room to the discomfort of slender young things, getting +generally in everyone's way. George hated to see him attempting to dance +with Sylvia Planter. Sylvia seemed rather less successful in avoiding +him than she did in keeping out of George's way. Until Blodgett's +extraordinary week-end in February, indeed, George didn't have another +chance to speak to her alone. + +"Of course you'll come, George," Blodgett said. "If this weather holds +there'll be skating and sleighing--horses always, if you want 'em; and a +lot of first-class people." + +"Who?" George asked. + +"How about another financial chick--one of your partners?" + +"Lambert Planter?" + +The puffy face expanded. + +"And the Sinclairs, because I'm a bachelor, and----" + +But, since he could guess Sylvia would be there, George didn't care for +any more names. He wondered why Lambert or his sister should go. Had her +attitude toward the fat, coarse man conceivably altered because of his +gambolling at Oakmont? While he talked business with Mundy, Lambert, and +Goodhue, George's mind was distracted by a sense of imponderable loss. +Was it the shadow of what Sylvia had lost by accepting such an +invitation? + +He didn't go until Saturday afternoon--there was too much to occupy him +at the office. This making money out of Europe's need had a good deal +constricted his social wanderings. It was why he hadn't frequently seen +Dalrymple close enough for annoyance; why he had met Betty only briefly +a very few times. He hadn't expected to run into either of them at +Blodgett's, but both were there. Betty was probably Lambert's excuse for +rushing out the night before. + +George felt sorry for Mrs. Sinclair. Still against the corpulent +crudities of her host she could weigh the graces of his guests. It +pleased George that her greeting for him should be so warm. + +The weather, too, had been considerate of Blodgett, refraining from +injuring his snow or ice. A musical and brassy sleigh met George at the +station. Patches of frosty white softened the lines of the house and +draped the self-conscious nudity of the sculpture in the sunken garden. + +"And it'll snow again to-night, sir," the driver promised, as if even +the stables pulled for the master's success. + +Everyone was out, but it was still early, so George asked for a horse +and hurried into his riding clothes. He had been working rather too hard +recently. The horse a groom brought around was a good one, and by no +means overworked. George was as eager as the animal to limber up and go. +Off they dashed at last along a winding bridle-path, broken just enough +to give good footing. The war, and his share of helping the allies--at a +price; his uncomfortable fear that the Baillys didn't like him to draw +success from such a disaster; his disapproval of Sylvia's coming +here--all cleared from his head as he galloped or trotted through the +sharp air. + +One thing: Blodgett hadn't spoiled these woodland bridle-paths; yet +George had a sensation of always looking ahead for a nude marble figure +at a corner, or an urn elaborately designed for simple flowers, or some +iron animals to remind a hunter that Blodgett knew what a well-bred +forest was for. Instead he saw through the trees ice swept clear of snow +across which figures glided with joyful sounds. + +"Some of his flashy guests," George thought. + +He rode slowly to the margin of the pond, which shared the colour of the +sky. Several of the skaters cried greetings. He recognized Dalrymple +then, skating with a girl. Dalrymple veered away, waving a careless +hand, Lambert came on, fingers locked with Betty's, and scraped to a +halt at the pond's edge. + +"So the war's stopped for the week-end at last?" Lambert called. + +"I wondered if you'd come at all," Betty cried. + +George dismounted, smothering his surprise. + +"A men and youths' general furnisher," he said, "has to stick pretty +much to the store. I never dreamed of seeing you here, Betty." + +Perhaps Lambert caught George's real meaning. + +"She's staying with Sylvia," he explained, "so, of course, she came." + +George mounted and rode on, his mood suddenly as sunless as the +declining afternoon. Those two still got along well enough. Certainly it +was time for a rumour to take shape there. He had a sharp appreciation +of having once been younger. Suppose, because of his ambition, he should +see all his friends mate, leaving him as rich as Blodgett, and, like +him, unpaired? He quickened the pace of his horse. It was inconceivable. +No matter what Sylvia did he would never slacken his pursuit. In every +other direction he had forged ahead. Eventually he would in that one. +Then why did it hurt him to picture Betty gone beyond his reach? + +He crossed the Blodgett boundaries, and entered a country road as +undisturbed and enticing as the private bridle-paths had been. He took +crossroads at random, keeping only a sense of direction, trying to +understand why he was sorry he had to be with Betty when he had come +only to be near Sylvia. + +The thickening dusk warned him, and he chose a road leading toward +Blodgett's. First he received the horseman's sense of something ahead of +him. Then he heard the muffled tread of horses in the snow, and +occasionally a laugh. + +"More of Josiah's notables," he hazarded. + +He put spurs to his horse, and in a few minutes saw against the snow +three dark figures ambling along at an easy trot. When he had come +closer he knew that two of the riders were men, the other a woman. It +was easy enough to identify Blodgett. A barrel might have ridden so if +it had had legs with which to balance itself; and that slender figure +was probably the trapped Sinclair. George hurried on, his premonition +assuming ugly lines of reality. Even at that distance and from the rear +he guessed that the graceful woman riding between the two men was +Sylvia. Why had she chosen an outing with the ridiculous Blodgett? +Sinclair, no man possessed sufficient charm to offset the disadvantages +of such a companionship. + +George, when he was sure, reined in, surprised at his reflections. +Blodgett, heaven knew, had been good to him, and he had once liked the +man. Why, then, had he turned so viciously against him? Adjectives his +mind had recently applied to Blodgett flashed back: "Coarse," "fat," +"ridiculous." Was it just? Why did he do it in spite of himself? + +Sinclair turned and saw him. The party reined in, Sylvia, as one would +have expected, impatiently in advance of the others. Her nod and +something she said were lost in the men's cheery greetings. Since she +was in advance, and edging on, as if to get farther away from him, +George's opportunity was plain. The road wasn't wide enough for four +abreast. If he could move forward with her Blodgett and Sinclair would +have to ride together. + +"Since I'm the last," he interrupted them, "mayn't I have first place?" + +Quite as a matter of course he put his horse through and reined in at +her side. They started forward. + +"You ride as well as ever," he commented. + +She shot a glance at him. Calmly he studied the striking details of her +face. Each time he saw her she seemed more desirable. How was he to +touch those lips that had filled his boy's heart with bursting thoughts? +For the first time since that day they rode together, only now he was at +her side, instead of heeling like a trained dog. In his man's fashion he +was as well clothed as she. When they got back he would enter the great +house with her instead of going to the stables. Whether she cared to +acknowledge it or not he was of her kind--more so than the millionaire +Blodgett ever could be. So he absorbed her beauty which fired his +imagination. Such a repetition seemed ominous of a second climax in +their relations. + +Her quick glance, however, disclosed only resentment for his intrusion. +He excused it. + +"You see, I couldn't very well ride behind you." + +She turned away. + +"Hurry a little," Blodgett called. + +It was what George wished, as she wished to crawl, never far in advance +of the others. + +"Come," he said, and flecked her horse with his crop. + +"Don't do that again!" + +He had gathered his own horse, and was galloping. Hers insisted on +following. When George pulled in to keep at her side they were well in +advance of the others. Now that he was alone with her he found it +difficult to speak, and evidently she would limit his opportunity, for +as he drew in she spurred her horse. He caught her, laughing. + +"You may as well understand that I'll never ride behind you again." + +She pressed her provocative lips together. So in silence, except for the +crunching and scattering of the snow, they tore on through the dusk, +rounding curves between hedges, rising to heights above bare, white +stretches of landscape, dipping into hollows already won by the night. +And each moment they came nearer the house. + +In the night of the hollows he battled his desire to reach over and +touch her, and cry out: + +"Sylvia! You've got to understand!" + +And in one such place her horse stumbled, and she pulled in and bent low +over her saddle, and said, as if he had really spoken: + +"I can't understand----" + +Her outline was blurred, but her face was like a light in that shadowed +valley. He didn't speak until they were up the hill and the wind had +caught them. + +"What?" he asked then. + +Was it the glow, offered by the white earth rather than the sky, that +made him fancy her lips quivered? + +"Why you always try to hurt me." + +He thought of her broken riding crop, of her attempts to hurt him every +time he had seen her since the day she had tried to cut him with it. A +single exception clung to his memory--the night of Betty's dance, years +ago, when she had failed to remember him. Her words, therefore, carried +a thrill, a colour of surrender, since from the very first she had made +him attack for his own defence. + +"That's an odd thing for you to say." + +There were lights ahead, accents in the closing night for Blodgett's +huge and ugly extravagance. They rode slowly up the drive. + +"Will you ever stop following me? Will you ever leave me alone?" + +He stared at her, answering softly: + +"It is impossible I should ever leave you alone." + +At the terrace he sprang down, tossed his reins to a groom, and went to +her, raising his hands. For a moment she looked at him, hesitating. +There were two grooms. So she took his hands and leapt down. It was a +quick, uncertain touch her fingers gave him. + +"Thanks," she said, and crossed the terrace at his side. + +That moment, he reflected, was in itself culminating, yet he couldn't +dismiss the feeling that their relations approached a larger climax. All +the better, since things couldn't very well go on as they were. Was it +that fleeting contact that had altered him, or her companionship in the +gray night? He only knew as he walked close to her that the bitterness +in his heart had diminished. He was willing to relinquish the return +blow if she would ease the hurt she had given him. He told himself that +she had never been nearer. An odd fancy! + +The others rode up as they reached the door, and the hall was noisy with +people just returned from the pond, so that their solitude was +destroyed. While he bathed and dressed he tried to understand just what +had happened. The alteration in his own heart could only be accounted +for by a change in hers. Perhaps his mood was determined by her +unexpected wonder that he should always try to hurt. He couldn't drive +from his mind the definite impression of her having come nearer. + +"Winter sentiment!" he sneered, and hurried, for it was late. + + +VII + +Lambert dropped in and lounged in a satin-covered chair while George +wrestled with his tie. He gave Lambert the freshest news from the +office, but his mind wasn't on business, nor, he guessed, was Lambert's. + +"Blodgett does one rather well," Lambert said, glancing around the room. + +George agreed. + +"Only a marquise might feel more at ease in this room than a mere male." + +He turned, smiling. + +"I'm always afraid the furniture won't hold. Why should he have raised +such a monster?" + +"Maybe," Lambert offered, "to have it ready for a wife." + +"Who would marry him?" George flashed. + +"Nearly any girl," Lambert said. "So much money irons out a lot of fat. +Then, when all's said and done, he's amusing and generous. He always +tries to please. Why? What's made you scornful of Josiah?" + +"There are some things," George said, "that one oughtn't to be able to +buy with money." + +Lambert arose, walked over to George, put his hands on his shoulders, +and stared at him quizzically. + +"You're a curious brute." + +"I know what you mean," George said, "but let me remind you that money +was just one of three things I started for." + +Lambert's grasp tightened. + +"And in a way you've got them all." + +George shook off Lambert's grasp. + +In a way! + +"Let's go down." + +In a way! It was rather cooling. It reminded him, too, that Squibs +Bailly remained unpaid; and there was Sylvia, only a trifle nearer, and +that, perhaps, in an eager imagination. Certainly he had forced some +success, but would he actually ever complete anything? Would he ever be +able to say I have acquired an exterior exactly as genuine as that one +inherits, or I am a great millionaire, or I have proved myself worthy of +all Squibs has given me, or I am Sylvia Planter's husband? Of course he +had succeeded, but only in a way. Where was his will that he couldn't +conquer altogether? + +As he came down the stairs he saw Sylvia in a dazzling gown standing in +front of the great fireplace surrounded by a group which included +Dalrymple and Rogers who had managed an invitation and had just arrived +with Wandel. Wandel brought excuses from Goodhue. It was like Goodhue, +George thought, to avoid such a party. + +Dalrymple smirked and chatted. George left Lambert and went straight to +them. Sylvia could always be depended upon to be gracious to Dalrymple. +She glanced at George and nodded. Although she continued to talk to +Dalrymple she didn't turn away. George thought, indeed, that he detected +a slight movement as if to make room for him. It was as if he had been +any man of her acquaintance coming up. Then he had been right? + +"Josiah said we'd have you," Dalrymple drawled. "Why didn't you skate? +Anything to get on a horse, what? Freezing pleasure this weather." + +George smiled at Sylvia. + +"Not with the right horse and companionship." + +Any one could see that Dalrymple had already swallowed an antidote for +whatever benefit the day's fresh air and exercise had given him. Still +in the weak face, across which the firelight played, George read other +traits, settled, in a sense admirable; more precious than any +inheritance a son could expect from a washerwoman mother and a labouring +father. Then what was it Dalrymple had always coveted? What had made him +rude to the poor men at Princeton? Something he hadn't had. Money. +America, George reflected, could breed people like that. There was more +than one way of being a snob. He wondered if Dalrymple would ever +submerge his pride enough to come to him for money. He might go to +Blodgett first, but George wasn't at all sure Blodgett would find it +worth his while to buy up the young man. + +Blodgett just then joined them. The white waistcoat encircling his +rotund middle was like an advance agent, crying aloud: "The great Josiah +is arriving just behind me." + +"Everybody having a good time?" he bellowed. + +Mrs. Sinclair, sitting near by, looked up, but her husband smiled +indulgently. George watched Sylvia. Blodgett put the question to her. + +"That was a fine ride, wasn't it? I'm always a little afraid for the +horse I ride, though; might bend him in the middle." + +George couldn't understand why she gave that friendly smile he coveted +to Blodgett. + +"I'd give a lot to ride like this young man," Blodgett went on, patting +George's back. He preened himself. "Still we can't all be born in the +saddle." + +The thing was so obvious George laughed outright. Even Sylvia conceded +its ugly, unintentional humour. A smile drew at the corners of her +mouth. If she could enjoy that she was, indeed, for the moment nearer. + +Two servants glided around with trays. + +Blodgett gulped the contents of his glass and smacked his lips. + +"That fellow of mine," he boasted, "has his own blend. Not bad." + +Sylvia drank hers with Dalrymple, while Betty over there shook her head. +Probably it was his ungraceful inheritance that made George dislike a +glass in Sylvia's fingers. Dalrymple slipped away. + +"Dividends in the smoking-room!" Blodgett roared. + +"Dalrymple's drawing dividends," George thought. + +The procession for the dining-room formed and disbanded. Blodgett had +Mrs. Sinclair and Sylvia at either hand. It was natural enough, but +George resented the arrangement, particularly with Dalrymple next to +Sylvia on the other side. Betty sat between Dalrymple and Lambert. +George was nearly opposite, flanked by fluffy clothes and hair; and +straightway each ear was choked with fluffy chatter--the theatre; the +opera, from the side of sartorial criticism; the east coast of +Florida--"but why should I go so far to see exciting bathing suits out +of season and tea tables wabbling under palm trees?"--a scandal or +two--that is such details as were permissible in his presence. He +divided his ears sufficiently to catch snatches from neighbouring +sections of the table. + +"Of course, we'll keep out of it." + +It was Wandel, speaking encouragingly to a pretty girl. Out of what? +Confound this chatter! Oh! The war, of course. It was the one remark of +serious import that reached him throughout the dinner, and the country +faced that possibility, and an increasing unrest of labour, and grave +financial questions. The diners might have been people who had fled to a +high mountain to escape an invasion, or happy ones who lived on a peak +from which the menace was invisible. But it wasn't that. At other social +levels, he knew, there was the same closing of the shutters, the same +effort to create an enjoyable sunlight in a cloistered room. On the +summit, he honestly believed, men did more and thought more. Perhaps +where sensible men gathered together the curtains weren't drawn against +grave fires in an abnormal night. Then it was the women. Did all men, +like Wandel, choose to keep such things from the women? Did the women +want them kept? Hang it! Then let them have the vote. Make them talk. + +"You're really not going to Palm Beach, Mr. Morton?" + +"I've too much to do." + +"Men amuse me," the young lady fluffed. "They always talk about things +to do. If one has a good time the things get done just the same." + +God! What a point of view! Yet he wasn't one to pass judgment since he +was more interested in the winning of Sylvia than he was in the winning +of the war. + +He watched her as he could, talking first to Blodgett then to Dalrymple. +The brilliant Sylvia Planter had no business sitting between two such +men. The fact that Blodgett had got the right people stared him in the +face, but even so the man wasn't good enough to be Sylvia Planter's +host. Nor did George like the way she sipped her wine. She seemed +forcing herself to a travesty of enjoyment. Betty, on the other hand, +drank nothing. He questioned if she was sorry Sylvia had brought her. +She seemed glad enough, at least, to be with Lambert. He appeared to +absorb her, and, in order to listen to him, she left Dalrymple nearly +wholly to Sylvia. Once or twice she glanced across and smiled at George, +but her kindliness had an air of coming from a widening distance. George +was trapped--a restless giant tangled in a snarl of fluff. + +He sighed his relief when the women had gone. He didn't remain long +behind, wandering into the deserted hall where he stood frowning at the +fire. He heard a reluctant step on the stairs and swung around. Sylvia +walked slowly down, a cloak about her shoulders. In a sort of +desperation he raised his hand. + +"This party has got on my nerves." + +He couldn't read the expression in her eyes. + +"It's stifling in here," she said. + +She walked the length of the hall, opened the door, and went through to +the terrace. + +George's heart quickened. She was out there alone. What had her eyes +meant? He had never seen them just like that. They had seemed without +challenge. + +There was a coat closet at the rear of the hall. He ran to it, got a cap +and somebody's overcoat, and followed her out. + +She sat on the railing, far from the house. The only light upon her was +the nebulous reflection from the white earth. He hurried to her, his +heart beating to the rhythm of nearer--nearer--nearer---- + +She stirred. + +"As usual with you," she said, "I am unfortunate. I didn't think you +would follow me. I came here because I wanted to be alone. I wanted to +think. Can you appreciate that?" + +He sat on the railing close to her. + +"You never want me. I have to grasp what opportunities I can." + +He waited for her to rise and wander away. He was prepared to urge her +to remain. She didn't move. + +"I can't always be running away from you," she said. + +She stared straight ahead over the garden, nearly phosphorescent with +its snow. + +"Nearer, nearer, nearer," went through his head. + +"It has been a long time since I've seen you," he said, "but even so I +wish you hadn't come here." + +"Why did you come?" she asked. + +"Because I thought I should find you." + +"Why did you think that?" + +"I'd heard Blodgett had been a good deal at Oakmont. I guessed if +Lambert came you would, too." + +"It is impertinent you should interest yourself in my movements. +Why--why do you do it?" + +"Because everything you do absorbs me. Why else do you suppose I took +the trouble at Betty's dance years ago to tell you who I was?" + +She drew back without answering. Her movement caught his attention. The +change in her manner, the white night, made him bold. + +"I've often wondered," he said, "why you didn't remember me that day in +Princeton, or that night. It hadn't been long. Don't you see it was an +acknowledgment that I wasn't the old George Morton even then?" + +"Oh, no," she answered with a little laugh, "because I remembered you +perfectly well." + +"Remembered me!" he cried. "And you danced with me, and said you didn't +remember, and let me take you aside, and----" + +He moved swiftly nearer until his face was close to hers, until he +stared into her eyes that he could barely see. + +"Why did you do that?" + +She didn't answer. + +"Why do you tell me now?" he urged with an increasing excitement. + +Such a confession from her had the quality of a caress! He felt himself +reaching up to touch the summit. + +"Why? You've got to answer me." + +She arose with easy grace and stood looking down at him. + +"Because," she said, "I want you to stop being ridiculous and +troublesome; and, really, the whole thing seems so unimportant now that +I am going to be married." + +He cried out. He sprang to his feet. He caught her hands, and crushed +them as if he would make them a part of his own flesh so that she could +never escape to accomplish that unbearable act. + +"Sylvia! Sylvia!" + +She fought, gasping: + +"You hurt! I tell you you hurt! Let me go you--you----Let me go----" + + +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. + +"I hope you're feeling better." + +"Better! I haven't been ill," she flashed. + +Betty helped him out. + +"Last night Mrs. Sinclair told us you had a headache." + +"You ought to know, Betty, that means I was tired." + +But George noticed she no longer looked at him. She hurried on. + +"Dolly!" he heard her laugh. "You must have sat up rather late." + +"Trying to forget my worry about you, Sylvia. Guess it gave me your +headache." + +George shrugged his shoulders and edged away, measuring his chances of +seeing her alone. They were slender, for as usual she was a magnet, yet +luck played for him and against her after luncheon, bringing them at the +same moment from different directions to the empty hall. She wanted to +hurry by, as if he were a disturbing shadow, but he barred her way. + +"I suppose I should say I'm sorry I hurt you last night. I'll say it, if +you wish, but I'm not particularly sorry." + +She showed him her hands then, spread them before him. They trembled, +but that was all. They recorded no marks of his precipitancy. + +"I shouldn't expect you to be sorry. After that certainly you will never +speak to me again." + +"Will you tell me now who it is?" he asked. + +Her temper blazed. + +"I ought always to know what to expect from you." + +She ran back to the door through which she had entered. + +"Oh, Dolly!" + +Dalrymple met her on the threshold. + +"Take me for a walk," she said. "It won't hurt you." + +Dalrymple indicated George. + +"Morton coming?" + +She shook her head and ran lightly upstairs. + +"No, I'm not going," George said. "She's right. The fresh air will do +you good." + +"Thanks," Dalrymple answered, petulantly. "I'm quite capable of +prescribing for myself." + +He went out in search of his hat and coat. + +George watched him, letting all his dislike escape. Continually they +hovered on the edge of a break, but Dalrymple wouldn't quite permit it +now. George was confident that the seed sown last night would flower. + +He was glad when Mundy telephoned before dinner about some difficulties +of transportation that might have been solved the next day. George +sprang at the excuse, however, refused Blodgett's offer of a car to +town, and drove to the station. + +Dalrymple and Sylvia hadn't returned. + + +XII + +In town Goodhue, too, read his discontent. + +"You look tired out, George," he said the next morning. "Evidently +Blodgett's party wasn't much benefit." + +"I'm learning to dislike parties," George answered. "You were wise to +duck it. What was the matter? Didn't fancy the Blodgett brand of +hospitality?" + +"Promised my mother to spend the week-end at Westbury. I'd have enjoyed +it. I'm really growing fond of Blodgett." + +There it was again, and you couldn't question Goodhue. Always he said +just what he meant, or he kept his opinions to himself. Every word of +praise for Blodgett reached George as a direct charge of disloyalty, of +bad judgment, of narrow-mindedness. His irritation increased. He was +grateful for the mass of work in which he was involved. That chained his +imagination by day, but at night he wearily reviewed the past five +years, seeking his points of weakness, some fatal omission. + +Perhaps his chief fault had been too self-centred a pursuit of Sylvia. +Because of her he had repressed the instincts to which he saw other men +pandering as a matter of course. Dalrymple did, yet she preferred him, +perhaps to the point of making a gift of herself. He had avoided even +those more legitimate pleasures of which the dice had appealed to him as +a type. What was the use of it? Why had he done it? Yet even now, and +still because of her, when you came to that, he had no desire to turn +aside to the brighter places where plumed creatures flutter fatefully. +It was a species of tragedy that he had to keep himself for one who +didn't want him. + +It stared at him at breakfast from the page of a newspaper. It was +amazing that the journal saw nothing grotesque in such a union; found +it, to the contrary, sensible and beneficial, not only to the persons +involved, but to the entire country. + +Planter, the article pointed out, was no longer capable of bringing a +resistless energy to his house which was a notable stone in the +country's financial structure. Should any chance weaken that the entire +building would react. His son was at present too young and inexperienced +to watch that stone, to keep it intact. Later, of course--but one had to +consider the present. To be sure there were partners, but after the +fashion of great egoists Mr. Planter had avoided admitting any +outstanding personality to his firm. It was a happy circumstance that +Cupid, and so forth--for the senior partner of Blodgett and Sinclair was +more than an outstanding personality in Wall Street. Some of his recent +achievements were comparable with Mr. Planter's earlier ones. The +dissolution of his firm and his induction into the house of Planter and +Company were prophesied. + +George continued to eat his breakfast mechanically. At least it wasn't +Dalrymple, yet that resolution would have been less astonishing. Josiah +Blodgett, fat, middle-aged, of no family, married to the beautiful and +brilliant Sylvia Planter! But was it grotesque? Wasn't the paper right? +He had had plenty of proof that his own judgment of Blodgett was +worthless. He crumpled the paper in his hand and stood up. His judgment +was worth this: he was willing to swear Sylvia Planter didn't love the +man she had elected to marry. + +What did other people think? + +Wandel was at hand. George stopped on his way out. The little man was +still in bed, sipping coffee while he, too, studied that disturbing +page; yet, when he had sent his man from the room, he didn't appear to +find about it anything extraordinary. + +"Good business all round," he commented, "although I must admit I'm +surprised Sylvia had the common-sense to realize it. Impulsive sort, +didn't you think, George, who would fly to some fellow because she'd +taken a fancy to him? Phew! Planter plus Blodgett! It'll make her about +the richest girl in America, why not say the world? Some households are +uneasy this morning. Well! When you come down to it, what's the +difference between railroads and mills? Between mines and real estate? +One's about as useful as the others." + +"It's revolting," George said. + +Wandel glanced over his paper. + +"What's up, great man? Nothing of the sort. Blodgett has his points." + +"As usual, you don't mean what you say," George snapped. + +"But I do, my dear George." + +"Blodgett's not like the people he plays with." + +"Isn't that a virtue?" Wandel asked. "Perhaps it's why those people like +him." + +"But do they really?" + +"You're purposely blind if you don't see it," Wandel answered. "Why the +deuce don't you?" + +George feared he had let slip too much. With others he would have to +guard his interest closer, and he would delay the final break he had +quite decided upon with Blodgett. + +"Just the same," he muttered, ill at ease, preparing to leave, "I'd like +Lambert's opinion." + +"You don't fancy this has happened," Wandel said, "without Lambert's +knowing all about it?" + +George left without answering. At least he knew. It was simpler, +consequently, to discipline himself. His manner disclosed nothing when +he made the necessary visit to Blodgett. The round face was radiant. The +narrow eyes burned with happiness. + +"You're a cagy old Brummell," George said. "I've just seen it in the +paper with the rest of the world. When's it coming off?" + +Blodgett's content faded a trifle. + +"She says not for a long time yet, but we'll see. Trust Josiah to hurry +things all he can." + +"Congratulations, anyway," George said. "You know you're entitled to +them." + +But he couldn't offer his hand. With that he had an instinct to tear the +happiness from the other's face. + +"You bet I am," Blodgett was roaring. "Any fool can see I'm pleased as +punch." + +George couldn't stomach any more of it. He started out, but Blodgett, +rather hesitatingly, summoned him back. George obeyed, annoyed and +curious. + +"A good many years ago, George," Blodgett began, "I was a damned idiot. +I remember telling you that when Papa Blodgett got married it would be +to the right girl." + +"The convenient girl," George sneered. "Don't you think you're doing +it?" + +"Now see here, George. None of that. You forget it. I'm sorry I ever +thought or said such stuff. You get it through your head just what this +is--plain adoration." + +He sprang to his feet in an emotional outburst that made George writhe. + +"I don't see why God has been so good to me." + + +XIII + +George escaped and hurried upstairs. Lambert was there, but he didn't +mention the announcement, and George couldn't very well lead him. No one +who did talk of it in his presence, however, shared his bitter +disapproval. Most men dwelt as Wandel did on the material values of such +a match, which, far from diminishing Sylvia's brilliancy, would make it +burn brighter than ever. + +Occasionally he saw Sylvia and Blodgett together. For him she had that +air of seeking an unreal pleasure, but she was always considerate of +Blodgett, who seemed perpetually on the point of clasping her publicly +in his arms. A recurrent contact was impossible for George. He went to +Blodgett finally, and over his spirited resistance broke the last tie. + +"My remaining on your pay-roll," he complained, "is pure charity. I +don't want it. I won't have it. God knows I'm grateful for all you've +done for me. It's been a lot." + +"Never forget you've done something for Blodgett," the stout man said, +warmly. "There's no question but you've earned every penny you've had +from me. We've played and worked together a long time, George. I don't +see just because you've grown up too fast why you've got to make Papa +Blodgett unhappy." + +George had no answer, but he didn't have to see much of the beaming beau +after that, nor for a long time did he encounter Sylvia at all +intimately. Lambert, himself, unwittingly brought them together in the +spring. + +"Why not run down to Oakmont with me?" he said, casually, one Friday +morning. "Father's always asking why you're never around." + +"Your father might be pleased to know why," George said. + +"Dark ages!" Lambert said. "We're in the present now. Come ahead." + +The invitation to enter the gates! But it brought to George none of the +glowing triumph he had anticipated. He knew why Lambert had offered it, +because he considered Sylvia removed from any possible unpleasant +aftermath of the dark ages. The man Morton didn't need any further +chastisement; but he went, because he knew what Lambert didn't, that the +man Morton wasn't through with Sylvia yet; that he was going to find out +why she had chosen Blodgett when, except on the score of money, she +might have beckoned better from nearly any direction; that he was +curious why she had told the man Morton first of all. + +They rolled in at the gate. There he had stood, and there she, when she +had set her dog on him. Then around the curve to the great house and in +at the front door with an aging Simpson and a younger servant to compete +for his bag and his coat and hat. How Simpson scraped--Simpson who had +ordered him to go where he belonged, to the back door. What was the +matter with him that he couldn't experience the elation with which the +moment was crowded? + +Mrs. Planter met him with her serene manner of one beyond human +frailties. You couldn't expect her to go back and remember. Such a +return to her would be beyond belief. + +"You've not been kind to us, Mr. Morton. You've never been here before." + +And that night she had walked through the doorway treating him exactly +as if he had been a piece of furniture which had annoyingly got itself +out of place. + +Lambert's eyes were quizzical. + +Old Planter wasn't at all the bear, cracking cumbersome jokes about the +young ferret that had stolen a march on the sly old foxes of Wall +Street. So that was what his threats amounted to! Or was it because +there was nothing whatever of the former George Morton left? + +He examined curiously the bowed white head and the dim eyes in which +some fire lingered. He could still approximate the emotions aroused by +that interview in the library. He felt the old instinct to give this man +every concession to a vast superiority. In a sense, he was still afraid +of him. He had to get over that, for hadn't he come here to accomplish +just that against which Old Planter had warned him? + +"Where," Lambert asked, "is the blushing Josiah?" + +George caught the irony of his voice, but his mother explained in her +unemotional way that Sylvia and Blodgett were riding. + +Certainly all along those early days had been in Lambert's mind, for he +led George to the scene of their fight. He faced him there, and he +laughed. + +"You remember?" + +"Why not?" George said. "I was born that day." + +"Morton! Morton!" Lambert mused. + +George swung and caught Lambert's shoulders quickly. There was more than +sentiment in his quick, reminiscent outburst. It seemed even to himself +to carry another threat. + +"You call me Mr. Morton, or just George, as if I were about as good as +you." + +Lambert laughed. + +"We've had some fair battles since then, haven't we, George? You've done +a lot you said you would that day." + +"I've scarcely started," George answered. "I'm a dismal failure. Perhaps +I'll brace up." + +"You're hard to satisfy," Lambert said. + +George dug at the ground with his heel. + +"All the greater necessity to find ultimate satisfaction," he grumbled. + +Lambert glanced at him inquiringly. + +"I suppose," George continued, "I ought to thank you and your sister for +not reminding your parents what I was some years ago, for not blurting +it out to a lot of other people." + +"You've shown me," Lambert said, "it would have been vicious to have put +any stumbling blocks in your way. Driggs is right. He usually is. You're +a very great man." + +But George shook his head, and accompanied Lambert back to the house +with the despondency of failure. + +Sylvia and Blodgett were back, lounging with Mr. and Mrs. Planter about +a tea table which servants had carried to a sunny spot on the lawn. At +sight of George Sylvia's colour heightened. Momentarily she hesitated to +take his offered hand, then bowed to the presence of the others. + +"You didn't tell me, Lambert, you were bringing any one." + +Blodgett's welcome was cordial enough to strike a balance. + +"Never see anything of you these days, George. He makes money, Mrs. +Planter, too fast to bother with an old plodder like me. Thank the Lord +I've still got cash in his firm." + +That he should ever call that quiet, assured figure mother-in-law! Mrs. +Planter, however, showed no displeasure. She commenced to chat with +Lambert. Sylvia, George reflected, might with profit have borrowed some +of her mother's serenity. Still she managed to entertain him over the +tea cups as if he had been any casual, uninteresting guest. + +That hour, nevertheless, furnished George an ugly ordeal, for Blodgett's +attentions were perpetual, and Sylvia appeared to appreciate them, +treating him with a consideration that let through at least that +affection the man had surprisingly drawn from so many of his +acquaintances. + +A secretary interrupted them, hurrying from the house with an abrupt +concern stamped on his face, standing by awkwardly as if not knowing how +to commence. + +"What is it, Straker?" Mr. Planter asked. + +"Mr. Brown's on the 'phone, sir. I think you'd better come. He said he +didn't want to bother you until he was quite sure. There seems no doubt +now." + +"Of what, Straker?" Mr. Planter asked. "Wouldn't it have kept through +tea time?" + +The secretary seemed reluctant to speak. The women glanced at him +uneasily. Lambert started to rise. In spite of his preoccupation George +had a suspicion of the truth. All at once Blodgett half expressed it, +bringing his fist noisily down on the table. + +"The Huns have torpedoed an American boat!" + +Straker blurted out the truth. + +"Oh, no, Mr. Blodgett. It's the _Lusitania_, but apparently the losses +are serious." + +For a moment the silence was complete. Even the servants forgot their +errands and remained immobile, with gaping faces. An evil premonition +swept George. There were many Americans on the _Lusitania_. He knew a +number quite well. Undoubtedly some had gone down. Which of his friends? +One properly asked such questions only when one's country was at war. +The United States wasn't at war with Germany. Would they be now? How was +the sinking of the _Lusitania_ going to effect him? + +Old Planter, Blodgett, and Lambert were already on their feet, starting +for the door. Mrs. Planter rose, but unhurriedly, and went close to her +husband's side. In that movement George fancied he had caught at last +something warm and human. Probably she had weighed the gravity of this +announcement, and was determined to wheedle the old man from too much +excitement, from too great a temper, from too thorough a preoccupation +with the changes bound to reach Wall Street from this tragedy. + +"I want to talk to Brown, too, if you please," Blodgett roared. + +They crowded into the hall, all except Sylvia and George who had risen +last. He had measured his movements by hers. They entered the library +together while the others hurried through to Mr. Planter's study where +the telephone stood, anxious to speak with Brown's voice. She wanted to +follow, but he stopped her by the table where his cap had rested that +night, from which he had taken her photograph. + +"You might give me a minute," he said. + +She faced him. + +"What do you want? Why did you come here, Mr. Morton?" + +"For this minute." + +"You've heard what's happened," she said, scornfully, "and you can +persist in such nonsense." + +"Call it anything you please," he said. "To me such nonsense happens to +be vital. It's your fault that I have to take every chance, even make +one out of a tragedy like that." + +He nodded toward the study door through which strained voices vibrated. + +"Children, too!--Vanderbilt!--More than a thousand!--Good God, Brown!" + +And Blodgett's roar, throaty with a new ferocity: + +"We'll fight the swine now." + +George experienced a fresh ill-feeling toward the man, who impressed him +as possessing something of the attributes of such animals. He glanced at +Sylvia's hands. + +"You're not going to marry him." + +She smiled at him pityingly, but her colour was fuller. He wondered why +she should remain at all when it would be so easy to slip through the +doorway to the protection of Blodgett and the others. Of course to hurt +him again. + +"I don't believe you love him. I'm sure you don't. You shan't throw +yourself away." + +Her foot tapped the rug. He watched her try to make her smile amused. +Her failure, he told himself, offered proof that he was right. + +"One can no longer even be angry with you," she said. "Who gave you a +voice in my destiny?" + +"You," he answered, quickly, "and I don't surrender my rights. If I can +help it you're not going to throw away your youth. Why did you tell me +first of all you were going to be married?" + +She braced herself against the table, staring at him. In her eyes he +caught a fleeting expression of fright. He believed she was held at last +by a curiosity more absorbing than her temper. + +"What do you mean?" + +Old Planter's bass tones throbbed to them. + +"Nothing can keep us out of the war now." + +The words came to George as from a great distance, carrying no +tremendous message. In the whole world there existed for him at that +moment nothing half so important as the lively beauty of this woman +whose intolerance he had just vanquished. + +"Your youth belongs to youth," he hurried on, knowing she wouldn't +answer his question. "I've told you this before. I won't see you turn +your back on life. Fair warning! I'll fight any way I can to prevent +it." + +She straightened, showing him her hands. + +"You're very brave. You fight by attacking a woman, by trying behind his +back to injure a very dear man. And you've no excuse whatever for +fighting, as you call it." + +"Yes, I have," he said, quickly, "and you know perfectly well that I'm +justified in attacking any man you threaten to marry." + +"You're mad, or laughable," she said. "Why have you? Why?" + +"Because long ago I told you I loved you. Whether it was really so then, +or whether it is now, makes no difference. You said I shouldn't forget." + +He stepped closer to her. + +"You said other things that gave me, through pride if nothing else, a +pretty big share in your life. You may as well understand that." + +Her anger quite controlled her now. She raised her right hand in the old +impulsive gesture to punish his presumption with the maximum of +humiliation; and this time, also, he caught her wrist, but he didn't +hold it away. He brought it closer, bent his head, and pressed his lips +against her fingers. + +He was startled by the retreat of colour from her face. He had never +seen it so white. He let her wrist go. She grasped the table's edge. She +commenced to laugh, but there was no laughter in her blank, colourless +expression. A feminine voice without accent came to them: + +"Sylvia! How can you laugh?" + +He glanced up. Mrs. Planter stood in the study doorway. Sylvia +straightened; apparently controlled herself. Her colour returned. + +"It was Mr. Morton," she explained, unevenly. "He said something so +absurdly funny. Perhaps he hasn't grasped this tragedy." + +The others came in, a voluble, horrified group. + +"What's the matter with you, George?" Blodgett bellowed. "Don't you +understand what's happened?" + +"Not quite," George said, looking at Sylvia, "but I intend to find out." + + +XIV + +To find out, George appreciated at once, would be no simple task. +Immediately Sylvia raised new defences. She seemed abetted by this +incredible happening on a gray sea. + +"I shall go," Lambert said. "How about you, George?" + +"Why should I go?" George asked. "I haven't thought about it yet." + +The scorn in Sylvia's eyes made him uneasy. Why did people have to be so +impulsive? That was the way wars were made. + +During the days that followed he did think about it too absorbingly for +comfort, weighing to the penny the sacrifice his unlikely going would +involve. An inherent instinct for a fight could scarcely be satisfied at +such a cost. Patriotism didn't enter his calculations at all. He +believed it had resounding qualities only because it was hollow, being +manufactured exactly as a drum is made. Surely there were enough +impulsive and fairly useless people to do such a job. + +Then without warning Wandel confused his apparently flawless logic. +Certainly Wandel was the least impulsive of men and he was also capable +of uncommon usefulness, yet within a week of the sinking he asked George +if he didn't want to move to his apartment to keep things straight +during a long absence. + +"Where are you going, Driggs?" + +"I've been drifting too long," Wandel answered. "Unless I go somewheres, +do something, I'll become as mellow as Dolly. I've not been myself since +the business started. I suppose it's because I happen to be fond of the +French and the British and a few ideas of theirs. So I'm going to drive +an ambulance for them." + +George fancied Wandel's real motive wasn't so easily expressed. He +longed to know it, but you couldn't pump Wandel. + +"You're an ass," was all he said. + +"Naturally," Wandel agreed. "Only asses go to war." + +"Do you think it will help for you to get a piece of shell through your +head?" + +"Quite as much as for any other ass." + +"Why don't you say what you mean?" George asked, irritably. + +"Perhaps you ask that," Wandel drawled, "because you don't understand +what I mean to say." + +"I won't take care of your apartment," George snapped. "I won't have any +hand in such a piece of foolishness." + +With Goodhue, however, he went to the pier to see Wandel off; absorbed +with the little man the sorrowful and apprehensive atmosphere of the +odorous shed; listened to choked farewells; saw brimming eyes; shared +the pallid anticipations of those about to venture forth upon an +unnatural sea; touched at last the very fringe of war. + +"Why is he doing it?" George asked as Goodhue and he drove across town +to the subway. "I've never counted Driggs a sentimentalist." + +"I'm not sure," Goodhue answered, "this doesn't prove he isn't. He's +always had an acute appreciation of values. Don't you remember? We used +to call him 'Spike'." + + * * * * * + +George let himself drift with events, but Wandel's departure increased +his uneasiness. Suppose he should be forced by circumstances to abandon +everything; against his better judgment to go? Automatically his +thoughts turned to Squibs. He recalled his advice. + +"Don't let your ideas smoulder in your head. Come home and talk them +over." + +He sent a telegram and followed it the next day. The Baillys met him at +the station, affectionately, without any reproaches for his long +absence. The menace was in the air here, too, for Mrs. Bailly's first +question, sharply expressed, was: + +"You're not going, if----" + +"I don't want to go," he answered. + +Bailly studied him, but he didn't say anything. + +That afternoon there was a boat race on Lake Carnegie. The Alstons drove +the Baillys and George down some hospitable resident's lane to an +advantageous bank near the finish line. They spread rugs and made +themselves comfortable there, but the party was subdued. Squibs and Mr. +Alston didn't seem to care to talk. Betty asked Mrs. Bailly's question, +received an identical answer, and fell silent, too. Only Mrs. Alston +appeared to detect no change in the world, remaining cheerfully imperial +as if alarms couldn't possibly approach her abruptly. + +Even to George such a scene, sharing one planet with the violences of +Europe, appeared contradictory. The fancifully garbed undergraduates, +who ran along the bank; the string of automobiles on the towpath +opposite; the white and gleaming pleasure boats in the canal; the shells +themselves, with coloured oar-blades that flashed in the sunlight; most +of all the green frame for this pleasantly exciting contest had an air +of telling him that everything unseen was rumour, dream stuff; either +that, or else that the seen was visionary, while in those remote places +existed the only material world, the revolting and essential realities. + +Bailly at last interrupted his revery, with his long, thin arm making a +gesture that included the athletes; the running, youthful partisans. + +"How many are we going to lose or get back with twisted minds?" + +"Keep quiet," his wife said in a panic. + +Mrs. Alston laughed pleasantly. + +"Don't worry. Woodrow will keep us out of it." + + +XV + +Back in the little study Bailly expressed his doubt. + +"He may do it now, but later----" + +"Remember you're not going, George," Mrs. Bailly cried. + +"I think not." + +She patted his hand, while Bailly looked on with his old expression of +doubt and disapproval. When Mrs. Bailly had left them, George told the +tutor of Wandel's surprising venture, asking his opinion. + +"It's hard to form one," Bailly admitted. "He's always puzzled me. Would +it surprise you if I said I think he at least has grafted on his brain +some of Allen's generous views?" + +"Oh, come, sir. You can't make war an ideal expression of the +brotherhood of man. Far better that all men should be suspicious +strangers." + +Bailly drew noisily at his pipe. + +"It often pleases you to misunderstand," he said. "Wandel, I fancy, +would take Allen's theories and make something more practical of them. +Understand I am a pacifist--thorough-paced. War is folly. War is +dreadful. It cannot be conceived in a healthy brain. But when a fact +rises up before you you'd better face it. Wandel probably does. The +Allens probably don't--don't realize that we must win this war as the +only alternative to the world pacing of an autocratic foot that would +crush social progress like a serpent, that would boot back the +brotherhood of man, since you seem to enjoy the phrase, unthinkable +years." + +"After admitting that," George asked, quickly, "you can still tell me +that I ought to accept the point of view of your rotten, illogical +Socialists?" + +"Even in this war," Bailly confessed, "most socialists are pacifists. +No, they're not an elastic crowd. It amuses me that a lot of the lords +of the land, leading an unthinking portion of the proletariat, will +permit them to carry on their work in spite of themselves." + +"I despise such theorists," George burst out. "They are unsound. They +are dangerous." + +Bailly smiled. + +"Just the same, the very ones they want to reform are going to give them +the opportunity to do it." + +"They're all like Allen," George sneered, "purchasable." + +Bailly shook his head, waved his pipe vehemently. + +"Virtue's flaws don't alter its really fundamental quality." + +"Then you agree all Socialists are knaves or fools," George stormed. + +"Perhaps, George," Bailly said, patiently, "you'll define a +conservative for me. There. Never mind. Somewhere in between we may find +an honest generosity, a wise sympathy. It may come from this war--a huge +and wise balance of power of the right, an honest recognition of men as +individuals rather than as members of classes. Perhaps your friend +Wandel is on the track of something of the sort. I like to think it is +really what the war is being fought for." + +"The war," George said, "is being fought for men with fat paunches and +pocket-books." + +"Then you're quite sure you don't want to go?" + +"Why should I as long as my stomach and my pocket-book are comfortable? +But I'm not sure whether I'll go or not. That's what worries me." + +"You've made," Bailly said, testily, "enough out of the war to warrant +your giving it something." + +George grinned. It was quite like old times. + +"Even myself, on top of all the rest I might make out of it by staying +back?" + +"You're not as selfish as you'd have me believe," Bailly cried. + +George quoted a phrase of Wandel's since Bailly seemed just now to +approve of the adventurer. + +"The man that keeps himself makes the world better." + +Bailly drove him out of the room to dress for dinner. + +"I won't talk to you any more," he said. "I won't curse the loiterer at +the base until I am sure he isn't going to climb." + + +XVI + +At least George wouldn't have to decide at once. When it became clear +that for the present Mrs. Alston's optimism was justified he breathed +easier. With Goodhue, Lambert, and Mundy he applied himself unreservedly +to his work. Consequently he didn't visit much, didn't see Sylvia again +until the fall when he met her at a dinner at the Goodhues'. She shrank +from him perceptibly, but there was no escape. He studied her with an +easier mind. No date for her wedding had been set. Until that moment +should come there was nothing he could do. What he would be able to +accomplish then was problematical. Something. She shouldn't throw +herself away on Blodgett. + +"It must be comforting," he heard her say to Goodhue, "to know if +trouble comes your wonderful firm will be taken care of." + +George guessed she had meant him to hear that. + +"I'm sure I hope so," Goodhue answered her, "but what do you mean?" + +"I heard Mr. Morton say once he didn't think he'd care to go to war. +Didn't I, Mr. Morton?" + +Goodhue, clearly puzzled by her manner, laughed. + +"Give us something more useful, Sylvia. He's a born fighter." + +"I believe I said it," George answered her. "There might be problems +here I couldn't very well desert." + +Her eyes wavered. He recalled her hysterical manner that evening at +Oakmont. She still sought chances to hurt him. In spite of Blodgett, +then, she recognized a state of contest between them. He smiled +contentedly, for as long as that persisted his cause was alive. + + +XVII + +It languished, however, during the winter as did Blodgett's hopes of a +speedy wedding. The Planters' Fifth Avenue home remained closed, because +of Mr. Planter's health. Sylvia and her mother went south with him. +Blodgett made a number of flying trips, deserting his affairs to that +extent to be with Sylvia. George was satisfied for the present to let +things drift. + +Dalrymple certainly had drifted with events. He had taken no pains to +hide the shock of Sylvia's engagement. George of all people could +understand his disappointment, his helpless rage; but Dalrymple hadn't +bothered him, and he had about decided he never would. + +One spring day, quite without warning, he appeared in George's office. +It was not long after the Planters' return to Oakmont. What did he want +here? Was there any point spending money on him as matters stood? + +He looked at Dalrymple, a good deal surprised, reading the dissipation +recorded in his face, the nervousness exposed by the mobile hands. All +at once he understood why he had come at last. Dalrymple had wandered +too far. The patience of his friends had been exhausted. Perhaps Wandel +had taken George's hint. At any rate, he had let himself in for it. + +"An opportunity to make a little money," Dalrymple was mumbling +uneasily. "Need capital. Not much. You said at Blodgett's--just happened +to remember it, and was near----" + +"How much?" George demanded, stopping his feeble lies. + +Dalrymple, George suspected, because of his manner, asked for less than +half what he had come to get. + +"What say to a couple thousand? Make it five hundred more if you can. +Not much in the way of security." + +"Never mind the security." + +George pressed a button, and directed the clerk who responded to draw up +a note. + +"Got to sign something?" Dalrymple asked, suspiciously. + +George smiled. + +"Do you mind my keeping a little record of where my money goes--in place +of security?" + +Dalrymple was quite red. + +"All right, if you insist." + +"I insist. Care to change your mind?" + +"No. Only thought it was just a little loan between--friends." + +The word left his tongue with difficulty. George guessed that the other +retained enough decency to loathe himself for having to use it. The +nervousness of the long fingers increased while the clerk prepared the +note and George wrote the check. George put a pen in the unsteady hand. + +"Sign here, please." + +Dalrymple obeyed with a signature, shaky, barely legible. + +"Nice of you to do me a favour. Appreciate it. Thanks." + +To George it would have been worth that money to find out just how +Sylvia's extended engagement had affected Dalrymple. Was it responsible +for his speeding up on the dangerous path of pleasure? Of that he could +learn only what the other chose to disclose, probably nothing. But what +was he waiting for now that he had the money? Why were his fingers +twitching faster than ever? + +"Didn't see Lambert when I came in," he managed. + +"I daresay he's about," George said. "Want him?" + +Dalrymple raised his hand. + +"That's just it," he whispered. "Rather not see Lambert. Rather this +little transaction were kept sub rosa. You understand. No point +Lambert's knowing." + +"Why not?" George asked, coolly, feeling himself on the edge of the +truth. + +"I'm a little off the Planters," Dalrymple said. + +"Since when?" + +Dalrymple's face became redder than ever. For a moment his nervousness +abandoned him. He seemed to stiffen with violent thoughts. + +"Don't like buying and selling of women in any family. Not as decent as +slavery." + +George rose quietly. He hadn't expected just this. + +"Be careful," he warned. "What are you talking about?" + +"What the whole town talks about," Dalrymple burst out. "You know her. I +ask you. Hasn't she enough without selling herself, body and soul? No +better than an unmentionable----" + +George sprang. He didn't stop to tell himself that Dalrymple was +unaccountable, in a sense, out of his head. He didn't dare stop, because +he knew if Dalrymple finished that sentence he would try to kill him. +Dalrymple's mouth fell open, in fact, before the unexpected attack. He +couldn't complete the sentence, didn't try to; drew back against the +desk instead; grasped a convenient ink container; threw it; called +shrilly for help. + +George shook the streaming black liquid from his face. With his stained +hands he grasped Dalrymple. His fingers tightened with a feeling of +profound satisfaction. No masks now! Finally the enmity of years was +unleashed. He had Dalrymple where he had always wanted him. + +"One more word----You been saying that kind of thing----" + +The hurrying of many feet in the outer office recalled him. The +impulsive George Morton crept back beneath the veneer. He let Dalrymple +go, drew out his handkerchief, looked distastefully at the black stains +on his clothing. + +Lambert and Goodhue closed the door on the curious clerks. + +"What in heaven's name----" + +It was Lambert who had spoken. Goodhue merely shrugged his shoulders, as +if he had all along expected such a culmination. + +Dalrymple, fingering his throat spasmodically, sank in a chair. His face +infused. His breath came audibly. + +"Caught him harder than I realized," George reflected. He spoke aloud +with his whimsical smile. + +"Looks as if I'd lost my temper. I don't often do it." + +He had no regret. He was happy. He believed himself nearer Sylvia than +he had ever been. He felt in grasping Dalrymple's throat as if he had +touched her hands. + +He failed to give its true value, consequently, to Lambert's angry +turning on him after Dalrymple's shaking accusation. + +"Sorry, Lambert. Had to--to do what I could. He--he was rotten +impertinent about--about--Sylvia." + + +XVIII + +Goodhue caught Lambert's arm. In a flash George read the meaning of +Dalrymple's charge. Naturally he was the one to do something of the +sort, had to try it. He had been afraid of Lambert's knowing of the +loan. How much less could he let Lambert learn why George had +justifiably shut his mouth. + +"Keep quiet," George warned Lambert. "Dicky! Can you get him out of +here. He needs attention. I'm not a doctor. He hasn't been himself since +he came." + +But Lambert wouldn't have it. + +"Repeat that, Dolly," he commanded. + +George walked to Dalrymple. + +"You'll not say another word." + +Dalrymple stood up, weaving his fingers in and out; as it were, clasping +his hands to George. + +"I'm sorry, Morton. Damn sorry. Forget--forget----" + +His voice wandered into a difficult silence, as if he had seen this way, +too, a chance of implicating himself with Sylvia's brother; but his eyes +continued to beg George. They were like the eyes of an animal, caught in +a net, beseeching release. + +Goodhue gave him his hat. He took it but drew away from the other's +touch on his arm. + +"Don't think I'm not all right," he said in a frightened voice. "Took me +by surprise, but I'm all right--quite all right. Going home." + +He glanced at Lambert and again at George, then left the room, pulling +at his necktie, Goodhue anxiously at his heels. + +"What about it?" Lambert asked George sharply. + +George sat down, still trying to rid himself of the black souvenirs of +the encounter. + +"Don't be a fool. I said nothing about your sister--nothing whatever." + +He couldn't get rid of Dalrymple's begging eyes, yet why should he spare +him at all? + +"The rest of it," he went on, easily, "is between Dalrymple and me." + +"I'm not sure," Lambert challenged. + +He reminded George of the younger Lambert who had advanced with a whip +in his hand. + +"See here," he said. "You can't make me talk about anything I don't care +to. I've told you I didn't mention your sister. I couldn't to that +fellow." + +Lambert spread his hands. + +"What is there about you and Sylvia--ever since that day? I believe you, +but I tried to give you a licking for her sake once, and I'd do it +again." + +George laughed pleasantly. + +"You make me feel young." + +Clearly Lambert meant to warn him, for he went on, still aggressive: + +"I care more for her than anybody in the world." + +The laughter left George's face. + +"Anybody?" + +Lambert was self-conscious now. + +"Just about. See here. What are you driving at?" + +George yawned. + +"I must wash up. I've a lot of work to do." + +"I'd like to know what went on here," Lambert said. + +"Why don't you ask Dalrymple, then?" + +"Dolly isn't all bad," Lambert offered as he left. "He's been my friend +a good many years." + +"Then by all means keep him," George answered, "and keep him to +yourself; but when he comes around hang on to the ink pots." + + +XIX + +His apparent good humour didn't survive the closing of the door. His +dislike of Dalrymple fattened on his memory of the incident. It had left +a sting. He hadn't stopped the man in time. Selling herself! Was she? +She appeared to his mind, no longer intolerant, rather with an air of +shame-faced apology for all the world. That was what hurt. He hadn't +stopped Dalrymple in time. + +But there was no sale yet, nothing whatever, except an engagement which, +after a year, showed no symptoms of fruition. Blodgett was aware of it, +and couldn't hide his anxiety. Evidently he wanted to talk about it, did +talk about it to George when he met him in the hall not long after +Dalrymple's visit. + +"Why don't you ever run down to Oakmont with Lambert?" he asked. + +Only Blodgett would have put such a question, and perhaps even he +designed it merely as an entrance to his favourite topic. George evaded +with a fairly truthful account of office pressure. + +"Old Planter asks after you," Blodgett went on, uncomfortably. "Admires +you, because you've done about what he had at your age, and it was +easier then. Old man's not well. That's tough on Josiah." + +"Tough?" + +Blodgett mopped his face with a brilliant handkerchief. His rotund +stomach rose and fell with a sigh. + +"His gout's worse--all sorts of complications. She's the apple of his +eye. Guess you know that. Won't desert him now. Wants to wait till he's +better, or--or----" + +He added naively: + +"Hope to heaven he bucks up soon." + +George watched Blodgett's hopes dwindle, for Old Planter didn't buck up, +nor did he grow perceptibly worse. From time to time he visited his +marble temple, but for the most part men went to him at Oakmont; +Blodgett, of course, with his double errand of business and romance, +most frequently of all. And Sylvia did cling to her father, but George's +satisfaction increased, for he agreed with Wandel: she was capable of a +feeling far more powerful than filial devotion. Blodgett, clearly, had +failed to arouse it. + +Her sense of duty, however, kept her nearly entirely away from George; +for Lambert, either because Sylvia had spoken to him, or because he +himself had sensed a false step, failed to repeat his invitation to +Oakmont. The row with Dalrymple, although that had not been mentioned +again, made it unlikely that he ever would. + +Dalrymple had dropped out of sight. George heard vaguely that he was +taking a rest cure in the northern part of the state. He couldn't fancy +meeting him again without desiring to add to the punishment he had +already given. The man was impossible. He had sneaked from that room, +leaving the note in George's hands, the check in his own pocket. And the +check had been cashed. No madness of excitement could account for that. + +It wasn't until summer that he ran into him, and with a black temper saw +Sylvia at his side. If she only knew! She ought to know. It increased +his bad humour that he couldn't tell her. + +He regretted the necessity that had made such a meeting possible. It +had, however, for a long time impressed him. Even flabby old Blodgett +had noticed, and had advised less work and more play. To combat his +feeling of staleness, the relaxing of his long, carefully conditioned +muscles, George had forced himself to play polo at a Long Island club +into which he had hurried because of his skill at the game, or to take +an occasional late round of golf, which he didn't care for particularly +but which he managed very well in view of his inexperience. It was while +he was ordering dinner with Goodhue one night at the Long Island club +that Sylvia and Dalrymple drove up with the Sinclairs. The older pair +came straight to the two, while Sylvia and Dalrymple followed with an +obvious reluctance. + +"We spirited her away for the night," Mrs. Sinclair explained. + +She turned to Sylvia. + +"My dear, I'll see that you don't cloister yourself any more. Your +father's going on for years." + +Yet it occurred to George, as he looked at her, that her cloistering had +accomplished no change. The alteration in Dalrymple, on the other hand, +was striking. George, as he met him with a difficult ease of manner, +quite as if nothing had happened, couldn't account for it; for the +light-headed look had gone from Dalrymple's eyes, and much of the stamp +of dissipation from his face. His hands, too, were quiet. Was it +credible he had forgotten the struggle in George's office? No. He had +cashed the check; yet his manner suggested a blank memory except, +perhaps, for its too-pronounced cordiality. + +There was nothing for it but a dinner together. The Sinclairs expected +it, and couldn't be made to understand why it should embarrass any one. +Dalrymple really helped matters. His mind worked clearly, and he could, +George had to acknowledge, exert a certain charm when he tried. +Moreover, he didn't drink, even refusing the cocktail a waiter offered +him just before they went inside. + +As always George disliked speaking to Sylvia in casual tones of +indifferent topics. She met him at first pleasantly enough on that +ground--too pleasantly, so that he found himself waiting for some +acknowledgment that she had not forgotten; that she still believed in +their quarrel. It came at last rather sharply through the topic that was +universal just then of General Wood's civilian training camps at +Plattsburgh. Lambert had gone. Goodhue would follow the next month, +having agreed to that arrangement for the sake of the office. Even +Blodgett was there. Sylvia took a great pride in the fact, pointed it at +George. + +"Although," she laughed, "I'm told he's not popular with his tent mates. +I hear he has a telephone fastened to his tent pole. I don't know +whether that's true. He's never mentioned it. But I do know he has three +secretaries in a house just off the reservation. Of course it's a +sacrifice for him to be at Plattsburgh at all." + +George stared at her. There was no question. Her voice, her face, +expressed a tolerant liking for the man. The engagement had lasted +considerably more than a year, and now she had an air of giving a public +reminder of its ultimate outcome. Or was it for him alone, as her +original announcement had been? + +"I'm off next month," Goodhue said. "Lambert writes it's good fun and +not at all uncomfortable." + +"I'll be with you, Dicky," Dalrymple put in. "Beneficial affair, besides +duty, and all that." + +George experienced relief at the very moment he resented her attack +most. It was still worth while trying to hurt him. + +"Practically everyone has gone or is going. It's splendid. When are you +booked for, Mr. Morton?" + +Even the Sinclairs had silently asked that question. They looked at him +expectantly. + +"I'm not going at all," he answered, bluntly. + +"I remember," she said. "You didn't believe in war or something, wasn't +it? But this isn't exactly war." + +George smiled. + +"Scarcely," he said. "It's hiking, singing, playing cards, rattling off +stories, largely done by some old men who couldn't get a job in the army +of Methuselah. Why should I waste my time at that?" + +"It's a start," Mr. Sinclair said, seriously. "We have to do something." + +George hid his sneer. Everywhere the spirit was growing to make any kind +of a drum that would bang. + +"If you don't think Wilson will keep us out of it," he asked, earnestly, +"why not get after Wilson and make him start something general, +efficient, fundamental? I've never heard of a President who wasn't +sensitive to the pressure of the country." + +There was no use talking that way. These people were satisfied with the +noise at Plattsburgh. He was glad when the meal ended, when he could get +away. + +At the automobile he managed to help Sylvia into her cloak, and he took +the opportunity to whisper: + +"When is the great event coming off?" + +She turned, looked at him, and didn't answer. She mounted to the back +seat beside Dalrymple. + + +XX + +George didn't see her again until winter. He heard through the desolate +Blodgett that she had gone with her parents to the Canadian Rockies. + +Nearly everyone seemed to flee north that summer as if in a final effort +to cajole play. The Alstons moved to Maine unusually early, and didn't +return until late fall. Betty put it plainly enough to him then. + +"I'm sorry to be back. Don't you feel the desire to get as far away as +possible from things, to escape?" + +"To escape what, Betty?" + +"That's just it. One doesn't know. Something one doesn't want to know." + +It was queer that Betty never asked why he hadn't been to Plattsburgh, +never urged a definite decision as to what he would do if---- + +The "if" lost a little of its power with him. At times he was even +inclined to share Mrs. Alston's optimism. It was easy to drift with +Washington. Besides, he was too busy to worry about much except his +growing accumulation of profits from bloodshed. He was brought back +momentarily when Lambert and Goodhue received commissions as captains in +the reserve corps. The Plattsburgh noise still echoed. He couldn't help +a feeling of relief when people flocked back and the town became normal +again, encouraging him to believe that nothing could happen to tear him +away from this fascinating pursuit of getting rich for Sylvia while he +waited for her next move. + +That came with a stark brutality a few weeks after the holidays. He had +seen her only the evening before, sitting next to Blodgett at dinner +with a remote expression in her eyes that had made him hopeful. The +article in the morning newspaper, consequently, took him more by +surprise than the original announcement of the engagement had done. +Sylvia and Blodgett would be married on the fifteenth of the following +August. + +On top of that shock events combined to rebuke his recent confidence. +His desires had taken too much for granted. The folly of the Mrs. +Alstons and the wisdom of the Baillys and Sinclairs were forced upon +him. Wilson wasn't going to keep them out of it. George stood face to +face with the decision he had shirked when the _Lusitania_ had taken her +fatal dive. + +It couldn't be shirked again, for the declaration of war appeared to be +a matter of days, weeks at the most. The drum was beginning to sound +with a rising resonance. Lambert and Goodhue would be among the first to +leave. Already they made their plans. They didn't seem to care what +became of the business. + +"What are you up to, George?" they asked. + +He put them off. He wanted to think it out. He didn't care to have his +decision blurred by the rattling of a drum. Yet it was patent to him if +he should go at all it would be with his partners, among the first. The +thought of such a triple desertion appalled him. Mundy was incomparable +for system and routine, but if he had possessed the rare selective +foresight demanded for the steering of a big business he would long +since have been at the helm of his own house. It would be far better, if +George had to go, to sell the stock and the mass of soaring securities +the firm had acquired; in short, to close out before competitors could +squeeze the abandoned ship from the channel. + +Why dwell on so wasteful an alternative? Why not turn sanely from so +sentimental a choice? It was clear enough to him that it would not long +survive the war, all this singing and shouting, this driving forth by +older people on the winds of a safe enthusiasm of countless young men +to grotesque places of death. + +He paced his room. That was just it. It was the present he had to +consider, and the present thoughts of people who hadn't yet returned to +their inevitable practicality, forgetfulness, and ingratitude; most of +all to the present thoughts of Sylvia. To him she had made those +thoughts sufficiently plain. Among non-combatant enthusiasts she would +be the most exigent. Why swing from choice to choice any longer? To be +as he had fancied she would wish, he had struggled, denied, kept himself +clean, sought minutely for the proper veneer; and so far he had kept his +record straight. With her it was his one weapon. He couldn't throw that +away. + +He stopped his pacing. He sat before his desk, his head in his hands, +listening to the cacophanous beating of drums by the majority for the +anxious marching of a few. + +It was settled. He had always known it would be, in just that way. + + +XXI + +George took his physical examination at Governor's Island with the +earliest of the candidates for the First Officers' Training Camp. As +soon as he had returned to his office he wrote to Bailly: + +"I'm going to your cheerful war, after all. I'll drop in the end of the +week." + +He summoned Lambert and Goodhue. Until then he had told them nothing +definite. + +"Of course," he said, "we'll have a few months, but before we leave +America everything will have to be settled. We'll have to know just +where we stand." + +Into the midst of their sombre discussion slipped the tinkling of the +telephone. George answered. He glanced at the others. + +"It's Blodgett. Wants me right away. Something important." + +He hurried down, wondering what was up. Blodgett's voice had vibrated +with an unaccustomed passion that had left with George an impression of +whole-hearted revolt; and when he got in the massive, over-decorated +office his curiosity grew, for Blodgett looked as if he had dressed +against time and without valet or mirror. The straggly pale hair about +the ears was rumpled. His necktie was awry. The pudgy hands shook a +trifle. George's heart quickened. Blodgett had had bad news. What was +the worst news Blodgett could have? + +"I know," Blodgett began, "that you and your partners have passed and +are going to Plattsburgh to become officers." + +All at once George caught the meaning of Blodgett's disarray, and his +hope was replaced by a mirth he had difficulty hiding. + +"You don't mean you've been over to Governor's Island----" + +Blodgett stood up. + +"Yes," he confessed, solemnly. "Just got back from my physical +examination. Would you believe it, George, the darned fools wouldn't +have me, because I'm too fat? Called it obese, as if it was some kind of +a disease, instead of just my natural inclination to fleshiness." + +One of his pudgy hands struck his chest. + +"Never stopped to see that my heart's all right, and that's what we +want, people whose hearts are all right." + +Momentarily the enmity aroused by circumstances fled from George. The +man was genuine, suffering from a devastating disappointment; but surely +he hadn't called him downstairs only to witness this outbreak. + +Blodgett lowered himself to his chair. He wiped his face with one of his +gay handkerchiefs. He spoke reasonably. + +"My place is at home. All right. I'll make it easier then for the thin +people that can go. I'm going to look after you boys. Mundy's not big +enough. I've got a man in view I can keep tabs on, and Blodgett'll +always be sitting down here seeing you don't get stung." + +He sighed profoundly. + +"Guess that'll have to be my share." + +George would rather have had the man curse him. It struck directly at +his pride to submit to this unmasking of his jealous opinion. He +strangled his quick impulse to reach forward, to grasp Blodgett's hand, +to beg his pardon. Instead he tried to find ways of avoiding the +generous gift. + +"We can't settle anything yet. A dozen circumstances may arise. The war +may end----" + +"When you go, George," Blodgett said, wistfully. + +And George knew that in the end he couldn't refuse without disclosing +everything; that his partners wouldn't let him. It added strangely +enough to his discomfort that he should leave the disappointed man with +a confident feeling that he need make no move to see Sylvia before going +to Plattsburgh. In any case, the camp ought to be over before the +fifteenth of August. + +His partners were pleased enough by his recital, and determined to +accept Blodgett's offer. + +"He's the most generous soul that ever lived," Goodhue said, warmly. + +Lambert agreed, but George thought he detected a troubled light in his +eyes. + +Blodgett's generosity continued to worry George, to accuse him. After +all, Blodgett had accomplished a great deal more than he. With only one +of the necessities he had made friends, had become engaged to Sylvia +Planter. No. There was something besides that. He had had an unaffected +personality to offer, and--he had said it himself--a heart that was all +right. + +George asked himself now if Blodgett had helped him in the first place, +not because he had been Mr. Alston and Dicky Goodhue's friend, but +simply because he had liked him. He was inclined to believe it. He had +reached the point where he admitted that many people had been friendly +and useful to him because he had what Blodgett lacked, an exceptional +appearance, a rugged power behind acquired graces. Squibs, he realized, +had put his finger on that long ago. He was glad he was going down. The +tutor would give him his usual disciplinary tonic. + +But it was a changed Squibs that met George; a nearly silent Squibs, who +spoke only to praise; a slightly apprehensive Squibs. George tried to +reassure Mrs. Bailly. + +"Three months at Plattsburgh, then nobody knows how much longer to whip +our division into shape. The war will probably be over before we get +across." + +But she didn't believe it, nor did her husband. + +"You'll be in it, George, before the war's over. Do you know, you're +nearer paying me back than you've ever been." + +George was uncomfortable before such adulation. + +"Please don't think," he protested, "that I'm going over for any tricky +ideals or to save a lot of advanced thinkers from their utter folly." + +"Then what are you going for?" Bailly asked. + +George was surprised that he lacked an answer. + +"Oh, because one has to go," he evaded. + +Bailly's smile was contented. + +"What better reason could any man want?" + +They had an air of showing him about Princeton as if he must absorb its +beauties for the last time. Their visit to the Alstons was shrouded with +all the sullen accompaniments of a permanent farewell. George was +inclined to smile. He hadn't got as far as weighing his chances of being +hit; the present was too crowded, stretched too far; included Betty, for +instance, and Lambert whom he was surprised to find in the Tudor house, +prepared to remain evidently until he should leave for Plattsburgh. The +Alstons misgivings centred rather obviously on Lambert. George, when he +took Betty's hand to say good-bye that evening, felt with a desolate +regret that for the first time in all their acquaintance her fingers +failed to reach his mind. + + + + +PART IV + +THE FOREST + + +I + +"Profession?" + +"Member of the firm of Morton, Planter, and Goodhue." + +Slightly startled, a fairly youthful product of West Point twisted on +the uncomfortable orderly room chair, and glanced from the name on +George's card to the tall, well-built figure in a private's uniform +facing him. George knew he looked like a soldier, because some confiding +idiot had blankly told him so coming up on the train; but he hadn't the +first knowledge to support appearances, didn't even know how to stand at +attention, was making an effort at it now since it was clearly expected +of him, because he had sense enough to guess that the pompous, slightly +ungrammatical young man would insist during the next three months on +many such tributes. + +"I see. You're _the_ Morton." + +George was pleased the young man was impressed. He experienced again the +feelings with which he had gone to Princeton. He was being weighed, not +as skilfully as Bailly had done it, but in much the same fashion. He had +a quick thought that it was going to be nice to be at school again. + +"Any special qualifications of leadership?" + +The question took George by surprise. He hesitated. A reserve officer, +sitting by to help, asked: + +"Weren't you captain of the Princeton football team a few years ago?" + +"Yes, but we were beaten." + +"You must learn to say, 'sir,' Mr. Morton, when you address an officer." + +George flushed. That was etching his past rather too sharply. Then he +smiled, and amused at the silly business, mimicked Simpson's servility. + +"Very well, sir. I'll remember, sir." + +The West Point man was pleased, he was even more impressed, because he +knew football. He made marks on the card. When George essayed a salute +and stepped aside for the next candidate he knew he wasn't submerged in +this mass of splendid individualities which were veiled by the +similarity of their uniforms. + +Lambert, Goodhue, and he were scattered among different companies. That +was as well, he reflected, since his partners already wore officers' hat +cords. The spare moments they had, nevertheless, they spent together, +mulling over Blodgett's frequent reports which they never found time +thoroughly to digest. Even George didn't worry about that, for his +confidence in Blodgett was complete at last. + +He hadn't time to worry about much, for that matter, beyond the demands +of each day, for Plattsburgh was like Princeton only in that it aroused +all his will power to find the right path and to stick to it. At times +he wished for the nearly smooth brain with which he had entered college. +He had acquired too many wrinkles of logic, of organization, of +efficiency, of common-sense, to survive these months without frequent +mad desires to talk out in meeting, without too much humorous +appreciation of some of the arbiters of his destiny. Regular army +officers gave him the impression of having been forced through a long, +perpetually contracting corridor until they had come out at the end as +narrow as one of the sheets of paper work they loved so well. But he got +along with them. That was his business. He was pointed out enviously as +one of the football captains. It was a football captains' camp. All such +giants were slated for company or battery commander's commissions at +least. + +If he got it, George wondered if he would hate a captain's uniform as +much as the private's one he wore. + +With the warm weather the week-ends offered sometimes a relief. Men's +wives or mothers had taken little houses in the town or among the hills, +and the big hotel on the bluff opened its doors and welcomed other wives +and mothers, and many, many girls who would become both a little sooner +than they had fancied because of this. + +Betty arrived among the first, chaperoned for the time by the Sinclairs. +George dined with them, asked Betty about Sylvia, and received evasive +responses. Sylvia was surely coming up later. Betty was absorbed, +anyway, in her own affairs, he reflected unhappily. He felt lost in this +huge place where nearly everyone seemed to be paired. + +After dinner Lambert remained with Betty and Mrs. Sinclair, but George +and Mr. Sinclair wandered, smoking, through the grove above the lake. +George had had no idea that the news, for so long half expected, would +affect him as it did. + +"I suppose," Sinclair muttered, "you've heard about poor Blodgett." + +"What?" George asked, breathlessly. "We've little time for newspapers +here." + +"I'm not sure," Sinclair answered, "that it's in the papers, but in town +everybody's talking about it. Sylvia's thrown him over." + + +II + +George paused and considered the glowing end of his cigar. Instead of +vast relief he first of all experienced a quick sympathy for Blodgett. +He wanted to say something; it was expected of him, but he was occupied +with the effort to get rid of this absurd sympathy, to replace it by a +profound and unqualified satisfaction. + +"Why? Do you know why?" was all he managed. + +That was what he wanted, her private reason for this step which all at +once left the field quite open, and shifted their struggle back to its +old, honest basis. It was what he had told her would happen, must +happen. Since she had agreed at last why had she involved poor old +Blodgett at all? Had that merely been one of her defences which had +become finally untenable? Had George conceivably influenced her to its +assumption, at last to its abandonment? + +He stared at the opaque white light which rose like a mist from the +waters of the lake. He seemed to see, as on a screen, an adolescent +figure with squared shoulders and flushed cheeks tearing recklessly +along on a horse that wasn't sufficiently untamed to please its rider. +He replaced his cigar between his lips. Naturally she would be the most +exigent of enthusiasts. Probably that was why Blodgett had been so +pitifully anxious to crowd his bulk into the army. She had to be +untrammelled to cheer on the younger, stronger bodies. That was why she +had done it, because war had made her see that George was right by +bringing her to a stark realization of the value of the younger, +stronger bodies. + +Sinclair had evidently reached much the same conclusion, for he was +saying something about a whim, no lasting reason---- + +"I've always cared for Sylvia, but it's hard to forgive her this." + +"After all," George said, "Blodgett wasn't her kind. She'd have been +unhappy." + +In the opaque light Sinclair stared at him. + +"Not her kind! No. I suppose he's his own kind." + +Temporarily George had driven forth his sympathy. Blodgett, after all, +hadn't been above some sharp tricks to win such liking and admiration. +Sinclair, of all people, suffering for him! + +"I mean," George said, "he'd bought his way, hadn't he, after a fashion, +to her side?" + +Sinclair continued to stare. + +"I don't quite follow. If you mean Josiah's wanted to play with pleasant +people--yes, but the only buying he's ever done is with his amazing +generosity. He's pulled me for one out of a couple of tight holes after +I'd flown straight in the face of his advice. Nothing but a superb good +nature could be so forgiving, don't you think?" + +George walked on, keeping step with Sinclair, saying nothing more; +fighting the old instinct to reach forward, to grasp Blodgett's hand, to +beg his pardon; realizing regretfully, in a sense, that the last support +of his jealous contempt had been swept away. He was angry at the blow to +his self-conceit. It frightened him to have that attacked. He couldn't +put up with it. He would rid himself again of this persistent sympathy +for a defeated rival. Just the same, before accepting any more favours +from Blodgett, he desired to clasp the pudgy hand. + +Betty didn't know any more than Sinclair, nor did she care to talk about +the break. + +"I can't bear to think of all the happiness torn from that cheerful +man." + +George studied her face in the light from the windows as they paced up +and down the verandah. There was happiness there in spite of the +perplexing doubt with which she glanced from time to time at him. There +was no question. Betty's kindness had been taken away from him. He tried +to be glad for her, but he was sorry for himself, trying to fancy what +his life would have been if he had permitted his aim to be turned aside, +if he had yielded to the temptation of an unfailing kindness. It had +never been in his nature. Why go back over all that? + +"One tie's broken," he said, "and another's made. We're no longer the +good friends we were, because you haven't told me." + +Her white cheeks flooded with colour. She half closed her eyes. + +"What, George?" + +"That the moon is made of honey. I'm really grateful to Lambert for +these few minutes. Don't expect many more. I can't see you go without a +little jealousy, for there have been times when I've wanted you +abominably, Betty." + +They had reached the end of the verandah and paused there in a light +that barely disclosed her wondering smile; her wistful, reminiscent +expression. + +"It's funny," she said with a little catch in her voice, "to look back +on two children. I suppose I felt about the great George Morton as most +girls did." + +"You flatter me," he said. "Just what do you mean?" + +"It's rather tearful one can laugh about such things," she answered. "So +long ago! The great athlete's become a soldier!" + +"The stable boy's become a slave," he laughed. "Oh, no. Most girls +couldn't feel much sentiment about that kind of greatness." + +"Hush!" she whispered. "You know the night you told me all that I +thought it was a preliminary to your confessing how abominably you +wanted me." + +"Now, really, Betty----" + +"Quite true, George." + +"And you ran away." + +"And you," she said with a little laugh, "didn't follow." + +"Maybe I was afraid of the dragons in the castle. If I'd followed----?" + +"We'd have made the dragons angels." + +Beneath their jesting he was aware of pain in his heart, in her eyes; a +perception of lost chances, chances that never could have been captured. +One couldn't have everything. She had Lambert. He had nothing. But he +might have had Betty. + +He stooped and pressed his lips to her forehead. + +"That's as near as I shall ever come," he thought, sorrowfully, +wondering, against his will, if it were true. + +"It's to wish you and Lambert happiness," he said aloud. + +She raised her fingers to her forehead and let them linger there +thoughtfully. She sighed, straightened, spoke. + +"I'm no longer a sentimental girl, but the admiration has survived, +grown, George. Never forget that." + +"And the kindness?" he asked. + +"Of course," she said. "Why should that ever go?" + +But he shook his head. + +"All the kindness must be for Lambert. You wouldn't give by halves. +When, Betty?" + +"Let us walk back. I've left him an extraordinarily long time." + +"When?" he repeated. + +"I don't know," she answered. "After the war, if he comes home. Of +course, he wants it before. Lambert hurries one so." + +"It's the war," he said, gravely, "that hurries one." + + +III + +"I've wormed it out of Betty," he said to Lambert on the way back to +barracks. + +He added congratulations, heartfelt, accompanied by a firm clasp of the +hand; but Lambert seemed scarcely to hear, couldn't wait for George to +finish before breaking in. + +"You and Betty have always been like brother and sister. She says so. +I've seen it myself." + +George was a trifle uncomfortable. + +"What of it?" + +"If you get a chance point out to her in your brotherly way that the +sooner she marries me the more time we'll have together outside of +heaven. I can't very well go at her on that tack. Sounds slushy, but you +know there's a good chance of my not coming home, and she insists on +waiting." + +With all his soul George shrank from such a task. He glanced at the +other's long, athletic limbs. + +"There are worse fates than widowhood for war brides," he said, +brutally. + +Lambert made a wry face. + +"All the more reason for grabbing what happiness I can." + +"Pure selfishness!" George charged him. + +"You talk like a fond parent," Lambert answered. "I believe Betty is the +only one who doesn't think in those terms. She has other reasons; +ridiculous ones. When she tells them to you you'll come on my side." + +"Perhaps," George said, vaguely. + +Betty's obstinacy wasn't Lambert's only worry. Several times he opened +his mouth as if to speak, and apparently thought better of it. George +could guess the sense of those unexpressed phrases, and could understand +why Lambert should find it difficult to voice them to him. It wasn't +until they were in the sand of the company street, indeed, that Lambert +managed to state his difficulty, in whispers, so that the sleeping +barracks shouldn't be made restless. George noticed that the other +didn't mention Sylvia's name, but it was there in every word, with a +sort of apology for her, and a relief that she wasn't after all going to +marry one so much older and less graceful than herself. + +"I wish you'd suggest a way for me to pull out. I've thought it over. I +can't think of any pretty one, but I don't want to be under obligations +any longer to a man who has been treated so shabbily." + +It amused George to find himself in the position of a Sinclair, fighting +with Lambert to spare Blodgett's feelings. For Blodgett, Lambert's +proposed action would be the final humiliation. + +A day or two later, in fact, Lambert showed George a note he had had +from Blodgett. + + "Never let this come up again," a paragraph ran. "If it made + any difference between me and the rest of the family I'd feel + I'd got more than I deserve. I know I'm not good enough for + her. Let it go at that----" + +"You're right," Lambert said. "He's entitled to be met just there. I've +decided it shall make no difference to the business." + +George was relieved, but Lambert, it was clear, resented the situation, +blamed it on Sylvia, and couldn't wholly refrain from expressing his +disapproval. + +"No necessity for it in the first place. Can't see why she picked him, +why she does a lot of things." + +"Spoiled!" George offered with a happy grin. + +"Prefer to say that myself," Lambert grunted, "although God knows I'm +beginning to think it's true enough." + + +IV + +George doubted if he would see Sylvia at Plattsburgh at all, so +frequently was her visit postponed. Perhaps she preferred to cloister +herself really now, experiencing a sense of shame for the blow +circumstances had made her strike at one who had never quite earned it; +yet when she came, just before the end of camp, he detected no +self-consciousness that he could trace to Blodgett. Lambert and he +arrived at the hotel late one Saturday afternoon and saw her on the +terrace with her mother and the Alstons. For weeks George had forecasted +this moment, their first meeting since she had bought back her freedom +at the expense of Blodgett's heart; and it disappointed him, startled +him; for she was--he had never fancied that would hurt--too friendly. +For the first time in their acquaintance she offered her hand willingly +and smiled at him; but she had an air of paying a debt. What debt? He +caught the words "Red Cross," "recreation." + +"Rather faddish business, isn't it?" he asked, indifferently. + +He was still intrigued by Sylvia's manner. A chorus attacked him. Sylvia +and Betty, it appeared, were extreme faddists. Only Mrs. Planter smiled +at him understandingly from her eminent superiority. As he glanced at +his coarse uniform he wanted to laugh, then his temper caught him. The +debt she desired to pay was undoubtedly the one owed by a people. He +wanted to grasp her and shout in her ear: + +"You patriotic idiot! I won't let you insult me that way." + +"We have to do what we can," she was saying vehemently. "I wish I were a +man. How I wish I were a man!" + +If she were a man, he was thinking, he'd pound some sensible judgments +into her excited brain. Or was all this simply a nervous reaction from +her mental struggles of the past months, from her final escape--a +necessary play-acting? + +He couldn't manage a word with her alone before dinner. The party +wandered through grass-floored forest paths whose shy peace fled from +the approach of uniforms and the heavy tramp of army boots. He resented +her flood of public questions about his work, his prospects, his mental +attitude toward the whole business. Her voice was too kind, her manner +too sweet, with just the proper touch of sadness. She wasn't going to +spare him anything of the soldier's due. Since he was being fattened, +presumably for the butcher, she would turn his thoughts from the +knife---- + +He longed for the riding crop in her fingers; he would have preferred +its blows. + +If he got her alone he would put a stop to such intolerable abuse, but +the chance escaped him until long after dinner, when the moon swung high +above the lake, when the men in uniform and their women were paired in +the ballroom, or on the terrace and balconies. He asked her to dance at +last and she made no difficulty, giving him that unreal and provoking +smile. + +"You dance well," she said when the music stopped. + +They were near a door. He suggested that they go outside. + +"While I tell you that if you offer me any more of that gruel I'll +publicly accuse you of treason." + +She looked at him puzzled, hesitating. + +"What do you mean?" + +"When it comes to being killed," he answered, "I prefer the Huns to +empty kindness. It's rather more useful for the country, too. Please +come out." + +She shook her head. Her eyes were a little uncertain. + +"Yes, you will," he said. "You've let yourself in for it. I'm the victim +of one of your war charities. Let me tell you that sort of thing leads +from the dance floor to less public places. After all, the balcony isn't +very secluded. If you called for help it would come promiscuously, +immediately." + +She laughed. She tried to edge toward her mother. He stopped her. + +"Be consistent. Don't refuse a dying man," he sneered. + +"Dying man!" she echoed. + +"You've impressed me with it all evening. For the first time in your +life you've tried to treat me like a human being, and you've succeeded +in making me feel a perfect fool. Where's the pamphlet you've been +reciting from? I'll guarantee it says the next move is to go to the +balcony and be very nice and a little sentimental to the poor devil." + +Her head went up. She walked out at his side. He arranged chairs close +together at the railing where they seemed to sit suspended in limitless +emptiness above the lake and the mountains flattened by the moonlight. +Later, under very different circumstances, he was to recall that idea of +helpless suspension. She caught it, too, evidently, and gave it a +different interpretation. It was as if, engrossed by her own problems, +she had for the moment forgotten him. + +"This place is so high! It gives you a feeling of freedom." + +He knew very well what was in her mind. + +"I'm glad you can feel free. I'm glad with all my heart you are free +again." + +Caught by her sensations she didn't answer at once. He studied her +during that brief period when she was, in a fashion, helpless before his +eager eyes. Abruptly she faced him, as if the sense of his words had +been delayed in reaching her, or, as if, perhaps, his frank regard had +drawn her around, a little startled. + +"I shall not quarrel with you to-night," she said. + +"Good! Then you must let me tell you that while I'm sorry as I can be +for poor old Blodgett, I'm inexpressibly glad for you and for this +particular object of your charity." + +"It does not concern you," she said. + +"Enormously. I wonder if you would answer one or two questions quite +truthfully." + +She stirred uneasily, seemed about to rise, then evidently thought +better of it. The orchestra resumed its labours. Many figures near by +gravitated toward the ballroom, leaving them, indeed, in something very +near seclusion. And she stayed to hear his questions, but she begged him +not to ask them. + +"You and Lambert are friends. What you are both doing makes me want to +think of that, makes me want to make concessions, but don't +misunderstand, don't force me to quarrel with you until after this is +over." + +He paid no attention to her. + +"I suppose the war made you realize I was right about Blodgett?" + +"You cannot talk about that." + +"Has the war shown you I was right about myself?" he went on. + +"Are you going to make my good resolutions impossible?" she asked. + +Over his shoulder George saw the men in khaki guiding pretty girls about +the dance floor. The place was full of a heady concentration of pleasure +that had a beautiful as well as a pitiful side. About him the atmosphere +was frankly amorous, compounded of multiple desires of heart and mind +which strained for fulfilment before it should be too late. For him +Sylvia was a part of it--the greater part. It entered his senses as the +delightful and faint perfume which reached him from her. It became +ponderable in her dark hair; in her lips half parted; in her graceful +pose as she bent toward him attentively; in her sudden movement of +withdrawal, as if she had suddenly realized he would never give her her +way. + +"Isn't it time," he asked, "that you forgot some of your childish pride +and bad temper? Sylvia! When are you going to marry me?" + +Her laughter wasn't even, but she arose unhurriedly. She paused, indeed, +and sank back on the arm of the chair. + +"So even now," she said, "it's to be quarrels or nothing." + +"Or everything," he corrected her. "I shall make you realize it somehow, +some day. What's the use putting it off? Let's forget the ugly part of +the past. Marry me before I go to France." + +He was asking her what he had accused Lambert of unjustifiably wanting +Betty to do. All at once he understood Lambert's haste. He stretched out +his hand to Sylvia. He meant it--with all his heart he meant it, but she +answered him scornfully: + +"Is that your way of saying you love me?" + +The bitterness of many years revived in his mind, focusing on that +question. If he should answer it impulsively she would be in a position +to hurt him more than she had ever done. George Morton didn't dare take +chances with his impulses, and the bitterness was in his voice when he +answered: + +"You've never let me fancy myself at your feet in a sentimental fit." + +But it was difficult for him not to assume such an attitude: not to take +her hand, both of her hands; not to draw her close. + +"If you'd only answer me----" he began. + +She stood up. + +"Just as when I first saw you!" she cried, angrily. + +She controlled herself. + +"You shan't force me to quarrel. Come in. Let us dance once." + +In a sense he put himself at her feet then. + +"I'm afraid to dance with you to-night," he whispered. + +She looked at him, her eyes full of curiosity. Her eyes wavered. She +turned and started across the gallery. In a panic he sprang after her. + +"All right. Let us dance," he said. + +He led her to the floor and took her in his arms, but he had an +impression of guiding an automaton about the room. Almost at once she +asked him to stop by the door leading to the gallery. He looked at her +questioningly. Her distaste for the civilian Morton was undisguised at +last from the soldier Morton. But there was more than that to be read in +her colourful face--self-distaste, perhaps; and a sort of fright, +comparable with the panic George had just now experienced on the +verandah. Her voice was tired. + +"I've done my best. I can't keep it up." + +"No more war kindness!" he said. "Good!" + +He watched her, her draperies arranging themselves in perplexingly +graceful folds, as she hurried with an air of flight away from him along +the gallery. + + +V + +The evening the commissions were awarded George appreciated the +ingratitudes and cruelties of service rather more keenly than he had +done even as a youngster at Oakmont. + +"It's like tap day at New Haven," Lambert said, nervously. + +He had paused for a moment to compare notes with George. He hurried now +to his own organization for fear something might have happened during +his absence. The suspense increased, reaching even George, who all along +had been confident of success. + +In the dusk the entire company crowded the narrow space between the +barracks--scores of men who had been urged by passionate politicians to +abandon family, money, everything, for the discomforts, sometimes the +degradations, of this place, for the possible privilege of dying for a +cause. It had had to be done, but in the hearts of many that night was +the fancy that it might have been done rather differently. It was clear, +for instance, that the passionate and patriotic politicians hadn't +troubled to tear from a reluctant general staff enough commissions for +the size and quality of these first camps. Many of the men, therefore, +who with a sort of terror shuffled their feet in the sand, would be sent +home, to the draft, or to the questioning scorn of their friends, under +suspicion of a form of treason, of not having banged the drum quite hard +enough. And it wasn't that at all. + +George, like everyone else, had known for a long time there wouldn't be +enough commissions to go around. Why, he wondered now, had the fellows +chosen for dismissal been held for this public announcement of failure. +And in many cases, he reflected, there was no failure here beyond the +insolvency of a system. Among those who would go back to the world with +averted faces were numbers who hadn't really come at all within the +vision of their instructors, beyond whom they could not appeal. And +within a year this same reluctant army would be reaching out eagerly for +inferior officer material. And these men would not forget. You could +never expect them to forget. + +Two messengers emerged from the orderly room and commenced to thread the +restless, apprehensive groups, seeking, with a torturing slowness +finding candidates to whom they whispered. The chosen ran to the orderly +room, entered there, according to instructions, or else formed a long +line outside the window where sat the supreme arbiter, the giver, in a +way of life and death, the young fellow from West Point. + +Men patted George on the back. + +"You'll go among the first, George." + +But he didn't. He paced up and down, watching the many who waited for +the whisper which was withheld, waited until they knew it wouldn't +come, expressed then in their faces thoughts blacker than the closing +night, entered at last into the gloomy barracks where they sat on their +bunks silently and with bowed heads. + +Was that fate, through some miracle of mismanagement, reserved for him? +It couldn't be. The fellow had seen him at the start. George had forced +himself to get along with him, to impress him. Somebody touched George +on the arm. A curiously intense whisper filled his ear. + +"You're wanted in the orderly room, Morton." + +In leaving the defeated he had an impression of a difficult and +sorrowful severance. + +In the orderly room too many men rubbed shoulders restlessly. A relieved +sigh went up. It was as if everyone had known nothing vital could occur +before his arrival. The young West Pointer was making the most of his +moment. The war wasn't likely to bring him another half so great. + +Washington, he announced, had cut down the number of higher commissions +he had asked for. + +George's name was read among the first. + +"To be captain of infantry, United States Reserve--George Morton." + +There was something very like affection in the West Pointer's voice. + +"I recommended you for a majority, Mr. Morton. Stick to the job as you +have here, and it will come along." + +Lambert and Goodhue found him as he crowded with the rest through the +little door. They had kept their captaincies. Even Goodhue released a +little of his relief at the outcome. + +"Any number busted--no time to find out whether they were good or bad." + +The dark, hot, sandy street was full of shadowy figures, calling, +shouting, laughing neurotically. + +"Good fellow, but I had you on my list." "My Lord! I never expected more +than a private in the rear rank." "What do you think of Blank? Lost out +entirely." "Rotten deal." "Not the only one by several dozens." "Hear +about Doe? Wouldn't have picked him for a shave tail. Got a captaincy. +Teacher's pet." + +Brutally someone had turned on the barrack lights. Through the windows +the successful ones could see among the bunks the bowed and silent +figures, must have known how sacrilegious it was to project their +happiness into this place which had all at once become a sepulchre of +dead sacrifices. + +"I hope," George muttered to his friends, "I'll never have to see quite +so much suffering on a battlefield." + + +VI + +It wasn't pleasant to face Blodgett, but it had to be done, for all +three of the partners had determined out of necessity to spend the +greater portion of their leaves at the office. George slipped in alone +the morning he got back to New York. Blodgett looked up as if he had +been struck, taking in each detail of the uniform and its insignia, +symbols of success. The face seemed a little less round, infinitely less +contented. Sitting back there in his office he had an air of having +sought a corner. If Sylvia didn't, he clearly appreciated the shame of +the situation. George took the pudgy hand and pressed it, but he +couldn't say anything and Blodgett seemed to understand and be grateful. +He failed, however, to hide his envy of the uniform. + +"I'd give my money and something besides," he said, "to be able to climb +into that." + +"You're lucky you can't," George answered, half meaning it. + +As a substitute Blodgett spoke of some dollar-a-year work in Washington. + +"But don't worry, George. I'll see everything here is looked after." + +George was glad Blodgett had so much to take care of, for it was clear +that the more work he had the better off he would be. In Blodgett's +presence he tried not to think of Sylvia and his own intentions. He +wrote her, for the first time, boldly asking, since he couldn't suggest +such a visit to Lambert, if he might see her at Oakmont. She didn't keep +him in suspense. He smiled as he read her brief reply, it had been so +obviously dictated by the Sylvia who was going to be good to soldiers no +matter how dreadful the cost. + + "I thought I made you understand that what you proposed at + Plattsburgh can never become less preposterous; my response + less determined. So of course it wouldn't do for you to come. + When we see each other, as we're bound to do, before you sail, + I shall try to forget the absolute lack of any even merely + friendly ground between us. It would hurt Lambert----" + +"Damn Lambert!" he muttered. + +But he didn't tear her letter up. He put it in the pocket of his blouse. +He continued to carry it there. + +Instead of going to Oakmont, consequently, he spent a Sunday at +Princeton, vastly amused at the pacifist Bailly. Minute by minute the +attenuated tutor cursed his inability to take up a gun and pop at +Germans, interspersing his regrets with: + +"But of course war is dreadful. It is inconceivable in a healthy +brain----" and so forth. + +He had found a substitute for his chief ambition. He was throwing +himself heart and soul into the efforts of the Y.M.C.A. to keep soldiers +amused and fed. + +"For Princeton," he explained, "has become an armed camp, a mill to +manufacture officers; nothing more. The classics are as defunct as +Homer. I had almost made a bad pun by suggesting that of them all +Martial alone survives." + +Before he left, George was sorry he had come, for Lambert took pains to +leave Betty alone with him as they walked Sunday evening by the lake. +More powerful than Lambert's wishes in his mind was the memory of how +Betty and he had skated here, or come to boat races, or walked like this +in his undergraduate days; and she didn't take kindly to his +interference, letting him see that to her mind a marriage with Lambert +now would be too eager a jump into the house of Planter; too +inconsiderate a request for the key to the Planter coffers. + +"For Lambert may not come back," she said. + +"That's just it," he urged, unwillingly. "Why not take what you can be +sure of?" + +"What difference would it make?" she asked. "Would I love Lambert any +more? Would he love me any more?" + +"I think so," he said. + +She shook her head. + +"But the thought of a wife might make a difference at the front; might +make him hesitate, or give a little less. We all have to give +everything. So I give Lambert--entirely--if I have to." + +George didn't try to say any more, for he knew she was right; yet with +the opening of Camp Upton and the birth of the division the rather +abrupt marriages of soldiers multiplied. During the winter Officers' +House sheltered excited conferences that led to Riverhead where +licenses, clergymen, and justices of the peace could be found; and there +was scarcely a week-end that didn't see the culmination in town of a +romance among George's own friends and acquaintances. + +The week-ends he got were chiefly valuable to him because they offered +chances of seeing Sylvia. Few actually developed, however, for there +were not many general parties, since men preferred to cling, not +publicly, during such brief respites to those they loved and were on the +point of quitting. + +The Alstons had taken a house for the winter, and George caught her +there once or twice, and would rather not have seen her at all, she was +so painfully cordial, so bound up in her war work of which he felt +himself the chief victim. He began to fear that he would not see her +alone again before he sailed; that he might never be with her alone +again. + +He didn't care either for the pride she took in Dalrymple's presence at +the second camp. + +"He's sure to do well," she would say. "He's always had all sorts of +possibilities. Watch the war bring them out." + +Why did women like the man? There was no question that they did. They +talked now, in ancient terms, of his permanent exit from the field of +wild oats. He could be so fascinating, so thoughtful--of women. But men +didn't like him. Dalrymple's fascinating ways had caught them too +frequently, too expensively. And George didn't believe in his reform, +saw symptoms, as others did, of its true value when, at the close of the +second camp, Dalrymple got himself assigned to the trains of the +division. It was rumoured he had left Plattsburgh a second lieutenant. +It was fact that he appeared at Upton a captain. Secret intrigues in +Washington by fond parents, men whispered; but the women didn't seem to +care, for Dalrymple hadn't shown himself before any of them carrying +less than the double silver bars of a captain. + +George received his prophesied majority at the moment of this +disagreeable arrival. That did impress Sylvia to the point of making her +more cordial in public, more careful than before not to give him a word +in private. As the day of departure approached he grew increasingly +restless. He had never experienced a sensation of such complete +helplessness. He was bound by Upton. She could stand aside and mock him +with her studied politenesses. + +Blodgett ran down a number of times, to sit in George's quarters, +working with the three partners over figures. They made tentative lists +of what should be sold at the first real whisper of peace. + +"But there'll be no peace for a long time," Blodgett promised. "There's +a lot of money for you boys in this war yet." + +They laughed at him, and he looked a little hurt, apparently unable to +see anything humorous in his cheerful promise. + +Dalrymple was aware of these conferences, for he was frequently about +the regimental area. George wasn't surprised, when he sat alone one +night, to hear a tap on his window pane, to see Dalrymple's face at the +window. + +"Hesitate to disturb a major, and all that," Dalrymple said as he +entered. "Two rooms. You're lucky." + +"Not luck; work," George said, shortly. "What is it? Didn't come here to +envy my rank, did you?" + +Although he was in far better shape nervously and physically than he had +been that day in George's office, Dalrymple bore himself with much the +same confused and hesitant manner. It recalled to George the existence +of the note which the other had made no effort to redeem. + +"You know," Dalrymple began, vaguely, "there's a lot of--what do you +call it--bunk--about this hurrah for the dear old soldier business. Fact +is, the more chance there is of a man's getting blown up the nastier +some people become." + +George laughed shortly. + +"You mean when you owe them money." + +"As Driggs used to say," Dalrymple answered, "'you're a very penetrating +person.'" + +He hesitated, then went on with an increasing difficulty: + +"You're one of the people I owe money to." + +Wandel had taken George's hint, evidently. George was sorry he had ever +let it drop. But was he? Mightn't it be as well in the end? In spite of +all this talk of people's leaving their bones in France, there was a +fair chance that both Dalrymple and he would bring theirs, unaltered, +back to America. + +"Don't worry," George said. "I shan't press you." + +"Handsome enough," Dalrymple thanked him in a voice scarcely above a +whisper. "But everybody isn't that decent. It's this talk of the +division sailing that's turned them nasty." + +George fingered a pamphlet about poison gases. He didn't much blame +debtors for turning nasty. + +"You want to borrow some more money from me," he said. + +Dalrymple's face lightened. + +"If you'd be that good; but it's a lot." + +"Why," George asked, quietly, "don't you go to someone you're closer +to?" + +Dalrymple flushed. He wouldn't meet George's eyes. + +"Dicky would give it me," he said, "but I can't ask him; I've made him +too many promises. So would Lambert, but it would be absurd for me to go +to him." + +"Why absurd?" George asked, quietly. + +"Wholly impossible," was all Dalrymple would say. "Quite absurd." + +There came back to George his ugly sensations at Blodgett's, and he knew +he would give Dalrymple a lot of money now, as he had given him a +little then, and for precisely the same reason. + +"I'm afraid I've been a bit hard on my friends," Dalrymple admitted. "As +a rule they've dried up." + +"So you come to one who isn't a friend?" George asked. + +"Now see here, Morton, that's scarcely fair." + +"You haven't forgotten that day in my office," George accused him, "when +you made a brutal ass of yourself." + +"Said I was sorry. Don't you ever forget anything?" + +Dalrymple was angry enough himself now, but his worry apparently forced +him on. + +"I wouldn't have come to you at all, only Driggs said--and you said +yourself once, and you can spare it. I know that. See here. Unless +somebody helps me these people will go to Division Headquarters or +Washington. They'll stop my sailing. They'll----" + +"Don't cry," George interrupted. "You want money, and you don't give a +hang where it comes from. That's it, isn't it?" + +"I have to have money," Dalrymple acknowledged. + +"Then you ought to have sense enough to know the only reason I'd give it +to you. Do you think I'd care if they held you in this country for your +silly debts? What you borrow you have to pay back in one way or another. +Don't make any mistake. If I give you money it's to be able to make you +pay as I please. You've always had a knife out for me. I don't mind +putting one in my own hands. If you want money on those terms come to my +office with your accounts Saturday afternoon. We'll see what can be +done." + +Dalrymple was quite white. He moistened his lips. As he left he +muttered: + +"I can't answer back. I have to have money. You've got me where you +want." + + +VII + +Dalrymple's necessities turned out to be greater than George had +imagined. They measured pretty accurately the extent of his +reformation. George got several notes to run a year in return for +approximately twenty thousand dollars. + +"Remember," he said at the close of the transaction, "you pay those back +when and how I say." + +"I wouldn't have come to you if I could have helped it," Dalrymple +whined. "But don't forget, Morton, somebody will pull me out at a pinch. +I'm going to work to pay you if I live. I'm through with nonsense. Give +me a chance." + +George nodded him out, and sent for his lawyer. In case of his death +Dalrymple's notes would go back to the man. Everything else he had +divided between his mother and the Baillys. He wrote his mother a long +letter, telling her just what to do. Quite honestly he regretted his +inability to get West to say good-bye. The thought of bringing her to +New York or Upton had not occurred to him. + +For during these days of farewells everyone flocked to Upton, sitting +about the hostess houses all day and evening for an occasional chat with +their hurried men. Then they let such moments slip by because of a +feeling of strangeness, of dumb despair. + +The Alstons and the Baillys were there, and so, of course, was Sylvia, +with her mother, more minutely guarded than she had ever been. His few +glimpses of her at luncheon or supper at Officers' House increased the +evil humour into which Dalrymple had thrown him. Consequently he looked +at her, impressing upon his morose mind each detail of her beauty that +he knew very well he might never study again. The old depression of +complete failure held him. She was going to let him go without a word. +Even this exceptional crisis was without effect upon her intolerant +memory. He would leave her behind to complete a destiny which he, +perhaps, after all, had affected only a very little. + +With the whispered word that there would be no more meetings at +Officers' House, that before dawn the regiment would have slipped from +Upton, George turned to his packing with the emotions of a violently +constricted animal. He wouldn't even see her again. When Lambert came to +confer with him about some final dispositions he watched him like such +an animal, but Lambert let him see that he, too, was at a loss. He had +sent word by an orderly that he couldn't get to Officers' House that +evening. + +"I couldn't make it any plainer. If they've any sense they'll know and +hunt me up." + +They were wise, and a little of George's strain relaxed, for they found +Lambert in his quarters, and they made it clear that they had come to +say good-bye to George, too. After many halting efforts they gave up +trying to express themselves. + +"The Spartans were better at this sort of thing," Bailly said at the +last as he clasped George's hand. + +"Every Hun I kill or capture, sir, I'll think of as your Hun." + +Without words, without tears, Mrs. Bailly kissed his lips. George tried +to laugh. + +Betty wouldn't say good-bye, wouldn't even shake hands. + +"I shan't think of killing," she said. "Just take care of yourselves, +and come back." + +George stared at her, alarmed. He had never seen her so white. Lambert +followed her from the room. The Baillys went out after them. Why did +Mrs. Planter linger? There she stood near the door, looking at George +without the slightest betrayal of feeling. He had an impression she was +going to say: + +"We've really quite enjoyed Upton." + +At least she held Sylvia a moment longer, Sylvia who had said nothing, +who had not met his eyes, who had seemed from the first anxious to +escape from this plank room littered with the paraphernalia of battle. +Mrs. Planter held out her hand, smiling. + +"Good-bye, Major. One doesn't need to wish you success. You inspire +confidence." + +He was surprised at the strength of her white hand, felt it draw him +closer, watched her bend her head, heard her speak in his ear so low +that Sylvia couldn't hear--a whisper intense, agonized, of a quality +that seemed like a white-hot iron in his brain: + +"Take care of my son. Bring him back to me." + +She straightened, releasing his hand. + +"Come, Sylvia," she said, pleasantly. + +Without looking back she went out. + +"Good luck, Major," Sylvia said, and prepared to follow. + +Quickly George reached out, caught her arm, and drew her away from the +door. + +"You're not going to say good-bye like this." + +In her effort to escape, in her flushed face, in her angry eyes, he read +her understanding that no other man she knew could have done just this, +that it was George Morton's way. Why not? He had no time for veneer now. +It was his moment, probably his last with her. + +With her free hand she reached behind her to steady herself against the +table. Her fingers touched the gas mask that lay there, then stiffened +and moved away. Some of the colour left her face. Her arm became passive +in his grasp. + +"Let me go. How do you want me to say good-bye?" + +He caught her other arm. + +"Give me something to take. Oh, God, Sylvia! Let me have my kiss." + + +VIII + +Never since he had walked out of the great gate with Sylvia's dog at his +heels to a wilful tutoring of his body and brain had George yielded to +such untrammelled emotion, to so unbounded a desire. This moment of +parting, in which he had felt himself helpless, had swept it all +away--the carefully applied manner, the solicitous schooling of an +impulsive brain, the minute effort to resemble the class of which he had +imagined himself a part. Temporarily he was back at the starting point, +the George Morton who had lifted Sylvia in his arms, blurting out +impossible words, staring at her lips with an abrupt and narrow +realization that sooner or later he would have to touch them. + +Sylvia's quick action brought some of it back, but he had no remorse, no +feeling of reversion, for the moment itself was naked, inimical to +masquerade. + +"Lambert!" she called. + +Her voice didn't suggest fright or too sharp a hurry. Looking at her +face he could understand how much her control had cost, for her +expression was that of the girl Sylvia, filled with antipathy, +abhorrence, an inability to believe. It appeared to tell him that if he +had ever advanced toward her at all, he had just now forced himself back +to his own side of the vast space dividing them. + +"Don't be a fool," he whispered. "I could take it, but you have to +give." + +Her lips were pressed tight as if in a defence against the possible +approach of his. They both heard a quick step outside. He let her arms +go, and turned to the door where Dalrymple stood, unquestionably good to +look upon in his uniform. He frowned at this picture which might have +suggested to him a real intimacy between George Morton and Sylvia +Planter. + +"Lambert's gone on with Betty and the others. What's up?" + +Sylvia's voice wasn't quite steady. + +"The Major can't leave the area. I want somebody to take me to Officers' +House." + +George nodded. He had quite recovered his control, and he knew he had +failed, that there was nothing more to be done. The thought of the +doubtful days ahead was like a great burden on his soul. + +"I've one more word for the Major," she said at the door, motioning +Dalrymple on. + +George went close to her. + +"It's only this," she said. "I'm sorry it had to come at the last +minute." + +He laughed shortly. + +"It was the last minute that made it. I'm not sorry." + +Her face twisted passionately, as if she were on the point of angry +tears. + +"I hope I shall never see you again. Do you understand that?" + +"Quite," he said, dryly. "To George on going to the wars!" + +"I didn't mean just that," she cried, angrily. + +"It's your only chance," he said, "and I can understand how you can wish +I shouldn't come back." + +"I didn't mean it," she repeated. + +"Don't count too heavily on it," he went on. "I can't imagine dying +before having had what I have always wanted, have always sooner or later +intended to get. If I come back I shall have it." + +Without another word she turned and left him. He watched her walk side +by side with Dalrymple out of the area. + + +IX + +There were moments on the voyage, in the training area in Flanders, even +at the front, when he was sorry he had tried to take something of Sylvia +with him to battle; for, as it was, he had of her nothing whatever +except a wish that she should never see him again. There was a deep +irony, consequently, in his official relations with her brother, for it +was Lambert who saluted him, who addressed him perpetually as "sir," who +wanted to know if the major would approve of this, that, or the other. +It was grotesque. He wanted to cry aloud against this necessary +servility of a man whose sister couldn't abide the inferiority of its +object. + +And he hated war, its waste, its bad management, its discomforts, its +dangers. Was it really true he had involved himself in this filth +because of Sylvia? Then that was funny. By gad, he would see her again! +But he watched his chances dwindle. + +While the battalion was in reserve in Lorraine Lambert and he ran into +Dalrymple at the officers' club beneath division headquarters in +Baccarat. George saw him first. + +"The intrepid warrior takes his ease," he muttered. + +Dalrymple left three staff men he was with and hurried across the room. + +"New York must be a lonesome place," he said. "Everybody here. Had a +letter from Sylvia, Lambert." + +Why should she write to him? Far from women's eyes he was back at it. +One of the staff men, in fact, wandered over and whispered to George. + +"Either you chaps from the trains? Somebody ought to take him to his +billet. General or chief-of-staff might drift through. Believe he'd slap +'em on the shoulder." + +"Not a bad idea," George said, contemptuously. + +Dalrymple didn't even try to be cordial to him, knowing George wasn't +likely to make trouble as long as they were in France. Lambert took care +of him, steered him home, and a few days later told George with +surprised laughter that the man had been transferred to a showy and +perfectly safe job at G.H.Q. + +"Papa, and mama, and Washington!" Lambert laughed. + +"Splendid thing for the war," George sneered. + +But he raved with Lambert when Goodhue was snatched away by a general +who chose his aides for their names and social attainments. + +"Spirit's all through the army," Goodhue complained, bitterly. "Why +doesn't it occur to them to get the right men for the right places?" + +He sighed. + +"Suppose we'll get through somehow, but there'll be too much mourning +sold at home." + +All along that had been in George's mind, and, in his small way, he did +what he could, studying minutely methods of accomplishing his missions +at the minimum cost to his battalion; but on the Vesle he grew +discouraged, seeing his men fall not to rise; or to be lifted to a +stretcher; or to scramble up and stagger back swathed with first-aid +rolls, dodging shells and machine-gun spirts; or, and in some ways that +was hardest of all to watch, to be led by some bandaged ones, blinded +and vomiting from gas. + +He had no consecutive sleep. He never got his clothes off. He snatched +food from a tin can. He suffered from the universal dysentery. He was +under constant fire. He lay in shallow funk holes, conferring with his +company and platoon commanders. At best he sat in the cellar of a +smashed house, poring, by the light of a candle, over maps and +complicated orders. Most of the time he wore a gas mask which had the +advantage, however, of shutting out the stifling odour of decay. He +never had time to find out if he was afraid. He reached a blessed state +of indifference where getting hit appeared an inevitable and restful +prospect. + +Driggs Wandel arrived surprisingly on the day the Germans were falling +back to the Aisne, at a moment when most of the artillery fire was +coming from the American side, when it was possible to sit on a sunny +bank outside the battalion dugout breathing only stale souvenirs of last +night's gas shells. + +"_Bon jour_, most powerful and disreputable of majors!" + +George held out his hand. + +"Bring any chocolate, Driggs? Sit down, you idiot. Jerry's never seen +such a nice new uniform." + +Suddenly he lost his temper. Why the devil couldn't he get some pleasure +out of this extraordinary reunion? Why did he have to greet Wandel as if +he had seen him daily since their parting more than three years ago on a +dusky pier in New York? He had heard that Wandel, with the declaration +of war, had left the ambulance for a commission in the field artillery. +He saw him now wearing the insignia of a general staff major. + +"Just attached to your corps headquarters," Wandel said. "Didn't want +the job, would rather have been a fighting man with my pretty guns. +Suppose some fool of a friend of the family brought the usual influence +without consulting me." + +"Glad to see you, Driggs," George muttered, "although I don't seem able +to tell you so. How did you get here?" + +"Guide from regimental headquarters. Wanted to see how the submerged +heroes live. Nasty, noisy, smelly spot to be heroic in." + +"A picnic to-day." + +"I've always suspected," Wandel said, "that picnics were unhealthy." + +"Better have come," George grinned, "any other day we've been here the +past few weeks." + +Wandel laughed. + +"Don't think I didn't pick my day. The general staff takes no +unnecessary risks. Tell me, my George, when did you shave last? When did +you wash your pretty face last? When did you take your swank clothes off +last?" + +"I think when I was a very little boy," George sighed. + +Wandel became abruptly serious, turned so, perhaps, by a large shell +fragment, still warm, which he had picked up. As he fingered it he +stared at George. + +"I know," George said, "that I point a moral, but even little boys would +be glad to be made clean if they got like this. Don't rub it in." + +"To the contrary," Wandel said, thoughtfully, "I'm going back over a lot +of years. I'm remembering how that most extraordinary man, Freshman +George Morton, looked. I'm thinking that I've always been right about +you." + +The warm sun, the diminution of racket, this sudden companionship, had +drawn George a little from his indifferent, half-dazed condition. He, +too, could look back, and without discomfort. On the Vesle it was only +death that counted. Birth didn't amount to a hill of beans, or money, or +education, except in that it made a man an officer. So George answered +frankly: + +"All along you've guessed a lot about me, Driggs." + +"Known, George." + +"Would you mind telling me how?" + +"It would be a pleasure to point out to you," Wandel drawled, "that a +lot of people aren't half as big fools as you've credited them with +being. You looked a little what you were at first. You've probably +forgotten that when you matriculated you put down a place of residence, +a record easily available for one who saw, as I did, means of using you. +Even a fool could have guessed something was up the night Betty was good +enough to make herself a part of the _beau monde_. I gathered a lot from +Lambert then." + +"Yet," George said, almost indifferently, "you went on being a friend." + +"Your political manager, George," Wandel corrected. "I'm not sure it +would have gone much further if it hadn't been for Dicky." + +George was thoroughly aroused at last. + +"Did Dicky know?" + +"Not mere facts," Wandel answered. "What difference did they make? But +he could see what you had started from, how great the climb you were +taking. That's why he liked and admired you, because of what you were, +not because of what you wanted people to think you were. That's really +what first attracted me to you, and it amused me to see you fancying you +were getting away with so much more than you really were." + +"Extraordinary!" George managed. "Then the heights are not so well +guarded?" + +"Ah, yes--guarded," Wandel said, "but not against great men." + +George kicked at the ground with his heel. + +"Funny how unimportant it all seems here," he muttered. + +It wasn't only the surroundings that made it seem unimportant; it was +his remembrance of Sylvia who had known more than Wandel, more than +anybody, yet had never opened the gate. + +"You've taken all my conceit away," he went on. "Once it might have made +me want to put myself out. Now I'm quite content to let Jerry do it." + +Wandel's voice warmed, was less affected than George had ever heard it. + +"What are you talking about? You've won a great victory. You should +carry laurels on your brow. You've climbed to the top. You've defined +for us all a possible socialism." + +George smiled. + +"A hell of a thing to talk about here! But tell that to Squibs, will +you, little man, when you get back? We've had some rare battles over +it." + +Wandel hurried on. + +"You've made yourself one of us, if it's any satisfaction. You're as +good as the best of us--of the inheritors." + +George folded his arms on his knees and bowed his head. Wandel's voice +was startled. + +"What's up?" + +"Maybe I'm crying," George mumbled. "Ought to be, because I'm so filthy +tired, and I know you're wrong, Driggs. I'm rotten inside. I haven't +even started to climb." + +But when he looked up there were no tears in his eyes, and his dirty +face had altered with its old whimsical smile. + +"Besides, it's enough to make me cry to know you wouldn't say all this +unless you were certain I'm going to be killed." + +"Hope not," Wandel laughed, "but picnics are full of germs. What's +this?" + +A grimy figure approached like a man fantastically imitating some +animal. His route was devious as if he were perpetually dodging +something that miraculously failed to materialize. He stopped, +straightened reluctantly, and saluted George. + +"Captain sent me on, sir. I've located Jerry opposite at----" + +He rattled off some coordinates. George looked him over. + +"How did you find that out?" he snapped. + +"Ran across Jerry----" + +The dirty young man recited jerkily and selflessly a story of fear and +risks overcome, of cunning stealth, of passionate and promiscuous +murder---- + +"Report back," George said. + +When he had gone George called for his adjutant and turned to Wandel. + +"Before anything happens to me," he said, "I'll recommend that dirty +young assassin for a citation." + +Wandel laughed in a satisfied way. + +"I'm always right about you, great man. Don't you see that? Never think +about your own citation----" + +George stared at him, uncomprehending. + +"Citation! A thousand citations for a bed!" + +He watched Wandel uneasily when, at the heels of a guide, he dodged down +the slope in search of Lambert, calling back: + +"Don't swallow any germs." + +"That's very fine, Driggs," he thought, "but why all that and not the +rest? I'd give a good deal to guess what you know about me and Sylvia +Planter." + + +X + +George hoped Wandel would find Lambert. Day by day he had dreaded bad +news. Other officers and men got hit every hour; why not himself or +Lambert? For he had never forgotten Mrs. Planter's unexpected and +revealing whisper. It had shown him that even beneath such exteriors +emotion lurks as raw, as desirous, as violent as a savage's. The rest, +then, was habit which people inherited, or acquired, or imitated with +varying success. It had made him admire her all the more, had forced on +him a wish to obey her, but what could he do? It was not in him to play +favourites. One man's life was as good as another's; but he watched +Lambert as he could, while in his tired brain lingered a feeling of fear +for that woman's son. + +During the peaceful days dividing the Aisne and the Argonne he looked at +Lambert and fingered his own clothing, stained and torn where death had +nearly reached, with a wondering doubt that they could both be whole, +that Mrs. Planter in her unemotional way could still welcome guests to +Oakmont. And he recalled that impression he had shared with Sylvia on +the bluff above Lake Champlain of being suspended, but he no longer felt +free. He seemed to hang, indeed, helplessly, in a resounding silence +which at any moment would commence giving forth unbearable, Gargantuan +noises; for, bathed and comfortable, eating in leisure from a mess-kit, +he never forgot that this was a respite, that to-morrow or the next day +or the day after the sounding board would reverberate again, holding him +a deafened victim. + +Wandel caught up with them one evening in the sylvan peace that preceded +the fatal forest uproar. The Argonne still slumbered; was nearly silent; +offered untouched trees under which to loaf after a palatable cold +supper. The brown figures of enlisted men also lounged near by, +reminiscing, wondering, doubtless, as these officers did, about New +York which had assumed the attributes of an unattainable paradise. + +George hadn't been particularly pleased to see Wandel. What Wandel knew +made more difference in this quiet place, and George had a vague, shamed +recollection of having accused himself of being rotten inside, of not +having even started to climb. + +"Must have had a touch of shell shock without knowing it," he mused as +he stared through the dusk at the precise, clean little man. + +Indifferently he listened to Lambert's good-natured raillery at the +general staff, then he focussed his attention, for Lambert's voice had +suddenly turned serious, his hand had indicated the lounging figures of +the enlisted men. + +"With all your ridiculous fuss and feathers at nice headquarters +chateaux, I don't suppose you ever get to know those fellows, Driggs." + +"I don't see why not," Wandel drawled. + +"Do you love them, everyone?" + +"Can't say that I do, but then my heart is only a small organ." + +"I do," Lambert said, warmly. "And you'll find George does. You can't +help it when you see them pulling through this thing. They're real men, +aren't they, George?" + +George yawned. + +"Are they any more so," he asked, dryly, "than they were when they lived +in the same little town with you? I mean, if all you say about them is +true why did you have to wait for war to introduce you to unveil their +admirable qualities?" + +Lambert straightened. + +"It's wrong," he said, defiantly, "that I should have waited. It's wrong +that I couldn't help myself." + +"And you once tried to take a horse whip to me," George whispered in his +ear. + +It was Lambert's absurd earnestness that worried him. Did Lambert, too, +have a touch of shell shock? Wandel was trying to smooth out his +doubts. + +"I think what you mean to say is that war, aside from military rank, is +a great leveller. We can leave that out altogether. You know the +professional officer's creed: 'Good Colonel, deliver us.' 'We beseech ye +to hear us, good General,' and so on up to the top man, who begs the +Secretary of War, who prays to the President, who, one ventures to hope, +gets a word to God. You mean, Lambert, that out here it never occurs to +you to ask these men who their fathers were, or what preps they went to, +or what clubs they're members of. It's the war spirit--aside from +military rank--this sham equality. Titled ladies dine with embarrassed +Tommies. Your own sister dances with doughboys who'd be a lot happier if +she'd leave them alone. It's in the air, beautiful, gorgeous, hysterical +war democracy which declares that all men are equal until they're +wounded; then they're superior; or until they're dead; then they're +forgotten." + +George grunted. + +"You're right, Driggs. It won't survive the war." + +"Paper work!" Wandel sneered. + +"It ought to last!" Lambert cried. "I hope it does." + +"Pray that it doesn't," Wandel said. "I fancy the real hell of war comes +after the war is over. We'll find that out, if we live. As for me, even +now when we're all beloved brothers, I'd give a good deal to be sitting +in a Fifth Avenue club looking out on lesser men." + +"I would, too," George said, fervently. + +Lambert spoke with abysmal seriousness. + +"I'd rather have some of the splendid lesser men sitting on the same +side of the window with me." + +George stared at him. What had happened to this aristocrat who had once +made a medieval gesture with a horse whip? Certainly he, the plebeian +victim of that attack, had no such wish. Put these men on the same side +of a club window, or a factory window, for that matter, and they'd drag +the whole business down to their level, to eternal smash fast enough. +Why, hang Lambert! It amounted to visualizing his sister as a slattern. +He smiled with a curious pride. Reddest revolution couldn't make her +that. She wouldn't come down off her high horse if a dozen bayonets +were at her throat. What the deuce was he thinking about? Why should he +be proud of that? For, if he lived, he was going to drag her off +himself, but he wouldn't make her a slattern. + +"You talk like Allen," he said, "and you haven't even his excuse." + +"I've seen the primeval for the first time," Lambert answered. + +"I'll admit it has qualities," Wandel yawned. "Anyway, I'm off." + +Mrs. Planter came back to George's mind, momentarily as primeval as a +man surrendered to the battle lust. What one saw, except in +self-destructive emergencies, he told himself, was all veneer. Ages, +epochs, generations, merely determined its depth. The hell after war! +Did Wandel mean there was danger then of an attempt to thin the veneer? +Was Lambert, of all people, going to assist the Allens to plane it away? + +"It would mean another dark ages," he mused. + +His own little self-imposed coat he saw now had gone on top of a far +thicker one without which he would have been as helpless as a bushman or +some anthropoidal creature escaped from an unexplored country. + +He laughed, but uncomfortably. Those two had made him uneasy, and +Squibs, naturally, was at Lambert's folly. There had been a letter a day +or two ago which he had scarcely had time to read because of the demands +of an extended movement and the confusion of receiving replacements and +re-equipping the men he had. He read it over now. "Understanding," +"Brotherhood." + +"You are helping to bring it about, because you are helping to win this +war." + +In a fit of irritation he tore the letter up. What the devil was he +fighting the war for? + +The question wouldn't let him asleep. Lambert, Wandel, and Squibs +between them had made him for the first time in his life thoroughly, +uncomfortably, abominably afraid--physically afraid--afraid of being +killed. For all at once there was more than Sylvia to make him want to +live. He didn't see how he could die without knowing what the deuce he +was fighting this man's war for, anyway. + + +XI + +He hadn't learned any more about it when Lambert and he were caught on +the same afternoon a week later. + +In the interminable, haggard thicket the attack had abruptly halted. +Word reached George that Lambert's company was falling back. To him that +was beyond belief if Lambert was still with his men. He hurried forward +before regimental headquarters had had a chance to open its distant +mouth. There were machine-gun nests ahead, foolish stragglers told him. +Of course. Those were what he had ordered Lambert to take. The company +was disorganized. Little groups slunk back, dragging their rifles as if +they were too heavy. Others squatted in the underbrush, waiting +apparently for some valuable advice. + +George found the senior lieutenant, crouched behind a fallen log, +getting the company in hand again through runners. + +"Where's Captain Planter?" + +The lieutenant nodded carelessly ahead. + +"Hundred yards or so out there. He ran the show too much himself," he +complained. "Bunch of Jerries jumped out of the thicket and threw potato +mashers, then crawled back to the guns. When the captain went down the +men near him broke. Sort of thing spreads like a pestilence." + +"Dead?" George asked. + +"Don't know. Potato mashers!" + +"Why haven't you found out?" George asked, irritably. + +The complaining note increased in the other's voice. + +"He's at the foot of that tree. Hear those guns? They're just zipping a +few while they wait for someone to get to him." + +"Pull your company together," George said with an absurd feeling that he +spoke to Mrs. Planter. "I'll go along and see that we get him and those +nests. They're spoiling the entire afternoon." + +The lieutenant glanced at him, startled. + +"I can do it----" + +"You haven't," George reminded him. + +He despatched runners to the flank companies and to regimental +headquarters announcing that he was moving ahead. When the battalion +advanced, like a lot of fairly clever Indians, he was in the van, making +straight for the tree. He had a queer idea that Mrs. Planter quietly +searched in the underbrush ahead of him. The machine guns, which had +been trickling, gushed. + +"You're hit, sir," the lieutenant said. + +George glanced at his right boot. There was a hole in the leather, but +he didn't feel any pain. He dismissed the lieutenant's suggestion of +stretcher bearers. He limped ahead. Why should he assume this risk for +Lambert? Sylvia wouldn't thank him for it. She wouldn't thank him for +anything, but her mother would. He had to get Lambert back and complete +his task, but he was afraid to examine the still form he saw at last at +the base of the tree, and he knew very well that that was only because +Lambert was his friend. He designated a man to guide the stretcher +bearers, and bent, his mind full of swift running and vicious tackles, +abrupt and brutal haltings of this figure that seemed to be asleep, that +would never run again. + +Lambert stirred. + +"Been expecting you, George," he said, sleepily. + +"Anything besides your leg?" George asked. + +"Guess not," Lambert answered. "What more do you want? Thanks for +coming." + +George left him to the stretcher bearers and hurried on full of envy; +for Lambert was going home, and George hadn't dared stop to urge him to +forget that dangerous nonsense he had talked the other night. Nonsense! +You had only to look at these brown figures trying to flank the spouting +guns. Why did they have to glance continually at him? Why had they +paused when he had paused to speak to Lambert? Same side of the window! +But a few of them stumbled and slept as they fell. + +He had just begun to worry about the blood in his right boot when +something snapped at the bone of his good leg, and he pitched forward +helplessly. + +"Some tackle!" he thought. + +Then through his brain, suddenly confused, flashed an overwhelming +gratitude. He couldn't walk. He couldn't go forward. He wouldn't have to +take any more risks beyond those shared with the stretcher bearers who +would carry him back. Like Lambert, he was through. He was going +home--home to Sylvia, to success, to the coveted knowledge of why he had +fought this war. + +The lieutenant, frightened, solicitous, crawled to him, summoning up the +stretcher bearers, for the advance had gone a little ahead, the German +range had shortened to meet it. + +"How bad, sir?" + +George indicated his legs. + +"Never learned how to walk on my hands." + +The lieutenant straightened, calling out cursing commands. George +managed to achieve a sitting posture. By gad! This leg hurt! It made him +a little giddy. Only once before, he thought vaguely, had he experienced +such pain. What was the trouble here? The advance had halted, probably +because the word had spread that he was down. + +What was it Lambert had said about putting the rank and file on the same +side of the window? The rank and file wanted an officer, and the higher +the officer the farther it would go. That was answer enough for Lambert, +Squibs, Allen----And he would point it out to them all, for the +stretcher bearers had come up, had lifted him to the stretcher, were +ready to start him back to decency, to safety---- + +Thank God there wasn't any multitude or an insane trainer here to order +him about. + +"They've stopped again," the lieutenant sobbed. "Some of them are coming +back." + +That sort of thing did spread like a pestilence, but there was nothing +George could do about it. He had done his job. Good job, too. Soft +billet now. Decency. Sylvia. No Green. No multitude---- + +"You make a touchdown!" + +And he became aware at last of the multitude--raving higher officers in +comfortable places; countless victims of invasion, waiting patiently to +go home; myriads in the cities, intoxicated with enthusiasm and wine, +tumbling happily from military play to patriotic bazaar; but most +eloquent of all in that innumerable company were the silent and cold +brown figures lying about him in the underbrush. + +His brain, a little delirious, was filled with the roaring from the +stands. The crowd was commanding him to get ahead somehow, to wipe out +those deadly nests, to let the regiment, the army, tired nations, sweep +on to peace and the end of an unbelievable madness. + +Once more he glanced through blurred eyes at his clothing and saw +livery, and this time he had put it on of his own free will. He seemed +to hear Squibs: + +"World lives by service." + +"I'm in the service," he thought. "Got to serve." + +It impressed him as quite pitiful that now he would never know just why. + +"Where you going?" he demanded of the stretcher bearers who had begun to +carry him back. + +They tried to explain, hurrying a little. He threatened them with his +revolver. + +"Turn around. Let's go--with the battalion." + +The lieutenant saw, the men saw, these frightened figures running with +loping steps, carrying a stretcher which they jerked and twitched so +that the figure lying on it with arm raised, holding a revolver, +suffered agonies and struggled not to be flung to the ground. And the +lieutenant and the men sprang to their feet, ran forward, shouted: + +"Follow the Major!" + +The German gunners, caught by surprise, hesitated, had trouble, +therefore, shortening their ranges; and as panic spreads so does the +sudden spirit of victory. + +"Same side of the window!" George grumbled as the bearers set him down +behind the captured guns. + +"Just the same," he rambled, "fine fellows. Who said they weren't fine +fellows?" + +He wanted to argue it angrily with a wounded German propped against a +shattered tree, but the lieutenant interrupted him, bringing up a +medical orderly, asking him if he had any instructions. George answered +very pleasantly: + +"Not past me, Mr. Planter! Rank and file myself!" + +The lieutenant glanced significantly at the medical orderly. He looked +sharply at George's hair and suddenly pointed. + +"They nicked him in the head, too." + +The orderly knelt and examined the place the lieutenant had indicated. + +"Oh, no, sir. That's quite an old scar." + + +XII + +"Lost a leg or two?" Allen asked. + +"Not yet. Don't think I shall. Planter's not so lucky, but he'll get +home sooner." + +Allen brought George his one relief from the deadly monotony of the base +hospital. He had sent for him because he wanted his opinion as to the +possibility of an armistice. Blodgett, however, hadn't waited for the +result of the conference. The day Allen arrived a letter came from him, +telling George not to worry. + +"King Ferdy along about the last of September whispered I'd better begin +to unload. It's a killing, George." + +With his mind clear of that George could be amused by Allen. The friend +of the people wore some striking clothes from London tailors and +haberdashers. He carried a cunning little cane. He had managed something +extremely neat in moustaches. He spoke with a perceptible West End +accent. But in reply to George's sneering humour he made this +astonishing remark: + +"It isn't nearly as much fun being a top-hole person as I thought it was +going to be." + +"You're lucky to have found it out," George said, "for your job's about +over. Of course I could get you something in Wall Street." + +"Doubt if I should want it," Allen said. "I've always got my old job." + +George whistled. + +"You mean you'd go back to long hair, cheap clothes, and violent words?" + +"Why not? I only took your offer, Morton, because I was inclined to +agree with you that in the outside world's anxiety to look at what was +going on over the fence people'd stop thinking. Russia didn't stop +thinking, and after the armistice you watch America begin to use its +brain." + +"You mean the downtrodden," George sneered. + +"That's the greater part of any country," Allen said, his acquired +accent forgotten, his perfectly clean hands commencing to gesture. + +But George wouldn't listen to him, got rid of him, turned to the wall +with an ugly feeling that he had gone out of his way to nurture one of +the makers of the hell after war. + + + + +PART V + +THE NEW WORLD + + +I + +George crushed his uneasy thoughts, trying to dwell instead on the idea +that he was going back to the normal, but all at once he experienced a +dread of the normal, perhaps, because he was no longer normal himself. +Could he limp before Sylvia with his old assurance? Would people pity +him, or would he irritate them because he had a disability? And snatches +of his talks at the front with Wandel etched themselves sharply against +his chaotic recollections of those days. Was Wandel fair? Was it, +indeed, the original George Morton people had always liked? Here, apart +from the turmoil, he didn't believe it, didn't dare believe it. Those +people wouldn't have cared for him except for his assumption of +qualities which he had chosen as from a counter display. Yet was it the +real George Morton that made him in superlative moments break the traces +of his acquired judgments, as he had done at New Haven, in the Argonne, +to dash selflessly into the service of others? Rotten inside, indeed! +Even in the hospital he set out to crush that impulsive, dangerous part +of him. + +But the nearer he drew to home the more he suffered from a depression +that he could only define as homesickness--homesickness for the old +ways, the old habits, the old thoughts; and the memory of his temerity +with Sylvia at the moment of their parting was like a great cloud +threatening the future with destructive storm. + +Lambert, wearing a contrivance the doctors had given him in place of +what the country had taken away, accompanied by Betty and the Baillys, +met the transport. Betty and Mrs. Bailly cried, and George shook his +heavy stick at them. + +"See here! I'm not going to limp like this always." + +Bailly encircled him with his thin arms. + +"You're too old to play football, anyway, George." + +George found himself wanting Betty's arms, their forgetfulness, their +understanding, their tenderness. + +"When are you two going to be married?" he forced himself to ask. + +Betty looked away, her white cheeks flushing, but Lambert hurried an +answer. + +"As soon as you're able to get to Princeton. You're to be best man." + +"Honoured." + +So Lambert's crippling hadn't made any difference to Betty, but how did +Sylvia take it? He wanted to ask Lambert where she was, if anything had +happened to her, any other mad affair, now that the war was over, like +the one with Blodgett; but he couldn't ask, and no one volunteered to +tell him, and it wasn't until his visit to Oakmont, on his first leave +from the hospital, that he learned anything whatever about her, and that +was only what his eyes in a moment told him. + +Lambert drove over and got George, explaining that his mother wanted to +see him. + +"She'd have come to the dock," he said, "but Father these days is rather +hard to leave." + +George went reluctantly, belligerently, for since his landing his +feeling of homesickness had increased with the realization that his +victorious country was more radically altered than he had fancied. The +ride, however, had the advantage of an uninterrupted talk with Lambert +which developed gossip that Blodgett, stuffed with business, hadn't yet +given him. + +Goodhue and Wandel, for instance, were still abroad, holding down showy +jobs at the peace conference. Dalrymple, on the other hand, had been +home for months. + +"Most successful war," Lambert told George. "Scarcely smelled fire, but +got a couple foreign decorations, and a promotion--my poor old leg +wasn't worth it, or yours, George, but what odds now? And as soon as the +show stopped at Sedan he was trotting back. Can't help admiring him, +for that sort of thing spells success, and he's steady as a church. Try +to realize that, and take a new start with him, for he's really likeable +when he keeps to the straight and narrow. Prohibition's going to fit in +very well, although I believe he's got himself in hand." + +George stared at the ugly, familiar landscape, trying not to listen, +particularly to the rest. Why should the Planters have taken Dalrymple +into the marble temple? + +"A small start," Lambert was saying, "but if he makes the grade there's +a big future for him there. I fancy he's anxious to meet you halfway. +How about you, George?" + +"I'll make no promises," George said. "It depends entirely on +Dalrymple." + +Lambert didn't warn him, so he didn't expect to find Dalrymple enjoying +the early spring graces of Oakmont. He managed the moment of meeting, +however, without disclosing anything. Dalrymple, for the time, was quite +unimportant. It was Sylvia he was anxious about, Sylvia who undoubtedly +nursed a sort of horror of what he had ventured to do and say at Upton. +Everyone else was outside, as if making a special effort to welcome him. +Where was she? + +He resented the worshipful attentions of the servants. + +"I'm quite capable of managing myself," he said, as he motioned them +aside and lowered himself from the automobile. + +He disliked old Planter's heartiness, although he could see the physical +effort it cost, for the once-threatening eyes were nearly dark; and the +big shoulders stooped forward as if in a constant effort to escape a +pursuing pain; and the voice, which talked about heroes and the +country's debt and the Planters' debt, quavered and once or twice broke +altogether, then groped doubtfully ahead in an effort to recover the +propelling thought. + +Mrs. Planter, at least, spared him any sentimental gratitude. She was +rather grayer and had in her face some unremembered lines, but those +were the only changes George could detect. As far as her manner went +this greeting might have followed the farewell at Upton after only a day +or so. + +"I hope your wound isn't very painful." + +"My limping," he answered, "is simply bad habit. I'm overcoming it." + +"That's nice. Then you'll be able to play polo again!" + +"I should hope so, as long as ponies have four good legs." + +He wished other people could be like her, so unobtrusively, unannoyingly +primeval. + +As he entered the hall he saw Sylvia without warning, and he caught his +breath and watched her as she came slowly down the stairs. He tried to +realize that this was that coveted moment he had so frequently fancied +the war would deny him--the moment that brought him face to face with +Sylvia again, to witness her enmity, to desire to break it down, to want +her more than he had ever done. + +She came straight to him, but even in the presence of the others she +didn't offer her hand, and all she said was: + +"I was quite sure you would come back." + +"You knew I had to," he laughed. + +Then he sharpened his ears, for she was telling her brother something +about Betty's having telephoned she was driving over to take Lambert, +Dalrymple, and herself to Princeton. + +No. The war had changed her less than any one George had seen. She was +as beautiful, as unforgiving, as intolerant; and he guessed that it was +she and not Betty who had made the arrangement which would take her away +from him. + +"George will come, too," Lambert began. + +"Afraid I'm not up to it," George refused, dryly. + +At Betty's wedding, however, she would have to be with him, for it +developed during this nervous chatter that they would share the honours +of the bridal party. + +So, helplessly, he had to watch her go, and for a moment he felt as if +he had had a strong tonic, for she alone had been able to give him an +impression that the world hadn't altered much, after all. + +The reaction came in the quiet hours following. He was at first +resentful that Mrs. Planter should accompany him on the painful walk the +doctors had ordered him, like Old Planter, to take daily. He had wanted +to go back to the little house, highest barrier of all which Sylvia +would never let him climb. Then, glancing at the quiet woman, he squared +his shoulders. Suppose Wandel had been right! Here was a test. At any +rate, the war was a pretty large and black background for so tiny a high +light. Purposefully, therefore, he carried out his original purpose. By +the side of Mrs. Planter he limped toward the little house. They didn't +say much. It wasn't easy for him to talk while he exercised, and perhaps +she understood that. + +Even before the clean white building shone in the sun through the trees +he heard a sound that made him wince. It was like a distant drum, badly +played. Then he understood what it was, and his boyhood, and the day of +awakening and revolt, submerged him in a hot wave of shame. He could see +his mother rising and bending rhythmically over fine linen which emerged +from dirty water, making her arms look too red and swollen. He glanced +quickly at Mrs. Planter to whose serenity had gone the upward effort of +many generations. Just how appalling, now that war had mocked life so +dreadfully, now that a pitiless hand had a moment ago stripped all +pretence from the world, was the difference between them? + +It was the woman at the tub, curiously enough, who seemed trying to tell +him, trying to warn him to keep his mouth shut. Then the house was +visible through the trees. He raised his stick. + +"I wanted to see it again," he said, defiantly, "because I was born +there. I lived there." + +She paused and stared with him, without saying anything, without any +change of expression. After a time she turned. + +"Have you looked enough? Shall we go back, George?" + +He nodded, glancing at her wonderingly. After all, he had had very +little love in his life. Mrs. Bailly, Betty---- + +He had never dreamed of such gratitude as this. Lambert, home with his +war madness fresh upon him, must have told her, as an example of what a +man might do. But was her action all gratitude? Rather wasn't it a +signpost at the parting of two ages? + +If that were so, he told himself, the world had left Sylvia hopelessly +behind. + + +II + +The memory of that unguarded moment remained in his mind uncomfortably. +He carried it finally from the hospital to his musty apartment, where he +stripped off his uniform and looked in the glass, for the first time in +nearly two years his own master, no man's servant. + +Was he his own master as long as he could commit such sentimental +follies, as long as he could suspect that he had told Wandel the truth +on the Vesle? This nostalgia must be the rebound from the war, of which +he had heard so much, which made men weak, or lazy, or indifferent. + +He continued to stare in the glass, angry, amazed. He had to overcome +this homesick feeling. He had to prepare himself for harder battles than +he had ever fought. He had had plenty of warning of the selfishness that +was creeping over the world like a black pestilence. Where was his own +self-will that had carried him so far? + +He locked himself, as it were, in his apartment. He sat down and called +on his will. With a systematic brutality he got himself in hand. He +reviewed his aims: to make more money, to get Sylvia. He emerged at +last, hard and uncompromising, ready for the selfish ones, and went down +town. Blodgett greeted him with a cheer. + +"Miracles! For the first time since you got back you look yourself +again." + +"I am," George answered, "all but the limp. That will go some day +maybe." + +He wanted it to go. He desired enormously to rid himself of the last +reminder of his service. + +Lambert was definitely caught by the marble temple, but Goodhue and he +would stay together, more or less tied to Blodgett, to accept the +opportunities George foresaw for dragging money by sharp reasoning from +the reconstruction period. He applied himself to exchange. From their +position they could run wild in the stock market at little risk, but +there were big things to be made out of exchange, about which the +cleverest men didn't seem to know anything worth a penny in any +currency. + +Everyone noticed his recovery, and everyone congratulated him except +Bailly. When George went down to Betty's wedding the long tutor met him +at the station, crying out querulously: + +"What's happened to you?" + +George laughed. + +"Got over the war reaction, I guess." + +"What the deuce did you go to war for at all then?" Bailly asked. + +"Haven't found that out myself yet," George answered, "but I know I +wouldn't go to another, even if they'd have me." + +He grimaced at his injured foot. + +"And they're going to give you some kind of a medal!" Bailly cried. + +"I didn't ask for it," George said, "but I daresay a lot of people, you +among them, went down to Washington and did." + +Bailly was a trifle uncomfortable. + +"See here," George said. "I don't want your old medal, and I don't +intend to be scolded about it. I suppose I've got to rush right out to +the Alstons." + +"Let's stop at the club," Bailly proposed. "People want to see you. +We'll fight the war over with the veterans." + +"Damn the war!" George said. + +Mrs. Bailly, when he paused for a moment at the house in Dickinson +Street, attacked him, and quite innocently, from a different direction. + +"It was the wish of my life, George, that you should have Betty, and you +might have had. I can't help feeling that." + +"You're prejudiced," George laughed. + +He went to the Alstons, nevertheless, almost unwillingly, and he delayed +his arrival until the last minute. The intimate party had gathered for a +dinner and a rehearsal that night. The wedding was set for the next +evening. + +The Tudor house had an unfamiliar air, as though Betty already had taken +from it every feature that had given it distinction in George's mind. +And Betty herself was caught by all those detailed considerations that +surround a girl, at this vital moment of her life, with an atmosphere +regal, mysterious, a little sacred. So George didn't see her until just +before dinner, or Sylvia, who was upstairs with her. Lambert and +Blodgett were about, however, and so was Dalrymple. George was glad +Lambert had asked Blodgett to usher; he owed it to him, but he was +annoyed that Dalrymple should have been included in the party, for it +was another mark, on top of his presence in the marble temple, of a +tightening bond of intimacy between him and the Planters. George +examined the man, therefore, with an eager curiosity. He looked well +enough, but George remained unconvinced by his apparent reformation, +suspecting its real purpose was to impress a willing public, for he had +studied Dalrymple during many years without uncovering any real +strength, or any disposition not to answer gladly to every appeal of the +senses. At least he was restless, rising from his chair too often to +wander about the room, but George conceded with a smile that his own +arrival might be responsible for that. The matter of the notes hadn't +been mentioned, but they existed undoubtedly even in Dalrymple's +careless mind, which must have forecasted an uncomfortable day of +payment. + +Lambert seemed sure enough of his friend. + +"Dolly's sticking to the job like a leech," he said to George when they +went upstairs to dress. + +"I've no faith in him," George answered, shortly. + +"You're an unforgiving brute," Lambert said. + +George hastened away from the subject. + +"I'm not chameleon, at least," he admitted with a smile, "which reminds +me. I don't see any of your dearly beloved brothers of the ranks in your +bridal party. Have you put private Oscar Liporowski up for any of your +clubs yet?" + +"Unforgiving and unforgetting!" Lambert laughed. + +"Then you acknowledge that talk in the Argonne was war madness?" + +"By no means," Lambert answered, suddenly serious. "Let me get married, +will you? I can't bother with anything else now. Sylvia, whose mind +isn't filled with romance, threatens to become the socialist of the +family." + +George stared at him. + +"What are you talking about?" + +"About what Sylvia's talking about," Lambert answered. + +"Now I know you're mad," George said. + +Lambert shook his head. + +"But I don't take her very seriously. It's a nice game to seek beauties +in Bolshevism. It's played in some of the best houses. You must have +observed it--how wonderfully it helps get through a tea or a dinner." + + +III + +George went to his own room, amused and curious. Could Sylvia talk +communism, even parrot-like, and deny him the rights of a brother? He +became more anxious than before to see her. He shrank, on the other +hand, from facing Betty who was about to take this enormous step +permanently away from him. Out of his window he could see the tree +beneath which he had made his confession in an effort to kill Betty's +kindness. If he had followed her to the castle then Lambert wouldn't be +limping about exposing a happiness that made George envious and +discontented. It was a reminder with a vengeance that his friends were +mating. Was he, like Blodgett, doomed to a revolting celibacy? + +Blodgett, as far as that went, seemed quite to have recovered from the +blow Sylvia had given his pride and heart. With his increasing fortune +his girth had increased, his cheeks grown fuller, his eyes smaller. + +He was chatting, when George came down, with Old Planter, who sat +slouched in an easy chair in the library, and Mr. Alston. It was evident +that the occasion was not a joyous one for Betty's father. + +"I've half a mind to sell out here," George heard him say, "and take a +share in a cooperative apartment in town. Without Betty the house will +be like a world without a sun." + +Blodgett, George guessed, was tottering on the threshold of expansive +sympathy. He drew back, beckoning George. + +"Here's your purchaser, Alston. I never knew a half back stay single so +long. And now he's a hero. He's bound to need a nest soon." + +Mr. Alston smiled at him. + +"Is there anything in that, George?" + +George wanted to tell Blodgett to mind his own business. How could the +man, after his recent experience, make cumbersome jokes of that colour? + +"There was a time," Mr. Alston went on, "when I fancied you were going +to ask me for Betty. The thought of refusing used to worry me." + +George laughed uncomfortably. + +"So you would have refused?" + +"Naturally. I don't think I could have said yes to Lambert if it hadn't +been for the war. If you ever have a daughter--just one--you'll know +what I mean." + +From the three men George received an impression of imminence, shared it +himself. They talked merely to cover their suspense. They were like +people in a throne room, attentive for the entrance of a figure, +exalted, powerful, nearly legendary. Betty, he reflected, had become +that because she was about to marry. He found himself fascinated, too, +looking at the door, waiting with a choked feeling for that girl who had +unconsciously tempted him from their first meeting. Her arrival, indeed, +had about it something of the processional. Mrs. Planter entered the +doorway first, nodding absent-mindedly to the men. Betty's mother +followed, as imperial as ever, more so, if anything, George thought, and +quite unaffected by the deeper elements that gave to this quiet wedding +in a country house a breath of tragedy. Betty Alston Planter! That +evolution clearly meant happiness for her. She tried to express it +through vivacious gestures and cheerful, uncompleted sentences. Betty +next--after a tiny interval, entering not without hesitation exposed in +her walk, in her tall and graceful figure, in her face which was +unaccustomedly colourful, in her eyes which turned from one to another, +doubtful, apprehensive, groping. George didn't want to look at her; her +appearance placed him too much in concord with her reluctant father; too +much in the position of a man making a hurtful and unasked oblation. + +Momentarily Betty, the portion of his past shared with her, its +undeveloped possibilities, were swept from his brain. Last of all, +fitting and brilliant close for the procession, came Sylvia between two +bridesmaids. George scarcely saw the others. Sylvia filled his eyes, his +heart, slowly crowded the dissatisfaction from his mind, centred again +his thoughts and his ambitions. Nearly automatically he took Betty's +hands, spoke to her a few formalities, yielded her to her father, and +went on to Sylvia. For nearly two years he hadn't seen her in an evening +gown. What secret did she possess that kept her constant? Already she +was past the age at which most girls of her station marry, yet to him +her beauty had only increased without quite maturing. And why had she +calmly avoided during all these years the nets thrown perpetually by +men? Only Blodgett had threatened to entangle her, and one day had found +her fled. And she wasn't such a fool she didn't know the years were +slipping by. More poignantly than ever he responded to a feeling of +danger, imminent, unavoidable, fatal. + +"My companion in the ceremonies," he said. + +"I understood that was the arrangement," she answered, without looking +at him. + +"I'm glad," he said, "to draw even a reflection from the happiness of +others." + +"I often wonder," she remarked, "why people are so selfish." + +"Do you mean me," he laughed, "or the leading man and lady?" + +She spoke softly to avoid the possibility of anyone else hearing. + +"I'm not sure, but I fancy you are the most selfish person I have ever +met." + +"That's a stupendous indictment these days," he said with a smile, but +he didn't take her seriously at all, didn't apply her charge to his +soul. + +"I'm so glad you're here," he went on, "that we're to be together. I've +wanted it for a long time. You must know that." + +She gave him an uncomfortable sense of being captive, of seeking blindly +any course to freedom. + +"I no longer know anything about you. I don't care to know." + +Lambert and Dalrymple strolled in. Dalrymple opened the cage. George +moved away, aching to prevent such interference by any means he could. +His emotion made him uneasy. To what resolution were his relations with +Dalrymple drifting? How far was he capable of going to keep the other in +his place? + +He stood by the mantel, speaking only when it was necessary and then +without consciousness, his whole interest caught by the picture +Dalrymple and Sylvia made, close together by the centre table in the +soft light of a reading lamp. + +A servant entered with cocktails. George's interest sharpened. Betty +took hers with the others. Only Sylvia and Dalrymple shook their heads. +Clearly it was an understanding between them--a little denial of hers to +make his infinitely greater one less difficult. She smiled up at him, +indeed, comprehendingly; but George's glance didn't waver from +Dalrymple, and it caught an increase in the other's restlessness, a +following nearly hypnotic, by thoughtful eyes, of the tray with the +little glasses as it passed around the room. George relaxed. He was +conscious enough of Blodgett's bellow: + +"Here's to the blushing bride!" + +What lack of taste! But how much greater the lack of taste that restless +inheritor exposed! Couldn't even join a formal toast, didn't dare +probably, or was it that he only dared not risk it in public, in front +of Sylvia? And she pandered to his weakness, smiled upon it as if it +were an epic strength. He was sufficiently glad now that Dalrymple had +got into him for so much money. + + +IV + +For George dinner was chiefly a sea of meaningless chatter continually +ruffled by the storm of Blodgett's voice. + +"Your brother tells me," he said to Sylvia, "that you're irritating +yourself with socialism." + +She looked at him with a little interest then. + +"I've been reading. It's quite extraordinary. Odd I should have lived so +long without really knowing anything about such things." + +"Not odd at all," George contradicted her. "I should call it odd that +you find any interest in them now. Why do you?" + +"One has to occupy one's mind," she answered. + +He glanced at her. Why did she have to occupy herself with matter she +couldn't possibly understand, that she would interpret always in a wrong +or unsafe manner? She, too, was restless. + +That was the only possible explanation. From Blodgett she had sprung to +war-time fads. From those she had leaped at this convenient one which +tempted people to make sparkling and meaningless phrases. + +"It doesn't strike you as at all amusing," he asked, "that you should be +red, that I should be conservative?" + +She didn't answer. Blodgett swept them out to sea again. + +Later in the evening, however, George repeated his question, and +demanded an answer. They had accomplished the farce of a rehearsal, +source of cumbersome jokes for Blodgett and the clergyman; of doubts and +dreary prospects for Mr. Alston, who had done his share as if submitting +to an undreamed-of punishment. + +There was the key-ring joke. It must be a part of the curriculum of all +the theological seminaries. George acted up to it, promising to tie a +string around his finger, or to pin the circlet to his waistcoat. + +"Or," Blodgett roared, "at a pinch you might use the ring of the wedding +bells." + +George stared at him. How could the man, Sylvia within handgrasp, grin +and feed such a mood? It suddenly occurred to him that once more he was +reading Blodgett wrong, that the man was admirable, far more so than he +could be under an equal trial. Would he, a little later, be asked to +face such an ordeal? + +With the departure of the clergyman a cloud of reaction descended upon +the party. Some yawns were scarcely stifled. Sporadic attempts to dance +to a victrola faded into dialogues carried on indifferently, lazily, +where the dancers had chanced to stop with the music. Mr. Alston had +relinquished Sylvia to George at the moment the record had stuttered +out. They were left at a distance from any other couple. George pointed +out a convenient chair, and she sat down and glanced about the room +indifferently. + +"At dinner," George said, "I asked you if it didn't impress you as +strange that our social views should be what they are, and opposite." + +She didn't answer. + +"I mean," he went on, "that I should benefit by your alteration." + +"How?" she asked, idly fingering a flower, not looking at him. + +"I fancy," he said, "that you'll admit your chief objection to me has +always been my origin, my ridiculous position trotting watchfully behind +the most unsocial Miss Planter. Am I not right?" + +"You are entirely wrong," she said, wearily. "That has never had +anything to do with my--my dislike. I think I shall go----" + +"Wait," he said. "You are not telling me the truth. If you are +consistent you will turn your enmity to friendship at least. You will +decide there was nothing unusual in my asking you to marry me. You will +even find in that a reason for my anxiety at Upton. You will understand +that it is quite inevitable I should ask you to marry me again." + +She sprang up and hurried away from him. + +"Put on another record, Dolly----" + +And almost before he had realized it Betty had taken her away, and the +evening's opportunities had closed. + + +V + +For him the house became like a room at night out of which the only lamp +has been carried. + +The others drifted away. George tried to read in the library. His +uneasiness, his anger, held him from bed. When at last he went upstairs +he fancied everyone was asleep, but moving in the hall outside his room +he saw a figure in a dressing gown. It paused as if it didn't care to be +detected going in the direction of the stairs. George caught the +figure's embarrassed hesitation, fancied a movement of retreat. + +"Dalrymple!" he called, softly. + +The other waited sullenly. + +"What you up to?" George asked. + +"Thought I'd explore downstairs for a book. Couldn't sleep. Nothing in +my room worth bothering with." + +George smiled, the memory of Blodgett's admirable behaviour crowding his +mind. What better time than now to let his anger dictate to him, as it +had done that day in his office? + +"Come in for a minute," he proposed to Dalrymple, and opened his door. + +Dalrymple shook his head, but George took his arm and led him, guessing +that Dalrymple feared the subject of the notes. + +"Bad humour!" George said. "You seem to be the only one up. I don't mind +chatting with you before turning in. Fact is, these wedding parties are +stupid, don't you think?" + +Possibly George's manner was reassuring to Dalrymple. At any rate, he +yielded. George took off his coat, sat in an easy chair, and pressed the +call button. + +"What's that for?" Dalrymple asked, uneasily. + +"Sit down," George said. "Stupid and dry, these things! I'm going to try +to raise a servant. I want to gossip over a drink before I go to bed. +You'll join me?" + +Dalrymple sat down. He moistened his lips. + +"On the wagon," he muttered. "A long time on the wagon. Place to be, +too, and all that." + +George didn't believe the other. If Dalrymple cared to prove him right +that was his own business. + +"Before prohibition offers the steps?" he laughed. + +"Nothing to do with it," Dalrymple muttered. "Got my reasons--good +enough ones, too." + +"Right!" George said. "Only don't leave me to myself until I've wet my +whistle." + +And when the sleepy servant had come George asked him for some whiskey +and soda water. He talked of the Alstons, of the war, of anything to +tide the wait for the caraffe and the bottles and glasses; and during +that period Dalrymple's restlessness increased. Just what had he been +sneaking downstairs for in the middle of the night? George watched the +other's eyes drawn by the tray when the servant had set it down. + +"Why did he bring two glasses?" Dalrymple asked, irritably. + +"Oh," George said, carelessly, "I suppose he thought--naturally----Have +a biscuit, anyway." + +George poured a drink and supped contentedly. + +"Dry rations--biscuits," Dalrymple complained. + +He fingered the caraffe. + +"I've an idea--wedding--special occasion, and all that. Change my +mind--up here--one friendly drop----" + +George watched the friendly drop expand to half a tumbler full, and he +observed that the hand that poured was not quite steady. It wouldn't be +long now before he would know whether or not Dalrymple's reformation was +merely a pose in public, a pose for Sylvia. + +Dalrymple sighed, sat down, and talked quite pleasantly about the +horrors of Chaumont. After a time he refilled his glass, and repeated +the performance a number of times with diminishing intervals. George +smiled. A child could tell the other was breaking no extended +abstinence. He drifted from war to New York and his apparent success +with the house of Planter. + +"Slavery, this office stuff!" he rattled on, "but good fun to get things +done, to climb up on shoulders of men--oh, no idea how many, +Morton--who're only good to push a pen or pound a typewriter. Of course, +you know, though. Done plenty of climbing yourself." + +His enunciation suffered and his assurance strengthened as the caraffe +emptied. No extended abstinence, George reflected, but almost certainly +a very painful one of a few days. + +"Am making money, Morton--a little, not much," he said, confidentially, +and with condescension. "Not enough by long shot to pay those beastly +notes I owe you. Know they're over due. Don't think I'd ever forget +that. Want to do right thing, Morton. You used hard words when I +borrowed that money, but forget, and all that. White of you to let me +have it, and I'll do right thing." + +A sickly look of content overspread his face. He expanded. His assurance +seemed to crowd the room. + +"Wouldn't worry for a minute 'bout those notes if I were you." + +He suddenly switched, shaking his finger at the caraffe. + +"Very pleasant, little drop like this--night cap on the quiet. But not +often." + +His content sought expression in a smile. + +"Dolly's off the hootch." + +George lighted a cigarette. He noticed that his fingers were quite +steady, yet he was perfectly conscious of each beat of his heart. + +"May I ask," he said, "what possible connection there can be between my +not worrying about your notes and your keeping off the hootch, as you +call it?" + +Dalrymple arose, finished the caraffe, and tapped George's shoulder. + +"Every connection," he answered. "Expect you have a right to know. Don't +you worry, old Shylock Morton. You're goin' to get your pound ah flesh." + +"I fancy I am," George laughed. "What's your idea of it?" + +Dalrymple waved his glass. + +"Lady of my heart--surrender after long siege, but only brave deserve +fair. Good thing college education. Congratulate me, Morton. But secret +for you, 'cause you old Shylock. Wouldn't say anything to Sylvia till +she lets it loose." + +As George walked quietly to the door, which the servant a long time ago +had left a trifle open, he heard Dalrymple mouthing disconnected words: +"Model husband." "Can't be too soon for Dolly." + +Then, as he closed the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket, +he heard Dalrymple say aloud, sharply: + +"What the devil you doing, Morton?" + +George turned. Ammunition against Dalrymple! He had been collecting it. +Now, clearly, was the time to use it. In his mind the locked room held +precariously all of Sylvia's happiness and his. + +He didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the table. Dalrymple had +slumped down in his chair, the content and triumph of his inflamed eyes +replaced by a sullen fear. + + +VI + +"What's the idea?" Dalrymple asked, uncertainly, watching George, +grasping the arms of his chair preparatory to rising. + +"Sit still, and I'll tell you," George answered. + +"Why you lock the door?" + +From Dalrymple's palpable fear George watched escape a reluctant and +fascinated curiosity. + +"No more of that strong-arm stuff with me----" + +"I locked the door," George answered, "so that I could point out to you, +quite undisturbed, just why you are going to leave Sylvia Planter +alone." + +Dalrymple relaxed. He commenced incredulously and nervously to laugh, +but in his eyes, which followed George, the fear and the curiosity +increased. + +"What the devil are you talking about? Have you gone out of your head?" + +George smiled confidently. + +"It's an invariable rule, unless you have the strength to handle them, +to give insane people their way. So you'll be nice and quiet; and I +might remind you if you started a rumpus, the first questions the +aroused house would ask would be, 'Why did Dolly fall off the wagon, and +where did he get the edge?'" + +He drew a chair close to Dalrymple and sat down. The other lay back, +continuing to stare at him, quite unable to project the impression he +undoubtedly sought of contemptuous amusement. + +"We've waited a long time for this little chat," George said, quietly. +"Sometimes I've hoped it wouldn't be necessary. Of course, sooner or +later, it had to be." + +His manner disclosed little of his anxiety, nothing whatever of his +determination, through Dalrymple's weakness, to save Sylvia and himself, +but his will had never been stronger. + +"You may as well understand," he said, "that you shan't leave this room +until you've agreed to give up any idea of this preposterous marriage +you pretend to have arranged. Perhaps you have. That makes no +difference. I'm quite satisfied its disarranging will break no hearts." + +Dalrymple had a little controlled himself. George's brusque campaign had +steadied him, had hastened a reaction that gave to his eyes an unhealthy +and furtive look. He tried to grin. + +"You must think you're God Almighty----" + +"Let's get to business," George interrupted. "I once told you that what +you borrow you have to pay back in one way or another. This is where we +settle, and I've outlined the terms." + +Dalrymple whistled. + +"You complete rotter! You mean to blackmail--because you know I haven't +got your filthy money, and can't raise it in a minute." + +"Never mind that," George snapped. "Your opinion of what I'm doing +doesn't interest me. I've thought it out. I know quite thoroughly what +I'm about." + +He did, and he was not without distaste for his methods, nor without +realization that they might hurt him most of all with the very person +they were designed to serve; yet he couldn't hesitate, because no other +way offered. + +"You're going to pay my notes, but not with money." + +Dalrymple's grin exploded into a harsh sound resembling laughter. + +"Are you--jealous? Do you fancy Sylvia would be affected by anything +you'd do or say? See here! Good God! Are you mad enough to look at her? +That's funny! That's a scream!" + +There was, however, no conviction behind the pretended amazement and +contempt; and George suspected that Dalrymple had all along sounded his +chief ambition; had, in fact, made his secretive announcement just now, +because, his judgment drugged, he had desired to call a rival's +attention to his triumphant posture on the steps of attainment. + +"I've no intention of discussing causes," George answered, evenly, "but +I do imagine the entire family would be noticeably affected by my +story." + +"Which you couldn't tell," Dalrymple cried. "Which you couldn't possibly +tell." + +"Which I don't think I shall have to tell," George said with a smile. +"Look at your position, Dalrymple. If you borrow money on the strength +of this approaching marriage you announce its chief purpose quite +distinctly. I fancy Old Planter, ill as he is, would want to take a club +to you. You've always wished, haven't you, to keep your borrowings from +Lambert? You can't do it if you persist in involving the Planters in +your extravagances. And remember you gave me a pretty thorough list of +your debtors--not reading for women, but Lambert would understand, and +make its meaning clear. Then let us go back to that afternoon in my +office, when you tried to say unspeakable things----" + +Impulsively Dalrymple bared his teeth. + +"Got you there, Morton! I told Lambert it was you who had been +impertinent----" + +All at once George felt better and cleaner. He whistled. + +"When I let you off then I never dreamed you'd try to back that lie up." + +"Will they believe me," the other asked, "or you, who come from God +knows what; God knows where?" + +"Fortunately," George said, "Lambert and his sister share that supernal +knowledge. They'll believe me." + +He stood up. + +"That's all. You know what to expect. Just one thing more." + +He spoke softly, without any apparent passion, but he displayed before +the man in the chair his two hands. + +"If necessary I'd stop you marrying Sylvia Planter with those." + +Dalrymple got to his feet, struggled to assume a cloak of bravado. + +"Won't put up with such threats. Actionable----" + +"Give me your decision," George said, harshly. "Will you keep away from +her? If there is really an understanding, will you so arrange things +that she can destroy it immediately? Come. Yes or no?" + +"Give me that key." + +George shrugged his shoulders. + +"I needn't trouble you." + +He walked swiftly to the door, unlocked it, and drew it invitingly wide; +but now that the way was clear Dalrymple hesitated. Again George +shrugged his shoulders and stepped to the hall. Dalrymple, abruptly +active, ran after him, grasping at his arm. + +"Where you going?" he whispered. + +"To Lambert's room." + +"Not to-night," the other begged. "I don't admit you could make any real +trouble, but I want to spare Sylvia any possible unpleasantness. Well! +Don't you, too? You lost your temper. Maybe I did mine. Give us both a +chance to think it over. Now see here, Morton, I won't ask you another +favour, and I'll do nothing in the meantime. I couldn't very well. I +mean, status quo, and all that----" + +"Lambert, to-morrow," George said, "is going away for more than a +month." + +"But you could always get hold of him, at a pinch," Dalrymple urged. +"Heaven knows I'm not likely to talk to Sylvia about what you've said. +Let us both think it over until Lambert comes back." + +George sighed, experiencing a glow of victory. The other's eagerness +confessed at last an accurate measure of the power of his ammunition; +and George didn't want to go to the Planters on such an errand as long +as any other means existed. The more Dalrymple thought, the more +thoroughly he must realize George had him. From the first George had +manoeuvred to avoid the necessity of shocking habits of thought and +action that were inborn in the Planters, so he gladly agreed. + +"Meantime, you'll keep away from her?" + +"Just as far as possible," Dalrymple answered. "You'll be able to see +that for yourself." + +"Then," George said, "you arrange to get yourself out of the way as soon +as Lambert and Betty return. Meantime, if you go back on your word, I'll +get hold of Lambert." + +Dalrymple leant against the wall, morosely angry, restless, discouraged. + +"I'll admit you could make some unpleasantness all around," he said, +moistening his lips. "I wish I'd never touched your dirty money----" + +George stepped into his room and closed the door. + + +VII + +The awakening of the house to its most momentous day aroused George +early, hurried him from his bed, sent him downstairs in a depressed, +self-censorious mood, as if he and not Dalrymple had finished the +caraffe. That necessary battle behind a locked door continued to fill +his mind like the memory of a vivid and revolting nightmare. He fled +from the increasing turmoil of an exceptional agitation, but he could +not escape his own evil temper. Even the flowering lanes where Goodhue +and he had run so frequently during their undergraduate days mocked his +limping steps, his heavy cane; seemed asking him what there was in +common between that eager youth and the man who had come back to share a +definite farewell with Betty; to stand, stripped of his veneer, against +a wall to avoid a more difficult parting from Sylvia. There was one +thing: the determination of the boy lived in the man, become greater, +more headstrong, more relentless. + +He paused and, chin in hand, rested against a gate. What about Wandel, +who had admired the original George Morton? Would he approve of his +threats to Dalrymple, of his probable course with the Planters? If he +were consistent he would have to; yet people were so seldom consistent. +It was even likely that George's repetition of Dalrymple's shocking +insults would be frowned upon more blackly than the original, +unforgiveable wrong. George straightened and walked back toward the +house. It made no difference what people thought. He was George Morton. +Even at the cost of his own future he would keep Sylvia from joining her +life to Dalrymple's, and certainly Lambert could be made to understand +why that had to be. + +The warm sun cheered him a little. Dalrymple was scared. He wouldn't +make George take any further steps. It was going to be all right. But +why didn't women see through Dalrymple, or rather why didn't he more +thoroughly give himself away to them? Because, George decided, guarded +women from their little windows failed to see the real world. + +Dalrymple obsessed him even when, after luncheon, he sat with Lambert +upstairs, discussing business chiefly. He wanted to burst out with: + +"Why don't you wake up? How can you approve of this intimacy between +your sister and a man like that?" + +He didn't believe the other knew that intimacy had progressed; and when +Lambert spoke of Dalrymple, calling attention again to his apparent +reformation, George cleansed his mind a trifle, placing, as it were, the +foundation for a possible announcement of a more active enmity. + +"Don't see why you admire anything he does, Lambert. It isn't +particularly pleasant for me to have you, for I've been watching him, +and I've quite made up my mind. You asked me when I first got home if I +wouldn't meet him halfway. I don't fancy he'd ever start in my +direction, but if he did I wouldn't meet him. Sorry. That's definite. I +must use my own judgment even where it clashes with your admirations." + +Lambert stared at him. + +"You'll never cease being headstrong," he said. "It's rather safer to +have any man for a friend." + +George had an uncomfortable sense of having received a warning, but +Blodgett blundered in just then with news from the feminine side of the +house. + +"Some people downstairs already, and I've just had word--from one of +those little angels that talk like the devil--that Betty's got all her +war-paint on." + +"You have the ring?" Lambert asked George. + +George laughed. + +"Yes, I have the ring, and I shan't lose it, or drop it; and I'll keep +you out of people's way, and tell you what to answer, and see generally +you don't make an idiot of yourself. Josiah, if he faints, help me pick +him up." + +Blodgett's gardenia bobbed. + +"Weddings make Josiah feel old. Say, George, you're no spring chicken +yourself. I know lots of little girls who cry their eyes out for you." + +"Shut up," George said. "How about a reconnaissance, Lambert?" + +But they were summoned then, and crept down a side staircase, and heard +music, and found themselves involved in Betty's great moment. + +At first George could only think of Betty as she had stood long ago in +the doorway of Bailly's study, and it was difficult to find in this +white-clothed, veiled, and stately woman the girl he had seen first of +all that night. This, after a fashion, was his last glimpse of her. She +appeared to share that conception, for she carried to the improvised +altar in the drawing-room an air of facing far places, divided by +boundaries she couldn't possibly define from all that she had ever +known. After the ceremony she smiled wonderingly at George while she +absorbed the vapid and pattered remarks of, perhaps, a hundred old +friends of the family. George, who knew most of them, resented their +sympathy and curiosity. + +"If they don't stop asking me about the war," he whispered to Blodgett +during a lull, "I'm going to call for help." + +Some, however, managed to interest him with remarks about the rebirth of +football. Green had been at Princeton all along, Stringham was coming +back in the fall, and there were brilliant team prospects. Would George +be able to help with the coaching? He indicated his injured leg. He +hadn't the time, anyway. He was going to stick closer than ever to Wall +Street. He fancied that Sylvia, who stood near him, resented the lively +interest of these people. She spoke to him only when she couldn't +possibly avoid it, glancing, George noticed, at Dalrymple who rather +pointedly kept away from her. So far so good. Then Dalrymple did realize +George would have his way. George looked at Sylvia, thinking +whimsically: + +"I shan't let anybody put you where you wouldn't bother to hate me any +more." + +He spoke to her aloud. + +"I believe we're to have a bite to eat." + +She followed him reluctantly, and during the supper yielded of herself +nothing whatever to him, chatting by preference with any one convenient, +even with Blodgett whom she had treated so shabbily. Very early she left +the room with Betty and Mrs. Alston, and George experienced a strong +desire to escape also, to flee anywhere away from this house and the +bitter dissatisfactions he had found within its familiar walls. He saw +Mrs. Bailly and took her hand. + +"I want to go home with you and Squibs to-night." + +Mrs. Bailly smiled her gratitude, but as he was about to move away she +stopped him with a curiosity he had not expected from her. + +"Isn't Sylvia Planter beautiful? Why do you suppose she doesn't marry?" + +George laughed shortly, shook his head, and hurried upstairs to +Lambert's room; yet Mrs. Bailly had increased his uneasiness. Perhaps it +was the too-frequent repetition of that question that had made Sylvia +turn temporarily to Blodgett; that was, possibly, focussing her eyes on +Dalrymple now; yet why, from such a field, did she choose these men? +What was one to make of her mind and its unexpected reactions? The +matter of marriage was, not unnaturally, in the air here. Lambert faced +him with it. + +"Josiah's right. When are you going to make a home, Apollo Morton?" + +George turned on him angrily, not bothering to choose his words. + +"Such a question from you is ridiculous. You've not forgotten the dark +ages either." + +Lambert looked at him for a moment affectionately, not without sympathy. + +"Don't be an ass, George." + +George's laughter was impatient. + +"Don't forget, Lambert, your old friends, Corporal Sol Roseberg, and +Bugler Ignatius Chronos. No men better! Chairs at the club! Legs under +the table at Oakmont----" + +Lambert put his hands on George's shoulders. + +"It isn't that at all. You know it very well." + +"What is it then?" George asked, sharply. + +"Don't pretend ignorance," Lambert answered, "and it must be your own +fault. Whose else could it possibly be? And I'm sorry, have been for +years." + +"It isn't my fault," George said. "The situation exists. I'm glad you +recognize it. You'll understand it's a subject I can't let you joke +about." + +"All right," Lambert said, "but I wonder why you're always asking for +trouble." + + +VIII + +Betty had plenty of colour to-night. As she passed George, her head bent +against the confetti, he managed to touch her hand, felt a quick +responsive pressure, heard her say: + +"Good-bye, George." + +The whispered farewell was like a curtain, too heavy ever to be lifted +again, abruptly let down between two fond people. + + +IX + +Unexpectedly the companionships of the little house in Dickinson Street +failed to lighten George's discontented humour. Mrs. Bailly's question +lingered in his mind, coupling itself there with her disappointment that +he, instead of Lambert, hadn't married Betty; and, when she retired, the +tutor went back to his unwelcome demands of the day before. Hadn't +George made anything of his great experience? Was it possible it had +left him quite unchanged? What were his immediate plans, anyway? + +"You may as well understand, sir," George broke in, impatiently, "that I +am going to stay right in Wall Street and make as much money and get as +much power as I can." + +"Why? In the name of heaven, why?" Bailly asked, irritably. "You are +already a very rich man. You've dug for treasure and found it, but can +you tell me you've kept your hands clean? Money is merely a +conception--a false one. Capitalism will pass from the world." + +George grunted. + +"With the last two surviving human beings." + +"Mockery won't keep you blind always," Bailly said, "to the strivings of +men in the mines and the factories----" + +"And in the Senate and the House," George jeered, "and in Russia and +Germany, and in little, ambitious corners. If you're against the League +of Nations it's because, like all those people, you're willing Rome +should burn as long as personal causes can be fostered and selfish +schemes forwarded. No agitator, naturally, wants the suffering world +given a sedative----" + +Bailly smiled. + +"Even if you're wrong-headed, I'm glad to hear you talk that way. At +last you're thinking of humanity." + +"I'm thinking of myself," George snapped. + +Bailly shook his head. + +"I believe you're talking from your heart." + +"I'm talking from a smashed leg," George cried, "and I'm sleepy and +tired and cross, and I guess I'd better go to bed." + +"It all runs back to the beginning," Bailly said in a discouraged voice. +"I'm afraid you'll never learn the meaning of service." + +George sprang up, wincing. Bailly's wrinkled face softened; his young +eyes filled with sympathy. + +"Does that wound still bother you, George?" + +"Yes, sir," George answered, softly. "I guess it bothers as much as it +ever did." + + +X + +One virtue of the restlessness of which Bailly had reminded him was its +power to swing George's mind for a time from his unpleasant +understanding with Dalrymple. It had got even into Blodgett's blood. + +"About the honestest man I can think of these days," he complained to +George one morning, "is the operator of a crooked racing stable. All the +cards are marked. All the dice are loaded. If they didn't have to let us +in on some of the tricks, we'd go bust, George, my boy." + +"You mean we're crooked, too?" George asked. + +"Only by infection," Blodgett defended himself, "but honest, George, I'd +sell out if I could. I'm disgusted." + +George couldn't hide a smile. + +"In the old days when you were coming up, you never did anything the +least bit out of line yourself?" + +Blodgett mopped his face with one of his brilliant handkerchiefs. His +eyes twinkled. + +"I've been shrewd at times, George, but isn't that legitimate? I may +have made some crowds pretty sick by cutting under them, but that's +business. I won't say I haven't played some cute little tricks with +stocks, but that's finesse, and the other fellow had the same chance. +I'm not aware that I ever busted a bank, or held a loaded gun to a man's +head and asked him to hand over his clothes as well as his cash. That's +the spirit we're up against now. That's why Papa Blodgett advises +selling out those mill stocks we kept big blocks of at the time of the +armistice." + +"They're making money," George said. + +Blodgett tapped a file of reports. + +"Have you read the opinions of the directors?" + +"Yes," George answered, "and at a pinch they might have to go into +cooperation, but they'd still pay some dividends." + +Blodgett puffed out his cheeks. + +"You're sure the unions would want a share in the business?" + +"Why not?" George asked. "Isn't that practical communism?" + +"Hay! Here's a fellow believes there's something practical in the world +nowadays! Sell out, son." + +"Then who would run our mills?" + +"Maybe some philanthropist with more money than brains." + +"You mean," George asked, "that our products, unless conditions improve, +will disappear from the world, because no one will be able to afford to +manufacture them?" + +Blodgett pursed his lips. George stared from the window at the forest of +buildings which impressed him, indeed, as giant tree trunks from which +all the foliage had been stripped. Had there been awakened in the world +an illiberal individuality with the power to fell them every one, and to +turn up the system out of which they had sprung as from a rich soil? Was +that what he had helped fight the war for? + +"You're talking about the dark ages," he said, feeling the necessity of +faith and stability. "Sell your stocks if you want, I choose to keep +mine." + +Blodgett yawned. + +"We'll go down together, George. I won't jump from a sinking ship as +long as you cling to the bridge." + +"The ship isn't sinking," George cried. "It's too buoyant." + + +XI + +Wandel and Goodhue came home, suffering from this universal +restlessness. + +"Ah, _mon_ brave!" Wandel greeted George. "_Mon vieux Georges, grand et +incomparable!_ So the country's dry! Jewels are cheaper than beefsteaks! +Congress is building spite fences! None the less, I'm glad to be home." + +"Glad enough to have you," George said. "I'm not sure we won't go back +to our bargain pretty soon. I'm about ready for a pet politician." + +"Let me get clean," Wandel laughed. "You must have a lot of money." + +"I can control enough," George said, confidently. + +"_Bon!_ But don't send me to Washington at first. I don't want to put on +skirts, use snuff, or practise gossiping." + +For a time he refused to apply himself to anything that didn't lead to +pleasure. Goodhue went at once to Rhode Island for a visit with his +father and mother, while Wandel flitted from place to place, from house +to house, as if driven by his restlessness to the play he had abandoned +during five years. Once or twice George caught him with Rogers in town, +and bluntly asked him why. + +"An eye to the future, my dear George. Are you the most forgetful of +class presidents? Perfect henchman type. When one goes into politics one +must have henchmen." + +But George had an unwelcome feeling that Rogers, eyes always open, was +taking advantage, in his small way, of the world's unsettled condition. +People were inclined to laugh at him, but they treated him well for +Wandel's sake. + +"Still in the bond business," he explained to George. "It isn't what it +was befo' de war. I'm thinking of taking up oil stocks and corners in +heaven, although I doubt if there are as many suckers as fell for P. T. +B. Trouble nowadays is that the simplest of them are too busy trying to +find somebody just a little simpler to sting. Darned if they don't +usually hook one. Still bum securities are a great weakness with most +people. Promise a man a hundred per cent. and he'll complain it isn't a +hundred and fifty." + +George reflected that Rogers was bound for disillusionment, then he +wasn't so sure, for America seemed more than ever friendly to that +brisk, insincere, back-bending type. Out of the sea of money formed by +the war examples sprang up on nearly every side, scarcely troubled by +racial, religious, or educational handicaps; loudly convinced that they +could buy with money all at once every object of matter or spirit the +centuries had painstakingly evolved. One night in the crowds of the +theatre district, when with Wandel he had watched the hysterical +competition for tickets, cabs, and tables in restaurants where the +prices of indigestion had soared nearly beyond belief, he burst out +angrily: + +"The world is mad, Driggs. I wouldn't be surprised to hear these people +cry for golden gondolas to float them home on rivers of money. Stark, +raving mad, Driggs! The world's out of its head!" + +Wandel smiled, twirling his cane. + +"Just found it out, great man? Always has been; always will be--chronic! +This happens to be a violent stage." + + +XII + +It was Wandel, indeed, who drew George from his preoccupation, and +reminded him that another world existed as yet scarcely more than +threatened by the driving universal invaders. George had looked in at +his apartment one night when Wandel was just back from a northern +week-end. + +"Saw Sylvia. You know, George, she's turning back the years and prancing +like a debutante." + +George sat down, uneasy, wondering what the other's unprepared +announcement was designed to convey. + +"I'll lay you what you want," Wandel went on, lighting a cigar, "that +she forgets the Blodgett fiasco, and marries before snow falls." + +Had it been designed as a warning? George studied Wandel, trying to read +his expression, but the light was restricted by heavy, valuable, and +smothering shades; and Wandel sat at some distance from the nearest, +close to a window to catch what breezes stole through. Confound the man! +What was he after? He hadn't mentioned Sylvia that self-revealing day in +France; but George had guessed then that he must have known of his +persistent ambition, and had wondered why his unexpected +communicativeness hadn't included it. At least a lack of curiosity now +was valueless, so George said: + +"Who's the man?" + +"I don't suggest a name," Wandel drawled. "I merely call attention to a +possibility. Perhaps discussing the charming lady at all we're a trifle +out of bounds; but we've known the Planters many years; years enough to +wonder why Sylvia hasn't been caught before, why Blodgett failed at the +last minute." + +George stirred impatiently. + +"It was inevitable he should. I once disliked Josiah, but that was +because I was too young to see quite straight. Just the same, he wasn't +up to her. Most of all, he was too old." + +"I daresay. I daresay," Wandel said. "So much for jolly Josiah. But the +others? It isn't exaggeration to suggest that she might have had about +any man in this country or England. She hasn't had. She's still the +loveliest thing about, and how many years since she was +introduced--many, many, isn't it, George?" + +"What odds?" George muttered. "She's still young." + +He felt self-conscious and warm. Was Wandel trying to make him say too +much? + +"Why do you ask me?" + +Wandel yawned. + +"Gossiping, George. Poking about in the dark. Thought you might have +some light." + +"How should I have?" George demanded. + +"Because," Wandel drawled, "you're the greatest and most penetrating of +men." + +George's discomfort grew. He tried to turn Wandel's attack. + +"How does it happen you've never entered the ring?" + +Wandel laughed quietly. + +"I did, during my school days. She was quite splendid about it. I mean, +she said very splendidly that she couldn't abide little men; but any +time since I'd have fallen cheerfully at her feet if I'd ever become a +big man, a great man, like you." + +Before he had weighed those words, unquestionably pointed and +significant, George had let slip an impulsive question. + +"Can you picture her fancying a figure like Dalrymple?" + +He was sorry as soon as it was out. Anxiously he watched Wandel through +the dusk of the room. The little man spoke with a troubled hesitation, +as if for once he wasn't quite sure what he ought to reply. + +"You acknowledged a moment ago that you had failed to see Josiah +straight. Hasn't your view of Dolly always been from a prejudiced +angle?" + +"I've always disliked him," George said, frankly. "He's given me reasons +enough. You know some of them." + +"I know," Wandel drawled, "that he isn't what even Sylvia would call a +little man, and he has the faculty of making himself exceptionally +pleasant to the ladies." + +"Yet he couldn't marry any one of mine," George said under his breath. +"If I had a sister, I mean, I'd somehow stop him." + +Wandel laughed on a sharp note, caught himself, went on with an amused +tone: + +"Forgive me, George. Somewhere in your pockets you carry the Pilgrim +Fathers. Most men are shaggy birds of evil habit, while most young women +are delicately feathered nestlings, and quite helpless; yet the two must +mate. Dolly, by the way, drains a pitcher of water every time he sees a +violation of prohibition." + +"He drinks in sly places," George said. + +"After all," Wandel said, slowly, "why do we cling to the suggestion of +Dolly? Although I fancy he does figure--somewhere in the odds." + +For a time George said nothing. He was quite convinced that Wandel had +meant to warn him, and he had received that warning, straight and hard +and painfully. During several weeks he hadn't seen Dalrymple, had been +lulled into a sense of security, perhaps through the turmoil down town; +and Lambert and Betty had lingered beyond their announced month. Clearly +Wandel had sounded George's chief aim, as he had once satisfied himself +of his origin; and just now had meant to say that since his return he +had witnessed enough to be convinced that Dalrymple was still after +Sylvia, and with a chance of success. To George that meant that +Dalrymple had broken the bargain. He felt himself drawn irresistibly +back to his narrow, absorbing pursuit. + +"You're becoming a hermit," Wandel was saying. + +"You've become a butterfly," George countered. + +"Ah," Wandel answered, "but the butterfly can touch with its wings the +beautiful Sylvia Planter, and out of its eyes can watch her debutante +frivolities. Why not come away with me Friday?" + +"Whither?" + +"To the Sinclairs." + +George got up and wandered to the door. + +"By by, Driggs. I think I might slip off Friday. I've a mind to renounce +the veil." + + +XIII + +George fulfilled his resolution thoroughly. With the migratory bachelors +he ran from house to house, found Sylvia or not, and so thought the +effort worth while or not. The first time he saw her, indeed, he +appreciated Wandel's wisdom, for she stood with Dalrymple at the edge of +a high lawn that looked out over the sea. Her hair in the breeze was a +little astray, her cheeks were flushed, and she bent if anything toward +her companion who talked earnestly and with nervous gestures. George +crushed his quick impulse to go down, to step between them, to have it +out with Dalrymple then and there, even in Sylvia's presence; but they +strolled back to the house almost immediately, and Sylvia lost her +apparent good humour, and Dalrymple descended from satisfaction to a +fidgety apprehension. Sylvia met George's hand briefly. + +"You'll be here long?" + +The question expressed a wish. + +"Only until Monday. I wish it might be longer, for I'm glad to find +you--and you, Dalrymple." + +"Nobody said you were expected," Dalrymple grumbled. "Everybody said you +were working like a horse." + +George glanced at Sylvia, smiling blandly. + +"Every horse goes to grass occasionally." + +He turned back to Dalrymple. + +"I daresay you know Lambert and Betty are due back the first of the +week?" + +Sylvia nodded carelessly, and started along the verandah. Dalrymple, +reddening, prepared to heel, but George beckoned him back. + +"I'd like a word with you." + +Sylvia glanced around, probably surprised at the sharp, authoritative +tone. + +"Just a minute, Sylvia," Dalrymple apologized uneasily. "Little +business. Hard to catch Morton. Must grasp opportunity, and all that." + +And when they were alone he went close to George eagerly. + +"No need to wait for Betty and Lambert, Morton. It's done. Dolly's got +himself thrown over----" + +"I don't believe you," George said. + +"Why not?" + +"What are you doing here?" George asked. "It was understood you should +avoid her." + +Dalrymple's grin was sickly. + +"Way she's tearing around now I'd have exactly no place to go." + +"You seemed rather too friendly," George pointed out, "for parties to a +broken engagement." + +George fancied there was something of anger in the other's face. + +"Must say I'm not flattered by that. Guess you were right. One heart's +not smashed, anyway." + +George turned on his heel. Dalrymple caught him. + +"What about those notes?" + +"I don't trust you, Dalrymple. I'll keep my eye on you yet awhile." + +"Ask Sylvia if you want," Dalrymple cried. + +George smiled. + +"I wonder if I could." + +He went to his room, trying to believe Dalrymple. Was that romance +really in the same class as the one with Blodgett? If so, why did she +involve herself in restive affairs with less obvious men? As best he +could he tried to find out that night when she was a little off guard +because of some unquiet statements she had just made of Russian +rumours. + +"You don't mean those things," he said, "or else you've no idea what +they mean." + +Through her quick resentment she let herself be caught in a corner, as +it were. Everyone was preparing to leave the house for a dance in +benefit of some local charity. Momentarily they were left alone. He +indicated the over-luxurious and rather tasteless room. + +"You're asking for the confiscation of all this, and your own Oakmont, +and every delightful setting to which you've been accustomed all your +life. You're asking for rationed food; for a shakedown, maybe, in a +garret. You're asking for a task in a kitchen or a field. Why not a +negro's kitchen; a Chinaman's field?" + +He looked at her, asking gravely: + +"Do you quite understand the principles of communism as they affect +women?" + +He fancied a heightening of her colour. + +"You of all men," she said, "ought to understand the strivings of the +people." + +He shook his head vehemently. + +"I'm for the palace," he laughed, "and I fancy it means more to me than +it could to a man who's never used his brain. Let those stay in the +hovel who haven't the courage to climb out." + +"And you're one of the people!" she murmured. "One of the people!" + +"You don't say that," he answered, quickly, "to tell me it makes me +admirable in your eyes. You say it to hurt, as you used to call me, +'groom'. It doesn't inflict the least pain." + +There was no question about her flush now. + +"Tell me," he urged, "why you permit your brain such inconsistencies, +why you accept such a patent fad, why you need fads at all?" + +"Why won't you leave me alone?" she asked, harshly. + +"You're always asking that," he smiled, "and you see I never do. Why are +you unlike these other women? Why did you turn to Blodgett? Why have you +made a fool of Dalrymple?" + +She stared at him. + +"What are you saying?" + +"I'm saying, why don't you come to me?" + +He watched the angry challenge in her eyes, the deliberate stiffening of +her entire body as if to a defensive attitude. He held out his hand to +her. + +"Sylvia! We are growing old." + +Yet in her radiant presence it was preposterous to speak of age. She +drew away with a sort of shudder. + +"You wouldn't dare touch me again----" + +He captured her glance. He felt that from his own eyes he failed to keep +the unsatisfied desire of years. + +"I haven't forgotten Upton, either. When will you give me what I want, +Sylvia?" + +Her glance eluded him. Swiftly she receded. Through the open door +drifted a growing medley of voices. She hurried to the door, but he +followed her, and purposefully climbed into the automobile she had +entered, but they were no longer alone. Only once, when he made her +dance with him in a huge, over-decorated tent, did he manage a whisper. + +"No more nonsense with Dalrymple or anybody. Please stop making +unhappiness." + + +XIV + +George returned to New York with an uneasy spirit, filled with doubt as +to Dalrymple's statement of renunciation, and of his own course in +saying what he had of Dalrymple to Sylvia. Mightn't that very expression +of disapproval, indeed, tend to swing her back to the man? When Lambert +walked in a day or two later George looked at the happy, bronzed face, +recalling his assurance that Betty wasn't one to give by halves. Through +eyes clouded by such happiness Lambert couldn't be expected to see very +far into the dangerous and avaricious discontent of the majority. How +much less time, then, would he have for George's personal worries? +George, nevertheless, guided the conversation to Dalrymple. + +"He's running down to Oakmont with me to-night," Lambert said, +carelessly. "You know Betty's there with the family for a few days." + +George hid his temper. There was no possible chance about this. Would +Dalrymple go to Oakmont after the breaking off of even a secret +engagement; or, defeated in his main purpose, was he hanging about for +what crumbs might yet fall from the Planters' table. Nearly without +reflection he burst out with: + +"It's inconceivable you should permit that man about your sister." + +Probably Lambert's great content forbade an answer equally angry. + +"Still at it! See here. Sylvia doesn't care for you." + +"I'm not talking of myself," George said. "I'm talking of Dalrymple." + +With an air of kindness, undoubtedly borrowed from Betty, Lambert said +easily: + +"Stop worrying about him, then. Giving a friend encouragement doesn't +mean asking him into the family. That idea seems to obsess you. What +difference does it make to you, anyway, what man Sylvia marries? I'll +say this, if you wish: Since I've had Betty I see things a bit clearer. +I really shouldn't care to have Dolly the man. I don't think there's a +chance of it." + +"You mean," George asked, eagerly, "if there were you'd stop it?" + +"I shouldn't like it," Lambert answered. "Naturally, I'd express +myself." + +"See here. Dalrymple isn't to be trusted. You've been too occupied. You +haven't watched your sister. How can you tell what's in her mind? You +didn't forecast the affair with Josiah, eh? There's only one way I can +play my game--the thorough way. If it came to a real engagement I should +have to say things, Lambert--things I'd hate myself for; things that +would hurt me, perhaps, more than any one else. If necessary I shall say +them. Will you tell me, if--if----" + +Lambert smiled uneasily. + +"You're shying at phantoms, but you've always played every game to that +point, and perhaps you're justified. I'll come to you if circumstances +ever promise to prove you right." + +"Thanks," George said, infinitely relieved; yet he had an unpleasant +feeling that Lambert had held his temper and had agreed because he was +aware of the existence of a great debt, one that he could never quite +pay. + + +XV + +This creation of a check on Dalrymple and the assurance that Lambert +would warn him of danger came at a useful time for George, since the +market-place more and more demanded an undisturbed mind. He conceded +that Blodgett's earlier pessimism bade fair to be justified. He watched +a succession of industrial upheavals, seeking a safe course among +innumerable and perilous shoals that seemed to defy charting; conquering +whatever instinct he might have had to sympathize with the men, since he +judged their methods as hysterical, grabbing, and wasteful. + +"But I don't believe," he told Blodgett, "these strikes have been +ordered from the Kremlin; still, other colours may quite easily combine +to form red." + +"God help the employers. God help the employees," Blodgett grumbled. + +"And most of all, may God help the great public," George suggested. + +But Blodgett was preoccupied these days with an Oakmont stripped of +passion. George knew that Old Planter had sent for him, and he found +something quite pitiful in that final surrender of the great man who was +now worse off than the youngest, grimiest groveller in the furnaces; so +he was not surprised when it was announced that Blodgett would shortly +move over to the marble temple, a partner at last with individuality and +initiative, one, in fact, who would control everything for Old Planter +and his heirs until Lambert should be older. Lambert was sufficiently +unhappy over the change, because it painted so clearly the inevitable +end. The Fifth Avenue house was opened early that fall as if the old +man desired to get as close as possible to the centre of turbulent +events, hoping that so his waning sight might serve. + +Consequently George had more opportunities of meeting Sylvia; did meet +her from time to time in the evenings, and watched her gaiety which +frequently impressed him as a too noticeably moulded posture. It served, +nevertheless, admirably with the men of all ages who flocked about her +as if, indeed, she were a debutante once more. + +In these groups George was glad not to see Dalrymple often, but he +noticed that Goodhue was near rather more than he had been formerly, and +he experienced a sharp uneasiness, an instinct to go to Goodhue and say: + +"Don't. Keep away. She's caused enough unhappiness." + +Still you couldn't tell about Goodhue. The very fact that he fluttered +near Sylvia might indicate that his real interest lay carefully +concealed, some distance away. He had, moreover, always stood singularly +aside from the pursuit of the feminine. + +George's first meeting with Betty since her return was coloured by a +frank acceptance on her part of new conditions that revived his sense of +a sombre and helpless nostalgia. All was well with Betty. If there had +ever been any doubt in her Lambert had swept it away. Whatever emotion +she experienced for George was, in fact, that of a fond sister for a +brother; and George, studying her and Lambert, longed as he had never +done to find some such eager and confident content. The propulsion of +pure ambition slipped from his desire for Sylvia. With a growing wonder +he found himself craving through her just the satisfied simplicity so +clearly experienced by Lambert and Betty. Could anything make her +brilliancy less hard, less headstrong, less cruel? + +George cast about for the means. Lambert was on watch. There was still +time--plenty of time. + +He hadn't spoken again to Lambert about Dalrymple. There hadn't seemed +any point, for Lambert was entirely trustworthy, and, since Betty and he +lived for the present in the Fifth Avenue house, he saw Sylvia +constantly. Their conversation instead when they met for luncheon, as +they did frequently, revolved about threats which a few years back they +hadn't dreamed would ever face them. Blodgett, George noticed, didn't +point the finger of scorn at him for holding on to the mill stocks. +George wouldn't have minded if he had. They had originally cost him +little, their total loss would not materially affect his fortune, and he +was glad through them to have a personal share in the irritating and +absorbing evolution in the mills. He heard of Allen frequently as a +fiery and fairly successful organizer of trouble, and he sent for him +when he thought the situation warranted it. Allen came readily enough, +walking into the office, shorn of his London frills, but evidently +retentive of the habit of keeping neat and clean. The eyes, too, had +altered, but not obviously, letting through, perhaps, a certain +disillusionment. + +"What are you doing to my mills?" George wanted to know. + +Allen, surprisingly, didn't once lose his temper, listening to George's +complaints without change of expression while he wandered about, his +eyes taking in each detail of the richly furnished office. + +"The directors report that the men have refused to enter into a fair and +above-board cooperative arrangement, and we've figured all along it was +turning the business over to them; taking money out of our own pockets. +It's a form of communism, and they throw it down. Why, Allen? I want +this straight." + +Allen paused in his walk, and looked closely at George. There was no +change in his face even when he commenced to speak. + +"A share in a business," he said, softly, "carries uncomfortable +responsibilities. You can't go to yourself, for instance, and say: 'Give +me more wages--more than the traffic will bear; then you sweat about it +in your office, but don't bother me in my cottage.'" + +"You acknowledge it!" George cried. + +Allen's face at last became a trifle animated. + +"Why not--to you? Everybody's out to get it--the butcher, the baker, the +candlestick maker. The capitalist most of all. Why not the man that +turns the wheels?" + +George whistled. + +"You'd crush essential industries off the face of the earth! You'd go +back to the stone age!" + +"Not," Allen answered, slowly, "as long as the profits of the past can +be got out of somebody's pockets." + +"You'd grab capital!" + +"Like a flash; and what are you going to do about it?" + +"I'll tell you what I am going to do," George answered, "and I fancy a +lot of others will follow my example. I am going to get rid of those +stocks if I have to throw them out of the window, then you'll have no +gun to hold at my head." + +"Throw too much away," Allen warned, "and you'll throw it all." + +"The beautiful, pure social revolution!" George sneered. "You're less +honest than you were when you dropped everything to go to London for me. +What's the matter with you, Allen?" + +Allen appraised again the comfortable room. Even now his expression +didn't alter materially. + +"Nothing. I don't know. Unless the universal spirit of grab has got in +my own veins." + +"Then, my friend," George said, pleasantly, "there's the door." + + +XVI + +George found himself thinking and talking of Allen's views quite enough +to please even Bailly. Blodgett, on the other hand, perhaps because of +the heavy, settled atmosphere of the marble temple, had changed his +tune. + +"Things are bound to come right in the end." + +As far as George was concerned he might as well have said: + +"This marble surrounding me is so many feet thick. Who do you think is +going to interfere with that?" + +Something of quite a different nature bothered Lambert, and for a few +days George thought it a not unnatural resentment at seeing Blodgett in +his father's office, but Lambert took pains to awaken him to the truth, +walking in one afternoon a few weeks after the Planters' move to town. +He had an uncertain and discontented appearance. + +"By the way, George," he said not without difficulty, "Dolly's about a +good deal." + +It was quite certain Lambert hadn't come to announce only that, so +George shrank from his next words, confident that something definite +must have happened. He controlled his anxiety with the thought that +Lambert had, indeed, come to him, and that Dalrymple couldn't permit the +announcement of an engagement without meeting the fulfilment of George's +penalties. + +"It's been on my mind for the past week," Lambert went on. "I mean, he +hasn't been seeing her much in public, but he's been hanging around the +house, and last night I spoke to Sylvia about it, told her I didn't +think father would want him any more than I did, pointed out his +financial record, and said I had gathered he owed you no small sum----" + +"You blind idiot!" George cried. "Why did you have to say that? How did +you even guess it? I've never opened my mouth." + +"He'd milked everybody else dry," Lambert answered, "and Driggs +mentioned a long time ago you'd had a curiously generous notion you'd +like to help Dolly if he ever needed it." + +"It wasn't generosity," George said, dryly. "Go ahead. Did you make any +more blunders?" + +"You're scarcely one to accuse," Lambert answered. "You put me up to it +in the first place, although I'll admit now, I'd have spoken anyway. I +don't want Sylvia marrying him. I don't want him down town as more than +a salaried man, unless he changes more than he has. I didn't feel even +last night that Sylvia really loved him, but I made her furious, and +you're right. I shouldn't have said that. I daresay she guessed, too, it +wasn't all generosity that had led you to pay Dolly's debts. Anyway, she +wouldn't talk reasonably, said she'd marry any one she pleased--oh, +quite the young lady who sent me after you with a horse whip, and I +daresay she'd have been glad to do it again last night. I spoke to +Mother. She said Sylvia hadn't said anything to her, but she added, if +Sylvia wanted him, she wouldn't oppose her. Naturally she wouldn't, +seeing only Dolly's good points, which are regularly displayed for the +benefit of the ladies. Anyway, I agreed to tell you, and you promised, +if it came to the point, you'd have some things to say to me----" + +George nodded shortly. + +"Yes, but I blame you for forcing me to say them. You've thrown them +together----" + +"I've always wanted to help Dolly as you would any old friend who had +wandered a little to the side, and was anxious to get back on the path. +I can't figure every man that comes about the place as a suitor for +Sylvia. Let's forget all that. What are these important and unpleasant +things you have to tell me? I daresay you know where the money you +loaned Dolly went." + +George pressed his lips tight. He frowned. Even now he hesitated to soil +his hands, to divide himself, perhaps, permanently from Sylvia at the +very moment of saving her; and he wasn't quite sure, in view of her +pride and her quick temper, that his very effort wouldn't defeat its own +purpose. If only Lambert hadn't made that worst of all possible +blunders. He wondered how a man felt on the rack. He bent swiftly and +picked up the telephone. + +"I shall talk with Dalrymple first," he said. "I'm going to ask him to +come over here at once. I think he'll come." + +But Lambert shook his head, stopped him before he could take the +receiver from the hook. + +"Isn't in the office. Hasn't been back since luncheon. Left no word +then." + +"Perhaps since you've come away----" George hazarded. + +He telephoned, while Lambert wandered about the room, or paused to slip +through his fingers the tape that emerged like a long and listless +serpent from the now silent ticker. After a question or two George +replaced the receiver and glanced at Lambert. + +"You're right. Sticks to the job, doesn't he?" + +"He isn't exactly an ordinary clerk," Lambert offered. + +George walked to a window. For a long time he gazed over the lower city, +turned singularly unreal by the early dusk, while it outlined itself +little by little in yellow points of light which gave to the clouds and +the circling columns of steam a mauve quality as if the world, instead +of night, faced the birth of a dawn, new, abnormal, frightening. + +He had to make one more effort with Dalrymple before sending Lambert to +Sylvia with his reasons why she shouldn't marry the man. In the +singular, unreal light he glanced at his hands. He had to see Dalrymple +once more first---- + +He turned and snapped on the lights. + +"What are you going to do?" Lambert asked. "There's no likely way to +catch him down town." + +A clerk tip-toed in. George swung sharply. + +"What is it, Carson?" + +"Mr. Dalrymple's outside, sir. It's so late I hesitated to bother you, +but he said it was very important he should see you, sir." + +George sighed. + +"Wait outside, Carson. I'll call you in a moment." + +And when the door was closed he turned to Lambert. + +"I'm going to see him here--alone." + +"Why?" Lambert asked, uneasily. "I don't quite see what you're up to. No +more battles of the ink pots!" + +"Please get out, Lambert; but maybe you'd better hang about the office. +I think Dicky's gone for the night. Wait in his room." + +"All right," Lambert agreed. + +George opened the door, and, as Lambert went through reluctantly, +beckoned the clerk. + +"Send Mr. Dalrymple in, Carson." + +He stood behind his desk, facing the open door. Almost immediately the +doorway was blocked by Dalrymple. George stared, trying to value the +alteration in the man. The weak, rather handsome face was bold and +contemptuous. Clearly he had come here for blows of his own choosing, +and had just now borrowed courage from some illicit bar, but he had +taken only enough, George gathered, to make him assured and not too +calculating. He was clothed as if he had returned from an affair, with a +flower in his buttonhole, and a top hat held in the hand with his stick +and gloves. + +"Come in!" + +Dalrymple closed the door and advanced, smiling. + +Not for a moment did George's glance leave the other. He felt taut, hard +to the point of brittleness. + +"It's fortunate you've come," he said, quietly. "I've just been trying +to get hold of you." + +"Oh! Then Lambert's been here!" Dalrymple answered, jauntily. + +George nodded. + +"You've been crooked, Dalrymple. Now we'll have an accounting." + +Dalrymple laughed. + +"It's what I've come for; but first I advise you to hold your temper. +It's late, but there are plenty of people still outside. Any more rough +stuff and you'll spend the night in a cell, or under bail." + +"If you lived nine lives," George commented, "you'd never be able to +intimidate me." + +Yet the other's manner troubled, and George's doubtful curiosity grew as +he watched Dalrymple commence to draw the strings of the mask. + +Dalrymple put down his hat and cane, bent swiftly, placed the palms of +his hands on the desk, stared at George, his face inflamed, his eyes +choked with malicious exultation. + +"Your blackmail," he cried, "is knocked into a cocked hat. I married +Sylvia half an hour ago." + +Before George's response he lost some of his colour, drew back warily; +but George had no thought of attacking him; it was too late now. That +was why he experienced a dreadful realization of defeat, for a moment +let through a flickering impression of the need for violence, but--and +Dalrymple couldn't be expected to understand that--violence against +George Morton who had let this situation materialize, who experienced, +tumbling about his head, the magnificent but incomplete efforts of many +years. That sensation of boundless, imponderable wreckage crushing upon +him sent him back to his chair where for a moment he sat, sunk down, +stripped of his power and his will. + +And Dalrymple laughed, enjoying it. + +In George's overwhelmed brain that laughter started an awakening +clamour. + +"What difference does the money make now?" Dalrymple jibed. "And she'll +believe nothing else you may tell her, and violence would only make a +laughing stock of you. It's done." + +"How was it done?" George whispered. + +"No objections to amusing you," Dalrymple mocked. "Lambert interfered +last night, and spoiled his own game by dragging you in. By gad, she has +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." + +Lambert took her hand and led her to the door. + +"Go to Betty," he said. + +"But make him understand," she pled. + +"Why did you marry him if you didn't love him?" Lambert asked. + +She turned and glanced at Dalrymple. + +"I was fond of him. I didn't quite realize. There's a difference--he +must see that I've done an impossible thing, and I won't go on with it." + +They were at the door. Lambert led her through, returning immediately. +George watched her go, blaming himself for her suffering. He had, +indeed, dragged her from her high horse, but he had not realized he +would bring her at once and starkly face to face with facts she had all +along refused to recognize; yet, he was convinced from his long +knowledge of her, she would not alter her decision, and he was happy, +knowing that he had accomplished, after a fashion, what he had come here +to do. + +"You're married," Lambert was saying dryly to Dalrymple. "The problem +seems to be how to get you unmarried." + +"You shan't do that," Dalrymple cried, hotly. "You'll talk her around +instead." + +"Scarcely a chance," Lambert answered, "and really I don't see why I +should try. You've played a slippery trick. You may have had an +understanding with Sylvia, but I am perfectly convinced that she +wouldn't have let anything come of it if you hadn't caught her at a +moment when she couldn't judge reasonably. So it's entirely up to her." + +"We'll see about it," Dalrymple said. "I have my side. You turn nasty. I +turn nasty. You Planters want an annulment proceeding, or a public +divorce with this rotter as co-respondent?" + +"Dolly! You don't know what you're saying." + +"I'll fight for my rights," Dalrymple persisted, sullenly. + +"See here," George put in, "I stayed to say one thing. Sylvia had +nothing to do with what you saw. She couldn't help herself. Your +crookedness, Dalrymple, made me forget everything except that----Never +mind. Lambert understands. Maybe I was out of my head. Anyway, I didn't +give her a chance. She had to suffer it. Is that quite clear?" + +Lambert smiled incredulously. + +"That'll sound well in court, too," Dalrymple threatened. + +"Drop that!" Lambert cried. "Think who you are; who Sylvia is." + +"My wife," Dalrymple came back. "I'll have her or I'll go to court." + +George started for the door. + +"Don't fret, Lambert," he advised. "Money will go a long way with him. +If I might, I'd like to know what the two of you settle. I mean, if you +want to keep it away from your father and mother, my money's available. +I haven't much use for it any more----" + +He broke off. What had he just meant to say: that since he had held +Sylvia in his arms all that had marked the progress of his ambition had +become without value? He would have to find that out. Now he waited at +the door, interested only in Dalrymple's response to his bald proposal. +Dalrymple thrust his hands in his pockets, commenced to pace the room, +but all he said was: + +"Teach you all not to make a fool of Dolly." + +"Remember," George said. "What she wants. And undesired scandals can be +paid for in various ways." + +He glanced at Lambert. Evidently Sylvia's brother on that ground would +meet him as an ally. So he left the house and walked slowly through the +eastern fringe of the park, wishing to avoid even the few people +scattered along the pavements of the avenue, for the touch of Sylvia's +lips was still warm on his mouth. He felt himself apart. He wanted to +remain apart as long as possible with that absorbing memory. + +Her angry responses in the past to his few daring gestures were +submerged in the great, scarcely comprehensible fact that she had not +rebuked him when he had tumbled over every barrier to take her in his +arms; nor had she, when cornered by Dalrymple and Lambert, assumed her +logical defence. Had that meant an awakening of a sort? + +He smiled a little, thinking of her lips. + +Their touch had sent to his brain flashes of pure illumination in which +his once great fondness for Betty had stood stripped of the capacity for +any such avid, confused emotions as Sylvia had compelled; flashes that +had exposed also his apparent hatred of the girl Sylvia as an obstinate +love, which, unable to express itself according to a common-place +pattern, had shifted its violent desires to conceptions of wrongs and +penalties. Blinded by that great light, he asked himself if his +ambition, his strength, and his will had merely been expressions of his +necessity for her. + +Of her words and actions immediately afterward he didn't pretend to +understand anything beyond their assurance that Dalrymple's romance was +at an end. Not a doubt crept into his strange and passionate exaltation. + +He was surprised to find himself at his destination. When he reached his +apartment he got out the old photograph and the broken riding crop, and +with them in his hands sat before the fire, dreaming of the long road +over which they had consistently aided him. He compared Sylvia as he had +just seen her with the girlish and intolerant Sylvia of the photograph, +and he found he could still imagine the curved lips moving to form the +words: + +"You'll not forget." + +He lowered his hands, and took a deep breath like one who has completed +a journey. To-night, in a sense, he had reached the heights most +carefully guarded of all. + + +XVIII + +He heard the ringing of the door bell. His servant slipped in. + +"Mr. Lambert Planter, sir." + +George started, placed the crop and the photograph in a drawer, and +looked at the man with an air of surprise. + +"Of course, I should like to see him. And bring me something on a tray, +here in front of the fire." + +Lambert walked in. + +"Don't mind my coming this way, George?" + +"I'm glad I'm no longer 'Morton'," George said, dryly. "Sit down. I'm +going to have a bite to eat." + +He glanced at his watch. + +"Good Lord! It's after ten o'clock." + +"Yes," Lambert said, choosing a chair, "there was a lot to talk about." + +Little of the trouble had left Lambert's face, but George fancied +Sylvia's brother looked at him with curiosity, with a form of respect. + +"I'm glad you've come," George said, "but I don't intend to apologize +for what I did this evening. I think we all, no matter what our +inheritance, fight without thought of affectations for our happiness. +That's what I did. I love your sister, Lambert. Never dreamed how much +until to-night. Not a great deal to say, but it's enormous beyond +definition to think. You have Betty, so perhaps you can understand." + +Lambert smiled in a superior fashion. + +"I'm a little confused," he said. "She's led me to believe all along +she's disliked you; has kept you away from Oakmont; has made it +difficult from the start. Then I find her, whether willingly or not--at +least not crying out for help--in your arms." + +"I had to open her eyes to what she had done," George answered. "I +wasn't exactly accountable, but I honestly believe I took the only +possible means. I don't know whether I succeeded." + +"I fancy you succeeded," Lambert muttered. + +George stretched out his hand, looked at Lambert appealingly. + +"She didn't say so--she----" + +Lambert shook his head. + +"She wouldn't talk about you at all." + +He waited while the servant entered and arranged George's tray. + +"Of course you've dined?" + +"After a fashion," Lambert answered. "Not hungry. You might give me a +drink." + +"I feel apologetic about eating," George said when they were alone +again. "Don't see why I should have an appetite." + +Lambert fingered his glass. + +"Do you know why she didn't have you drawn and quartered?" + +"No. Don't try to create happiness, Lambert, where there mayn't be any." + +"I'm creating nothing. I'm asking a question, in an effort to +understand why she won't, as I say, mention your name; why she can't +bear to have it mentioned." + +"If you were right, if things could be straightened out," George said, +"you--you could put up with it?" + +"Easily," Lambert answered, "and I'll confess I couldn't if it were +Corporal John Smith. I've been fond of you for a long time, George, and +I owe you a great deal, but that doesn't figure. You're worthy even of +Sylvia; but I don't say I'm right. You can't count on Sylvia. And even +if I were, I don't see any way to straighten things out." + +George returned to his meal. + +"If you had taken the proper attitude," he scolded, "you could have +handled Dalrymple. He's weak, avaricious, cowardly." + +"Oh, Dalrymple! I can handle him. It's Sylvia," Lambert said. "In the +long run Dolly agreed to about everything. Of course he wanted money, +and he'll have to have it; but heaven knows there's plenty of money. +Trouble is, the wedding can't be hushed up. That's plain. It will be in +every paper to-morrow. We arranged that Dolly was to live in the house +for a time. They would have been together in public, and Dolly agreed +eventually to let her go and get a quiet divorce--at a price. It sounds +revolting, but to me it seemed the only way." + +George became aware of an ugly and distorted intruder upon his +happiness, yet Lambert was clearly right. Sylvia and Dalrymple, +impulsively joined together, were nothing to each other, couldn't even +resume their long friendship. + +"Well?" George asked. + +"Mother, Betty, and I talked it over with Sylvia," Lambert answered. +"You see, we've kept Father in ignorance so far. He's scarcely up to +such a row. Mother will make him wise very gently only when it becomes +necessary." + +"But what did Sylvia say?" George demanded, bending toward Lambert, his +meal forgotten. + +"Sylvia," Lambert replied, spreading his hands helplessly, "would agree +to nothing. In the first place, she wouldn't consent to Dolly's staying +in the house even to save appearances. I don't know what's the matter +with her. She worried us all. She wasn't hysterical exactly, but she +cried a good deal, which is quite unusual for her, and she +seemed--frightened. She wouldn't let any one go near her--even Mother. I +couldn't understand that." + +George stared at the fire, his hands clasped. When at last he spoke he +scarcely heard his own voice: + +"She will get a divorce--as soon as possible?" + +Lambert emptied his glass and set it down. + +"That's just it," he answered, gloomily. "She won't listen to anything +of the sort." + +George glanced up. + +"What is there left for her to do?" + +Lambert frowned. + +"Something seems to have changed her wholly. She declares she'll never +see Dolly again, and in the same breath talks about the church and a +horror of divorce, and the necessity of her suffering for her mistake; +and she wants to pay her debt to Dolly by giving him, instead of +herself, all of her money--a few such pleasant inconsistencies. See +here. Why didn't you run wild yesterday, or the day before?" + +"Do you think," George asked, softly, "it would have been quite the same +thing, would have had quite the same effect?" + +"I wonder," Lambert mused. + +George arose and stood with his back to the fire. + +"And of course," he said, thoughtfully, "you or I can't tell just what +the effect has been. See here, Lambert. I have to find that out. I must +see her once, if only for five minutes." + +He watched Lambert, who didn't answer at first. + +"I'll not run wild again," he promised. "If she'd only agree--just five +minutes' talk." + +"I told you," Lambert said at last, "she wouldn't mention your name or +let any one else; but, on the theory that you are really responsible for +what's happened, I'd like you to see her. You might persuade her that a +divorce is absolutely necessary, the only way out. You might get her to +understand that she can't go through life tied to a man she'll never +see, while people will talk many times more than if she took a train +quietly west." + +"If she'll see me," George said, "I'll try to make it plain to her." + +"Betty has a scheme----" Lambert began, and wouldn't grow more explicit +beyond saying, "Betty'll probably let you hear from her in the morning. +That's the reason I wanted you to know how things stand. I'm hurrying +back now to our confused house." + +George followed him to the door. + +"Dalrymple--where is he?" he asked. + +"Gone to his parents. He'll try to play the game for the present." + +"At a price," George said. + +Lambert nodded. + +"Rather well-earned, too, on the whole," he answered, ironically. + + + +XIX + +George slept little that night. The fact that Lambert believed him +responsible for the transformation in Sylvia was sufficiently exciting. +In Sylvia's manner her brother must have read something he had not quite +expressed to George. And why wouldn't she mention him? Why couldn't she +bear to have the others mention him? With his head bowed on his hands he +sat before the desk, staring at the diminishing fire, and in this +posture he fell at last asleep to be startled by Wandel who had not +troubled to have himself announced. The fire was quite dead. In the +bright daylight streaming into the room George saw that the little man +held a newspaper in his hand. + +"Is it a habit of great men not to go to bed?" + +George stood up and stretched. He indicated the newspaper. + +"You've come with the evil tidings?" + +"About Sylvia and Dolly," Wandel began. + +George yawned. + +"I must bathe and become presentable, for this is another day." + +"You've already seen it?" Wandel asked, a trifle puzzled. + +"No, but what else should there be in the paper?" + +Wandel stared for a moment, then carefully folded the paper and tossed +it in the fireplace. + +"Nothing much," he answered, lighting a cigarette, "except hold-ups, +murders, new strikes, fresh battles among our brethren of the Near +East--nothing of the slightest consequence. By by. Make yourself, great +man, fresh and beautiful for the new day." + + +XX + +George wondered why Wandel should have come at all, or, having come, why +he should have left in that manner; and he was sorry he had answered as +he had, for Wandel invariably knew a great deal, more than most people. +In this case he had probably come only to help, but in George's brain +nothing could survive for long beyond hazards as to what the morning +might develop. Betty was going to communicate with him, and she would +naturally expect to find him at his office, so he hurried down town and +waited, forcing himself to the necessary details of his work. For the +first time the mechanics of making money seemed dreary and unprofitable. + +Goodhue came in with a clearly designed lack of curiosity. Had his +partner all along suspected the truth, or had Wandel been talking? For +that matter, did Goodhue himself experience a sense of loss? + +"Not so surprising, George. Dolly's always been after her--even back in +the Princeton days, and she's played around with him since they were +children; yet I was a little shocked. I never thought it would quite +come off." + +It was torture for George to listen, and he couldn't possibly talk about +it, so he led Goodhue quite easily to the day's demands; but Blodgett +appeared not long after with a drooping countenance. Why did they all +have to come to him to discuss the unannounced wedding of Sylvia +Planter? + +"She ought to have done better," Blodgett disapproved funereally. + +He fingered a gaudy handkerchief. He thrust it in his pocket, drew it +forth again, folded it carefully with his pudgy hands. + +"Don't think I've ever ceased to regret----" he started rather +pitifully. + +After a moment's absorbed scrutiny of George he went on. + +"If she had picked somebody like you I wouldn't have minded. Papa +Blodgett would have given you both his blessing." + +So they had all guessed something! George questioned uneasily if +Blodgett's suspicions had lived during the course of his own unfortunate +romance, and he was sorrier than ever he had had to help destroy that. +He got rid of Blodgett and refused to see any one else, but he had to +answer the telephone, for that would almost certainly be Betty's means +of communication. Each time the pleasant bell tinkled he seized the +receiver, and each time cut short whatever masculine worries reached +him. The uneven pounding of the ticker punctuated his suspense. It was a +feverish morning in the market, but not once did he rise to glance at +the tape which streamed neglected into the basket. + +It was after one o'clock when he snatched the receiver from the hook +again with a hopeless premonition of another disappointment. Then he +heard Betty's voice, scarcely more than an anxious whisper "George!" + +"Yes, yes, Betty." + +"My car will be somewhere between Altman's and Tiffany's at two o'clock, +as near the corner of Thirty-fifth Street as they'll let me get. Lambert +knows. It's all right." + +"But, Betty----" + +"Just be there," she said, and must have hung up. + +He glanced at his watch. He could start now. He hurried from the +building, but there was no point in haste. He had plenty of time, too +much time; and Betty hadn't said he would see Sylvia; hadn't given him +time to ask; but she must have arranged an interview, else why should +she care to see him at all, why her manner of a conspirator? + +He reached the rendezvous well ahead of time, but he recognized Betty's +car just beyond the corner, and saw her wave to him anxiously. He +stepped in and sat at her side. She laughed nervously. + +"I guessed you would be a little ahead," she said as the car commenced +to crawl north. + +"Am I to see Sylvia?" + +Betty nodded. + +"Just once. This noon, before I telephoned, she acknowledged that she +wanted to see you--to talk to you for the last time. That's the way she +put it." + +Betty smiled sceptically. + +"You know I don't believe anything of the sort." + +"What do you think can be done?" George asked. + +She didn't suggest anything, merely repeating her faith, going on while +she looked at George curiously. + +"So all the time, George--and I didn't really guess, but I might have +known you would. I can remember now that day at Princeton when I asked +you about her dog, and your anxiety one night at Josiah's when you +wanted to know if she was going to be married--oh, plenty of hints now. +George! Why did you let it go so far?" + +"Couldn't help myself, Betty." + +She looked at him helplessly. + +"And what have you done to her?" + +"If you can't guess----" George said. + +Betty smiled reminiscently. + +"Perhaps I can guess. You would do just that, George, when there was +nothing else." + +"You don't blame me?" he asked. "You don't ask, as Lambert did, why I +waited so long?" + +She shook her head. + +"I'm sure," she said, "when you came last night you saw a Sylvia none of +us had ever met before. Don't you think it had come upon her all at once +that she was no longer Sylvia Planter, that in defeating you she had +destroyed herself? If that is so, she has every bit of sympathy I'm +capable of, and we must think first of all of her. The pride's still +there, but quite a different thing. She's never known fear before, +George, and now she's afraid, terribly afraid, most of all, I think, of +herself." + +George counted the corners, was relieved when beyond Fiftieth Street the +traffic thinned and they went faster. He took Betty's hand, and found +that the touch steadied and encouraged, because at last her fingers +seemed to reach his mind again. + +"Betty! Do you think she cares at all?" + +"I'm prejudiced," Betty laughed, "but I think the harder she'd been the +more she's cared; but she wouldn't talk about you except to say she +would see you for a minute this once. Lambert's lunching with Dolly." + +"We are conspirators," George said, "and I don't like it, but I must see +her once." + +They drew up at the curb, got out, and entered the hall. The house was +peculiarly without sound. George glanced at the entrance to the room +where he had found Sylvia last night. + +"I think she's in Mr. Planter's study," Betty said. "He hasn't come +downstairs yet." + +She led him through the library to a small, square room--a quiet and +comfortable book-lined retreat where Old Planter had been accustomed to +supplement his work down town. George looked eagerly around, but the +light wasn't very good, and he didn't at first see Sylvia. + +"Sylvia!" Betty called softly. "I've brought George." + + +XXI + +Almost before George realized it Betty was gone and the door was closed. + +"Sylvia!" + +Her low voice reached him from a large chair opposite the single, +leaded, opaque window. + +"I'm over here----" + +Yes, there was fear in her enunciation, as if she groped through shadowy +and hazardous places. It cautioned him. With a choked feeling, a racking +effort after repression, he walked quietly around and stared down at +her. + +She looked up once quickly, then glanced away. He was grateful for her +colour, but the fear was in her face, too, and the pride, as Betty had +said, but a transformed pride that he couldn't quite understand. She lay +back in the large chair, her head to one side resting against the +protruding arm. Her eyes were bright with tears she had shed or wanted +to shed. + +"Please sit down." + +The ring of exasperated contempt and challenge had gone from her voice. +He hadn't known it could stir him so. He drew up a chair and sat close +to her. + +"You are not angry about what I did last night?" he whispered. + +She shook her head. + +"I am grateful. I wanted to see you to tell you that, and how sorry I +am--so beastly sorry, George." + +Her voice drifted away. It made him want his arms about her, made him +want her lips again. The room became a black and restless background for +this shadowy, desired, and forbidden figure. + +Impulsively he slipped to his knees and placed his head against the side +of her chair. Across his hair he fancied a fugitive brushing of fingers. +She burst out with something of her former impetuous manner. + +"I used to want that! Now you shan't!" + +He arose, and she stooped swiftly forward, as if propelled objectively, +and, before he realized what she was doing, touched the back of his hand +with her lips. + +She sprang upright and faced him from the mantel, more afraid than ever, +staring at him, her cheeks wet with tears. + +"That's all," she whispered. "It's what I wanted to tell you. Please go. +We mustn't see each other again." + +In the room he was aware only of her, but he knew, in spite of his own +blind instinct, that between them was a wall as of transparent and heavy +glass against which he would only break his strength. + +"Sylvia," he whispered in spite of that knowledge, "I want to touch your +lips." + +"They've never been anybody else's," she cried in a sudden outburst. +"Never could have been. I see that now. That's why I've hated you----" + +"Yet you love me now. You do love me, Sylvia?" + +"I love you, George," she said, wearily. "I think I always have." + +"Then why--why----" + +She turned on him, nearly angry. + +"How can you ask that? You haven't forgotten that first day, either, +have you? You took something of me then, and I couldn't forget it. That +was what hurt and humiliated; I couldn't forget, couldn't get out of my +mind what you--one of the--the stablemen--had taken of me, Sylvia +Planter. And I thought you could never give it back, but last night you +did, and I----Everything went to pieces----And it had to be last night, +after I'd lost my temper. I see that. That's the tragedy of it." + +"I don't quite understand, Sylvia." + +She smiled a little through her tears. + +"Betty would. Any woman would. You must go now--please." + +"When will I see you again?" he asked. + +"This way? Never." + +"What nonsense! You'll get a divorce. You must." + +She straightened. Her head went back. + +"I won't lie that way." + +"I'll hit on some means," he boasted. "You belong to me." + +"And I've found it out too late," she said, "and I don't believe I could +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 +mused. + +"He hasn't," Lambert said, impatiently. "Since I talked with him that +hectic night I've admitted that Dolly's never had the capacity to love +any one except himself. So he's probably happy in his own unpleasant +way." + +A thought came to George. He smiled a little. + +"I've been wondering if Sylvia is going in harder than ever on the side +of the downtrodden." + +Lambert laughed. + +"As far as I know, hasn't mentioned a cossack since that night; and I +have to confess, hard-headed reactionary, the ranks are making me see +too many bad qualities among the good." + +"Perhaps," George suggested, "the ranks are saying something of the sort +about us. Besides, I don't see why you call me reactionary." + +"Would you have minded it a while back?" Lambert asked. + +"Just the same," George answered, "I'd like to get their point of view." + +What would Squibs say to that from him? Squibs, undoubtedly, would be +pleased. After Lambert had gone he sat for a long time thinking. He was +glad Lambert had come, for the other had suggested that in endeavouring +to capture such a point of view, in pleasing Squibs, he might at last +find a real interest, and one of use to somebody besides himself. If the +men on the heights didn't get at it pretty soon, a different kind of +climber would appear, with black hands, inflamed eyes, and a mind +stripped, by passion, of all logic. Gladly he found it possible to bring +to this new task the energy with which he had attacked the narrower +puzzles of the university and Wall Street. + +Sylvia had called him the most selfish person she had ever met, and, as +he tried to strip from the facts of the world's disease the perpetual, +clinging propaganda, he applied her charge to his soul. From the first +he had been infected, yet his selfishness had been neither inefficient +nor dangerous. This increasing pestilence was. Lambert guessed what he +was at, and George jeered at him for his war madness, but Lambert had +found again an absorbing interest. Because of his missing leg it was +rather pitiful to watch his enthusiasm for a reawakened activity. + +"You've got to see Harvard swallow your old Tiger, George," he said one +Friday. "After all, why not? You don't need to come out to the Alstons, +although I'm not sure there would be any harm in that. Talk's about +done, I fancy." + +George flushed. + +"Do you know I'd love to spill you again, Lambert? I'd like to bring you +down so hard the seismographs would make a record." + +"Too bad we can't try to kill each other," Lambert said, regretfully. +"Why not watch younger brutes?" + +"I've wanted it for days," George acknowledged. "I'll wire Squibs." + +George was perfectly sure that Squibs knew nothing, for he wasn't +socially curious, and Betty would have hesitated to talk about what had +happened even to Mrs. Squibs, yet he was conscious, after the first +moment of meeting, of a continued scrutiny from Squibs, of a hesitancy +of manner, of an unusually careful choice of words. + +He had small opportunity to test this impression, for it was noon when +he reached the house in Dickinson Street, and there were many of the +tutor's products in the dining-room, snatching a cold bite while they +roared confused pessimism about the game. + +"You're going to the side-lines," Squibs said when they had climbed the +ramp to their section of the stadium. + +"I'd be in the way," George objected. + +Bailly stared at him. + +"George Morton on a football field could only be in the way of Harvard +and Yale." + +George experienced a quick, ardent wish for thick turf underfoot, for a +seat on the bench among players exhaling a thick atmosphere of eager and +absorbed excitement. So he let the tutor lead him down the steps. Squibs +called to Green, who was distrait. + +"What is it, Mr. Bailly?" + +"I've got Morton." + +Green sprang to life. + +"Mr. Stringham! An omen! An omen!" + +He met George at the gate and threw his arms around him. Stringham +hurried up. Green crowed. + +"I believe we'll lick these fellows or come mighty close to it." + +"Of course you'll lick them, Green. Hello, Stringham! May I sit down?" + +"The stadium's yours," Stringham said, simply. + +As he walked along the line of eager players, smothered in blankets or +sweaters, George caught snatches of the curiosity of youth, because of +nervousness, too audibly expressed. + +"Who's the big fellow?" + +"That? Longest kicker, fastest man for his weight ever played the game. +George Morton--the great Morton." + +"He never played with that leg! What's the matter with his leg? +Football?" + +George caught no answer. He sat down among the respectful youths, +thinking whimsically: + +"The war's so soon over, but thank God they can't forget football!" + + +XXV + +At the very end of the first half, when the Princeton sections +experienced the unforeseen glow of a possible victory, George caught a +glimpse of Lambert and Wandel close to the barrier, as if they had left +their places to catch someone with the calling of time. Just then the +horn scrunched its anxious message. George called. + +"Lambert Planter!" + +Stringham paused, grinning. + +"Come over here, you biting bulldog." + +Lambert made his way through the barrier and grasped Stringham's hand. + +"Come along to the dressing-room," Stringham suggested, cordially. "Nice +bulldog, although once I loved to see Morton chew you up." + +Lambert glanced down. + +"Thanks. I'd better stay here. One of my runners is off, Stringham." + +"Then sit with the boys next half," Stringham said. "Coming, Morton?" + +George shook his head, and urged the anxious coach away, for Wandel had +caught his eye. + +"Tell them to keep their heads," George called after Stringham. "If they +keep their heads they've got Harvard beaten." + +He glanced inquiringly at Wandel. + +"Why not cease," Wandel said, "imagining yourself a giddy, heroic cub? +Come up and sit with mature people the last half." + +The invitation startled George. Then Sylvia wasn't there? + +"Is Sylvia all right?" he asked Lambert under his breath. + +Lambert was a trifle ill at ease. + +"Oh, quite. Betty asked us to get you. Wants to see you. Have my place. +I'm going to accept Stringham's fine invitation, and sit here with the +young--a possible Yale scout on the Princeton side-lines." + +"Stringham's no fool," George laughed. "Anyway, he has you fellows +beaten right now." + +Lambert thrust his hand in his pocket. + +"How much you got?" + +Wandel grasped George's arm. + +"Come with me before you get in a college brawl." + +"Plenty when we're not chaperoned, Lambert," George called, and followed +Wandel through the restless crowd and up the concrete steps. + +Was Sylvia really there? Was he going to see her? The idea of finding +him had sprung from Betty, and Lambert had been ill at ease. + +He saw Betty and her father and mother, then beyond them, a vacant place +between, Sylvia to whom the open air and its chill had given back all +her dark, flushed brilliancy. Wandel slid through first, and made +himself comfortable at Sylvia's farther side. George followed, stopping +to speak to the Alstons, to accept Betty's approving glance. + +"Conspirator!" he whispered, and went on, and sat down close to Sylvia, +and yielded himself to the delight of her proximity. She glanced at him, +her colour deepening. + +"Betty said it was all right, and I must. So many people----" + +The air was sharp enough to make rugs comfortable. He couldn't see her +hands because they were beneath the rug across her knees, a covering she +shared with Wandel and him. + +As he drew the rug up one of his hands touched hers, and his fingers, +beyond his control, groped for her fingers. He detected a quick, nervous +movement away; then it was stopped, and their hands met, clasped, and +clung together. + +For a moment they looked at each other, and knew they mustn't, since +there were so many people; but the content of their clasped hands +continued because it couldn't be observed. + +The supreme football player sat there staring at a blur of autumn colour +between the lake and the generous mouth of the stadium; and, when the +second half commenced, saw, as if from an immeasurable distance, pygmy +figures booting a football, or carrying it here and there, or throwing +each other about; and he didn't know which were Harvard's men or which +were Princeton's, and he didn't seem to care---- + +Vaguely he heard people suffering. A voice cut through a throaty and +grieving murmur. + +"Somebody's lost his head!" + +"What's the matter?" he asked Sylvia. + +"George! You're destroying my hand." + +Momentarily he remembered, and relaxed his grasp, while she added +quickly: + +"But I don't mind at all, dear." + + +XXVI + +Lambert stood in front of them, glancing down doubtfully. Evidently the +game was over, for people were leaving, talking universally and +discontentedly. + +"Betty and I," Lambert said, dryly, "fancied we'd invented and patented +that rug trick." + +Sylvia stood up. + +"Don't scold, Lambert." + +She turned to George, trying to smile. + +"I shall be happy as long as my hand hurts. Good-bye, George." + +"You'd better go," Betty whispered as he lingered helplessly. + +So he drifted aimlessly through the crowd, hearing only a confused +murmur, seeing nothing beyond the backs directly in front of him, until +he found the Baillys waiting at the ramp opening. + +"If you'd only been there, George! Although this morning we'd have been +glad enough to think of a tie score." + +He submitted then to Bailly's wonder at each miracle; to his grief for +each mistake; and little by little, as the complaining voice hurried on, +the world assumed its familiar proportions and movements. He caught a +glimpse of Allen walking slowly ahead. The angular man was alone, and +projected even to George an air of profound dissatisfaction. Bailly +caught his arm and shook hands with him. + +"Whither away?" George asked. + +"To the specials." + +He fell in beside George, and for a time kept pace with him. + +"What's bothering you, Allen?" + +With a haggard air Allen turned his head from side to side, gazing at +the hastening people. + +"Lords of the land!" he muttered. "Lords of the land!" + +"Why?" George asked. "Because they have an education? Well, so have +you." + +Allen nodded toward the emptying stadium. + +"Lords of the land!" he repeated. "I've been sitting up there with them, +but all alone. I wish I hadn't liked being with them. I wish I hadn't +been sorry for myself because I was alone." + +Allen's words, his manner of expressing them, defined a good deal for +George, urged him to form a quick resolution. + +"Catch your special," he said, "but come to my office Tuesday morning. I +may have work for you that you can do with a clear conscience. If you +must get, get something worth while." + +Allen glanced at him quickly. + +"Morton, you've changed," he said. "I'll come." + + +XXVII + +Very slowly the excitement of the game cleared from Squibs' brain. That +night he could talk of nothing else, begging George for an opinion of +each player and his probable value against Yale the following Saturday. +George, to cover his confusion, generalized. + +"We'll beat Yale," he said, "as we ought to have beaten Harvard, because +this team isn't afraid of colours and symbols. Most of these youngsters +have been in the bigger game, so final football matches no longer appeal +to them as matters of life and death and even of one's chances in the +hereafter." + +Bailly looked slightly sheepish. + +"I'm afraid, George, I'm going to New Haven to look at a struggle of +life and death, but then I was only in the Y. M. C. A. I'd feel many +times better if you were sound and available." + +"You might speak to the dean about me," George laughed. + +By the next evening, however, the crowd had departed, and with +Princeton's return to normal Squibs for the time overcame his anxieties. +That night George and he sat in a corner of the lounge of the Nassau +Club, waiting for Lambert and Wandel to drive in from the Alstons. +George grew a trifle uncomfortable, because he suspected Squibs was +staring at him with yesterday's curious scrutiny. Abruptly the tutor +asked: + +"What did you say to Allen after the game?" + +"Offered him another job," George answered, shortly. + +Bailly frowned. + +"See here, George. What are you up to? Is that fair and decent? Allen is +struggling--for the right." + +"Allen," George answered, "has put some of his views to the test, and +the results have made him discouraged and uneasy. He's been tainted by +the very men he's tried to help. I've no idea of debauching him. Quite +the reverse. Please listen." + +And he entered upon a sort of penitence, speaking, while the tutor's +wrinkled face flushed with pleasure, of his recent efforts to understand +the industrial situation and its probable effects on society. + +"I have to acknowledge," he said, softly, "that pure material success +has completely altered its meaning for me. I'd like to use my share of +it, and what small brains I have, to help set things straight; but I'm +not so sure this generation won't have too sticky feet to drag itself +out of the swamp of its own making." + +Lambert and Wandel arrived just then, talking cheerfully about football. + +"What do you mean to do?" Bailly asked George as the others sat down. + +George smiled at Wandel. + +"I'm not sure, Driggs, that the hour hasn't struck for you." + +Wandel raised his hands. + +"You mean politics!" + +"I used to fancy," George said, "that I'd need you for my selfish +interests. Now my idea is quite different." + +He turned to Squibs. + +"See here, sir. You've got to admit that the soul of the whole thing is +education. I don't mean education in the narrow sense that we know it +here or in any other university. I mean the opening of eyes to real +communal efficiency; the comprehension of the necessity of building +instead of tearing down; the birth of the desire to climb one's self +rather than to try to make stronger men descend." + +Bailly's eyes sparkled. + +"I don't say you're not right, George. You may be right." + +A fire blazed comfortably in front of them. The chairs were deep. +Through a window the Holder tower, for all its evening lack of +definition, seemed an indestructible pointer of George's thoughts. For a +long time he talked earnestly. + +"I climbed," he ended. "So others can, and less selfishly and more +usefully, if they're only told how; if they'll only really try." + +"You're always right, great man," Wandel drawled, "but we mustn't forget +you climbed from fundamentals. That's education--the teaching of the +fundamentals." + +"It means an equal chance for everybody," George said, "and then, by +gad, we won't have the world held back by those who refuse to take their +chance. We won't permit the congenitally unsound to set the pace for the +healthy. We'll take care of the congenitally unsound." + +He turned to Bailly. + +"And you and your excitable socialists have got to realize that you +can't make the world sane through makeshifts, or all at once, but with +foresight it can be done. You've raised the devil with me ever since I +was a sub-Freshman about service and the unsound and the virtue of +soiled clothing. Now raise the devil with somebody else about the virtue +of sound service and clean clothes. This education must start in the +schools. We may be able to force it into public schools through the +legislatures; but in Princeton and the other great universities it has +to come from within, and that's hard; that, in a way, is up to you and +other gentle sectarians like you. And your clubs have got to stand in +some form--everywhere, if only as objectives of physical and +intellectual content. Nothing good torn from the world! Only the +evil----" + +He tapped Wandel's arm. + +"Driggs! If you want to go among the time-servers, to stand alone for +the people; perhaps for people yet unborn----" + +"For a long time," Wandel said, "I've been looking for something I could +really want to do. I rather fancy you've found it for me, George. I want +to climb, too, always have--not to the heights we once talked about at +your unhealthy picnic, but to the furtherest heights of all, which are +guarded by selfishness, servility, sin--past which people have to be +led." + +Squibs cried out enthusiastically. + +"And from which you can look down with a clear conscience on the +climbers to whom you will have pointed out the path." + +"I see now," Lambert put in, "that that is the only way in which one +with self-respect can look down on lesser men." + +George laughed aloud. + +"An ally that can't escape! Driggs is a witness. We'll hold that fine +democracy of the Argonne over your head forever." + +"You see," Wandel drawled, "that was bound to fail, because it was based +on the ridiculous assumption that every man that fought was good and +great." + +"I fancy," George said, "we're commencing to find out why we went to +war--To appreciate the world's and our own astigmatism." + +As they walked back to the little house in Dickinson Street, Bailly +tried to express something. + +"I guess," he managed, "that I'll have to call it square, George." + +"I'm glad," George said, quickly, "but you must give some of the credit +to Lambert Planter's sister." + +He smiled happily, wistfully. + +"You know she's the most useful socialist of you all." + +After a time he said under his breath: + +"There are some things I never dreamed of being able to repay you, sir. +For instance this--this feeling that one is walking home." + +"That debt," Bailly said, brightly, "cancels itself." + +His mood changed. He spoke with a stern personal regret. + +"You young men! You young men! How much farther you see! How much more +you can do!" + + +XXVIII + +George returned to New York happy in his memory of his intimate hour on +a crowded stand with Sylvia. Dalrymple had given him that, too. It +amazed him that so much beauty could spring from so ugly a source. + +He heard that Dalrymple was back from Canada, then that he had wandered +away, pockets full, on another journey, pandering to his twisted +conception of pleasure. One day George took his notes from the +safe-deposit box and gave them to Lambert. + +"Get them back to him," he said. + +And Lambert must have understood that George would never let the +Planters' money redeem them. + +"It's pretty decent, George." + +"It's nothing of the kind. They make my hands feel dirty, and I've lots +of money, and I'm making more every day; yet I wonder if it's going to +be enough, even with Driggs' and Blodgett's and yours, old Argonne +democrat." + +For he had spoken of his plans to Blodgett, and had been a little +surprised to learn how much thought Blodgett had given the puzzle +himself, although most of his searching had been for makeshifts, for +anything to tide over immediate emergencies. + +"I don't know," Blodgett roared, "whether this cleaning out the sore and +getting to the bottom of it will work or not; but I'm inclined to look +to the future with you for a permanent cure. Anyway, I'd help you +finance a scheme to make the ocean dry, because you usually get what +you're after. So we'll send Wandel and Allen and some more as a little +leaven to Albany and to that quilting party in Washington. I don't envy +them, though." + +George realized that his content could be traced to this new interest, +as that went back to Sylvia. He had at last consciously set out to +explore the road of service. For the first time in his life, with his +eyes open, he was working for others, yet he never got rid of the sense +of a great personal need unfulfilled; always in his heart vibrated the +cry for Sylvia, but he knew he mustn't try to see her, for Betty would +have let him know, and Betty hadn't sent for him again. + +After the holidays, at the urging of Wandel and Lambert, he showed +himself here and there, received at first curious glances, fancied some +people slightly self-conscious, then all at once found himself welcomed +on the old frank and pleasant basis. Yes, the talk had pretty well died, +and men and women were inclined to like Sylvia Planter and George Morton +better than they did Dalrymple. + +He saw Dalrymple in the club one stormy January evening. He hadn't heard +he was in town, and examined him curiously as he sat alone in a corner, +making a pretence of reading a newspaper, but really looking across the +room at the fire with restless eyes. George, prepared as he had been, +was surprised by the haggard, flushed countenance, and the neurotic +symptoms, nearly uncontrollable. + +Beyond question Dalrymple saw him, and pretended that he didn't. +Heartily glad of that, George joined a group about the fireplace, and +after a few minutes saw Dalrymple rise and wander unevenly from the +room. + +George met him several times afterward under similar circumstances, and +always Dalrymple shortly disappeared, because, George thought, of his +arrival; but other people tactfully put him straight. Dalrymple, it +seemed, remained in no public place for long, as if there was something +evilly secretive to call him perpetually away. + +Wandel told him toward the end of the month that Dalrymple was about to +make a trip to Havana for the remainder of the winter. + +"Where there's horse-racing, gambling, and unlimited alcohol--where one +may sin in public. Why talk about it? Although he doesn't mean to, +George, he's in a fair way of doing you a favour." + +But George didn't dream how close Dalrymple's offering was. His first +thought, indeed, was for Sylvia when the influenza epidemic of January +and February promised for a time to equal its previous ugly record. +Lambert tried to laugh his worry away. + +"She's going south with father and mother very soon. Anyway, she hasn't +the habit of catching things." + +And it was Lambert a day or two later who brought him the first +indication of the only way out, and he tried to tell himself he mustn't +want it. Even though he had always despised Dalrymple and his weakness, +even though Dalrymple stood between him and his only possible happiness, +he experienced a disagreeable and reluctant sense of danger in such a +solution. + +"All his life," Lambert was saying, "Dolly's done everything he could to +make himself a victim." + +"Where is he?" George asked. + +"At his home. It's fortunate he hadn't started south." + +"Or," George said, "he should have started sooner." + +"I've an uncomfortable feeling," Lambert mused, "that he was planning to +run away from this very chance. Put it off a little too long. Seems he +went to bed four days ago. I didn't know until to-day because you see +he's been a little outcast since that scene in the club. He sent for me +this afternoon, and, curiously enough, asked for you. Will you go up? I +really think you'd better." + +But George shrank from the thought. + +"I don't want to be scolded by a man who is possibly dying." + +"Let's hope not," Lambert said. "You'll go. Around five o'clock." + +George hesitated. + +"Did he ask for Sylvia?" + +"He didn't ask me, but I telephoned her." + +"Why?" George asked, sharply. + +"Every card on the table now, George!" Lambert warned. "We have to think +of the future, in case----" + +"Of course, you're right," George answered. "I'm sorry, and I'll go." + +When he entered the Dalrymple house at five o'clock he came face to face +with Sylvia in the hall. He had never seen her so controlled, and her +quiet tensity frightened him. + +"Lambert told me," she whispered, "you were coming now. Dolly hasn't +asked for me, but I'd feel so much better--if things should turn out +badly, for I'm thinking with all my heart of the boy I used to be so +fond of, and it's, perhaps, my fault----" + +"It is not your fault," George cried. "He's always asked for it. Lambert +will tell you that." + +George relaxed. Dalrymple's mother came down the stairs with the doctor, +and George experienced a quick sympathy for the retiring, elderly woman +he had scarcely seen before. She gave Sylvia her hand, while George +stepped out with the physician. In reply to George's questions the quiet +man shook his head and frowned. + +"If it were any one else of the same age--I've attended in this house +many years, Mr. Morton, and I've watched him since he was a child. I've +marvelled how he's got so far." + +He added brutally: + +"Scarcely a chance with the turn its taking." + +"If there's anything," George muttered, "any great specialist +anywhere----Understand money doesn't figure----" + +"Everything possible is being done, Mr. Morton. I'm truly sorry, but I +can tell you it's quite his own fault." + +So even this cold-blooded practitioner had heard the talk, and +sympathized, and not with Dalrymple. A trifle dazed George reentered the +house. + +"It's good of you to come, Mr. Morton," Mrs. Dalrymple said. "Shall we +go upstairs now?" + +There was no bitterness in her voice, and she had taken Sylvia's hand, +yet undoubtedly she knew everything. Abruptly George felt sorrier for +Dalrymple than he had ever done. + +"Please wait, Sylvia," she said. + +He followed Mrs. Dalrymple upstairs and into the sick-room. + +"It's Mr. Morton, dear." + +She beckoned to the nurse, and George remained in the room alone with +the feverish man in the bed. He walked over and took the hot hand. + +"Morton!" came Dalrymple's hoarse voice, "I believe you're sorry for +me!" + +"I am sorry," George said, quietly, "and you must get well." + +Dalrymple shook his head. + +"I know all the dope, and I guess I'm off in a few days. Not so bad now +I can't talk a little and sorta clean one or two things up. No silly +deathbed repentance. I'm jealous of you, Morton; always have been, +because you were getting things I couldn't, and I figured from the first +you were an outsider." + +The dry lips smiled a little. + +"When you get like this it makes a lot of difference, doesn't it, how +you came into the world? I'll be the real outsider in a few days----" + +"Don't talk that way." + +A quick temper distorted Dalrymple's face. + +"They oughtn't to bring a man into the world as I was brought, without +money." + +George couldn't think of anything to say, but Dalrymple hurried on: + +"I wanted to thank you for the notes. Don't have to leave those to my +family, anyway. And I'm not sure hadn't better apologize all 'round. I +don't forget I've had raw deal--lots of ways; but no point not saying +Sylvia had pretty raw one from Dolly. Lucky escape for her--mean Dolly's +not domestic animal, and all that." + +George was aware of a slight shiver as Dalrymple's hoarse voice slipped +into its old, not quite controlled mannerisms. + +"Mean," Dalrymple rambled on, "Dolly won't haunt anybody. Blessings 'n' +sort of thing. Best thing, too. Sorry all 'round. That's all. Thanks +coming, George." + +And all George could say was: + +"You have to get well, Dolly." + +But Dalrymple turned his head away. After a moment George proposed +tentatively: + +"Sylvia's downstairs. She wants very much to see you." + +Dalrymple shook his head. + +"Catching." + +"For her sake," George urged. + +Dalrymple thought. + +"All right," he said at last. "Long enough for me to tell her all right. +But not near. Nurse in the room. Catching, and all that." + +George clasped the hot hand. + +"Thanks, Dolly. You've done a decent thing, and you're going to get +well." + +But as he left the room George felt that the physician had been right. + +He spoke to the nurse, who sat in the upper hall, then he told Sylvia. +She went up, and he waited for her. He felt he had to wait. He hoped +Mrs. Dalrymple wouldn't appear again. + +Sylvia wasn't long. She came down dry-eyed. She didn't speak even when +George followed her to her automobile, even when he climbed in beside +her; nor did he try to break a silence that he felt was curative. In the +light and surrounded by a crowd they could clasp hands; in this obscure +solitude there was nothing they could do or say. Only on the steps of +her home she spoke. + +"Good-night, George, and thank you." + +"Good-night, dear Sylvia," he said, and returned to the automobile, and +told the man to drive him to his apartment. + + +XXIX + +George didn't hear from Dalrymple again, nor did he expect to, but he +was quite aware five days later of Goodhue's absence from the office and +of his black clothing when he came in during the late afternoon. He +didn't need Goodhue's few words. + +"It's hard not to feel sorry, to believe, on the whole, it's rather +better. Still, when any familiar object is unexpectedly snatched away +from one----" + +"We had a talk the other evening," George began. + +Goodhue's face lighted. + +"I'm glad, George." + +He sighed. + +"I've got to try to catch up. Mundy says rails have taken a queer turn." + +"When you think for a minute not so queer," George commenced to explain. + +A few days later Lambert told him that Sylvia had gone to Florida. + +"They'll probably stay until late in the spring. It agrees with Father." + +"How did Sylvia seem?" George asked, anxiously. + +"Wait awhile," Lambert advised, "but I don't think there are going to be +any spectres." + +He smiled engagingly. + +"If there shouldn't be," he went on, "a few matters will have to be +arranged, because Sylvia and I share alike. Josiah and I had a long, +careful talk with Father last night about what we'd do with Sylvia's +husband if she married. He left it to my judgment, advising that we +might take him in if he were worth his salt. Josiah wanted to know with +his bull voice what Father would think if it should turn out to be you. +Very seriously, George, Father was pleased. He pointed out that you were +a man who made things go, but that you would end by running us all, and +he added that if we wanted that we would be lucky to get you as long as +it made Sylvia happy. You know we want you, George." + +George felt as he had that day on the Vesle when Wandel had praised him. +No longer could Lambert charge him with having fulfilled his boasts, in +a way; yet he hadn't consciously wanted this, nor was he quite sure that +he did now. + +"At least," George said, "you know what my policy would be to make +Planter and Company something more than a money making machine." + +Lambert imitated Blodgett's voice and manner. + +"George, if you wanted to grow hair on a bald man's head I'd say go to +it." + +"And there must be room for Dicky," George went on. + +"We've played together too long to break apart now; but why talk about +it? It depends on Sylvia." + +That was entirely true. For the present there was nothing whatever to be +done. Constantly George conquered the impulse to write to Sylvia, but +she didn't write or give any sign, unless Lambert's frequent quotations +from her letters could be accepted as thoughtful messages. + +He visited the Baillys frequently now, for it was stimulating to talk +with Squibs, and he liked to sit quietly with Mrs. Bailly. She had an +unstudied habit, nevertheless, of turning his thoughts to his mother. +Sylvia had seen her. She knew all about her. After all, his mother had +given him the life with which he had accomplished something. He couldn't +bear that their continued separation should prove him inconsistent; so +early in the spring he went west. + +His mother was more than ever ill at ease before his success; more than +ever appreciative of the comforts he had given her; even more than at +Oakmont appalled at the prospect of change. She wouldn't go east. She +couldn't very well, she explained; and, looking at her tired figure in +the great chair before the fire which she seldom left, he had an impulse +to shower upon her extravagant and fantastic gifts, because before long +it would be too late to give her anything at all. The picture made him +realize how quickly the generations pass away, drifting one into the +other with the rapidity of our brief and colourful seasons. He nodded, +satisfied, reflecting that the cure for everything lies in the future, +although one must seek it in the diseased present. + +He left her, promising to come back, but he carried away a sensation +that he had intruded on a secluded content that couldn't possibly +survive the presence of the one who had created it. + +Lambert had no news for him on his return. It was late spring, in fact, +before he told George the family had come north, pausing at a number of +resorts on the way up. + +"When am I to see Sylvia, Lambert?" + +"How should I know?" + +It was apparent that he really didn't, and George waited, with a growing +doubt and fear, but on the following Friday he received a note from +Betty, dated from Princeton. All it said was: + +"Spring's at its best here. You'd better come to-morrow--Friday." + +He hurried over to the marble temple. + +"You didn't tell me Betty was in Princeton," he accused Lambert. + +"Must I account to you for the movements of my wife?" + +"Then Sylvia----" George began. + +Lambert smiled. + +"Maybe you'd better run down to Princeton with me this afternoon." + +George glanced at his watch. + +"First train's at four o'clock. Let Wall Street crash. I shan't wait +another minute." + + +XXX + +Betty had been right. Spring was fairly vibrant in Princeton, and for +George, through its warm and languid power, it rolled back the years; +choked him with a sensation of youth he had scarcely experienced since +he had walked defiantly out of the gate of Sylvia's home to commence his +journey. + +Sylvia wasn't at the station. Neither was Betty. Abruptly uneasy, he +drove with Lambert swiftly to the Alstons through riotous, youthful +foliage out of which white towers rose with that reassuring illusion of +a serene and unchangeable gesture. Undergraduates, surrendered to the +new economic eccentricity of overalls, loafed past them, calling to each +other contented and lazy greetings; but George glanced at them +indifferently; he only wanted to hurry to his journey's end. + +At the Tudor house Betty ran out to meet them, and Lambert grinned at +George and kissed her, but evidently it was George that Betty thought of +now, for she pointed, as if she had heard the question that repeated +itself in his mind, to the house; and he entered, and breathlessly +crossed the hall to the library, and saw Sylvia--the old Sylvia, it +occurred to him--colourful, imperious, and without patience. + +She stood in the centre of the room in an eager, arrested attitude, +having, perhaps, restrained herself from impetuously following Betty. +George paused, staring at her, suddenly hesitant before the culmination +of his great desire. + +"It's been so long," she whispered. "George, I'm not afraid to have you +touch me----You mean I must come to you----" + +He shook off his lassitude, but the wonder grew. + +As in a dream he went to her, and her curved lips moved beneath his, but +he pressed them closer so that she couldn't speak; for he felt +encircling them in a breathless embrace, as his arms held her, something +thrilling and rudimentary that neither of them had experienced before; +something quite beyond the comprehension of Sylvia Planter and George +Morton, that belonged wholly to the perplexing and abundant future. + +THE END + + + + +BOOKS BY WADSWORTH CAMP + + THE ABANDONED ROOM + THE GRAY MASK + THE GUARDED HEIGHTS + THE HOUSE OF FEAR + SINISTER ISLAND + WAR'S DARK FRAME + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Guarded Heights, by Wadsworth Camp + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GUARDED HEIGHTS *** + +***** This file should be named 33733.txt or 33733.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/7/3/33733/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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