The Guarded Heights

"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."