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.