The Guarded Heights

by Wadsworth Camp

  Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net

  THE GUARDED HEIGHTS

  BY WADSWORTH CAMP

  FRONTISPIECEBY C. D. MITCHELL

  GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTODOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY1921

  COPYRIGHT, 1921, BYDOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATIONINTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

  COPYRIGHT 1920, BY P. F. COLLIER & SON COMPANY

  "GEORGE WATCHED SYLVIA LIFT HER RIDING CROP, HER FACEDISCLOSING A TEMPER TO MATCH HIS OWN"]

  CONTENTS

  PART I OAKMONT

  PART II PRINCETON

  PART III THE MARKET-PLACE

  PART IV THE FOREST

  PART V THE NEW WORLD

  THE GUARDED HEIGHTS

  PART I

  OAKMONT

  I

  George Morton never could be certain when he first conceived thepreposterous idea that Sylvia Planter ought to belong to him. The fullrealization, at any rate, came all at once, unexpectedly, destroying hisdreary outlook, urging him to fantastic heights, and, for that matter,to rather curious depths.

  It was, altogether, a year of violent change. After a precarioussurvival of a rural education he had done his best to save his father'slivery business which cheap automobiles had persistently undermined. Heliked that, for he had spent his vacations, all his spare hours, indeed,at the stable or on the road, so that by the time the crash came he knewmore of horses and rode better than any hunting, polo-playing gentlemanhe had ever seen about that rich countryside. Nor was there any one nearhis own age who could stand up to him in a rough-and-tumble argument.Yet he wondered why he was restless, not appreciating that he cravedbroader worlds to conquer. Then the failure came, and his close relationwith the vast Planter estate of Oakmont, and the arrival of Sylvia, whodisclosed such worlds and heralded the revolution.

  That spring of his twentieth year the stable and all its stock went tothe creditors, and old Planter bought the small frame house just outsidethe village, on the edge of his estate, and drew his boundary around it.He was willing that the Mortons should remain for the present in theirold home at a nominal rent, and after a fashion they might strugglealong, for George's mother was exceptionally clever at cleansing finelaces and linens; the estate would have work for his father from time totime; as for himself, Planter's superintendent suggested, there were newand difficult horses at Oakmont and a scarcity of trustworthy grooms.George shook his head.

  "Sure, I want a job," he admitted, "but not as old Planter's servant, oranybody else's. I want to be my own boss."

  George hadn't guessed that his reputation as a horseman had travelled asfar as the big house. The superintendent explained that it had, andthat, living at home, merely helping out for the summer, he would bequite apart from the ordinary men around the stables. His parents senseda threat. They begged him to accept.

  "We've got to do as Old Planter wants at the start or he'll put us out,and we're too old to make another home."

  So George went with his head up, telling himself he was doing Planter afavour; but he didn't like it, and almost at once commenced to plan toget away, if he could, without hurting his parents. Then Sylvia, justhome from her last year at school, came into the stable toward the endof his day's work. Her overpowering father was with her, and herbrother, Lambert, who was about George's age. She examined interestedlythe horse reserved for her, and one or two others of which she wasenvious.

  George wanted to stare at her. He had only glimpsed her casually and ata distance in summers gone by. Now she was close, and he knew he hadnever seen anything to match her slender, adolescent figure, or herfinely balanced face with its intolerant eyes and its frame of blackhair.

  "But," he heard her say to her father in a flexible contralto voice, "Idon't care to bother you or Lambert every time I want to ride."

  An argument, unintelligible to George, flowed for a moment. Then OldPlanter's tones, bass and authoritative, filled the stable.

  "Come here, young Morton!"

  George advanced, not touching his cap, to remind the big man that therewas a difference between him and the other stable men, and that hedidn't like that tone.

  "You are a very dependable horseman," the great millionaire said. "I cantrust you. When Miss Sylvia wants to ride alone you will go with her andsee that she has no accidents. During your hours here you will beentirely at her disposal."

  Instead of arousing George's anger that command slightly thrilled him.

  "So you're Morton," Sylvia said, indifferently. "I shall expect youalways to be convenient."

  He ventured to look at last, pulling off his cap.

  "You can depend on it," he said, a trifle dazed by her beauty.

  She went out. Her father and her brother followed, like servitors of asort themselves. George had no sense of having allowed his positionthere to be compromised. He only realized that he was going to see thatlovely creature every day, would be responsible for her safety, wouldhave a chance to know her.

  "A peach!" a groom whispered. "You're lucky, Georgie boy."

  George shrugged his shoulders.

  "Maybe so."

  Yet he agreed. She was a peach, and he took no pains to conceal hisappraisal from his parents that evening.

  "Seen Old Planter's daughter yet?"

  His father, a drooping, tired figure in the dusk of the little porch,nodded.

  "I haven't," his mother called from the kitchen. "Is she as pretty asshe was last summer?"

  "Pretty!" he scoffed. "Who was the prettiest woman in the world?"

  "I don't know," came the interested voice from the house. "Maybe theQueen of Sheba."

  "Then," George said, "she'd have cried her eyes out if she had seen OldPlanter's girl."

  The elder Morton took his pipe from his mouth.

  "Young men like you," he said, slowly, "haven't any business looking atgirls like Old Planter's daughter."

  George laughed carelessly.

  "Even a cat can look at a queen."

  And during the weeks that followed he did look, too persistently, neverdreaming where his enthusiasm was leading him. Occasionally he wouldbring her brother's horse around with hers or her father's. At suchtimes he would watch them ride away with a keen disappointment, as if hehad been excluded from a pleasure that had become his right. Lambert,however, was away a good deal, and Old Planter that summer foughtrheumatic attacks, which he called gout, so that Sylvia, for the mostpart, rode alone through remote bridle-paths with George at her heelslike a well-trained animal.

  He knew he could not alter that all at once; she would have it no otherway. She only spoke to him, really, about the condition of the horses,or the weather--never a word conceivably personal; and every day helooked at her more personally, let his imagination, without knowing it,stray too far. At first he merely enjoyed being with her; then heappreciated that a sense of intimacy had grown upon him, and he wastroubled that she did not reciprocate, that their extended companionshiphad not diminished at all the appalling distance dividing them. Therewas something, moreover, beyond her beauty to stimulate his interest.She appeared not to know fear, and once or twice he ventured to reproveher, enjoying her angry reactions. She even came to the stables, urginghim to let her ride horses that he knew were not safe.

  "But you ride them," she would persist.

  "When I find a horse I can't ride, Miss Sylvia, I guess I'll have totake up a new line. If your father would come and say it's allright----"

  Even then he failed to grasp the fact that he guarded her for his ownsake rather more than for her father's.

&
nbsp; He nearly interfered when he heard her cry to her brother as theystarted off one morning:

  "I'm going to ride harder from now on, Lambert. I've got to get fit fornext winter. Coming out will take a lot of doing."

  "If she rides any harder," he muttered, "she'll break her silly neck."

  It angered him that she never spoke to him in that voice, with that easymanner. Perhaps his eagerness to be near her had led her to undervaluehim. Somehow he would change all that, and he wanted her to stop callinghim "Morton," as if he had been an ordinary groom, or an animal, but hewould have to go slowly. Although he didn't realize the great fact then,he did know that he shrank from attempting anything that would take heraway from him.

  It was her harder riding, indeed, that opened his eyes, that ushered inthe revolution.

  It happened toward the close of a mid-July afternoon. Mud whirled fromher horse's hoofs, plentifully sprinkling her humble guardian.

  "Now what the devil's she up to?" he thought with a sharp fear.

  She turned and rode at a gallop for a hedge, an uneven, thorny barrierthat separated two low meadows. He put spurs to his horse, shouting:

  "Hold up, Miss Sylvia! That's a rotten take-off."

  Flushed and laughing, she glanced over her shoulder.

  "Got to try it to prove it, Morton."

  He realized afterward that it was as near intimacy as she had ever come.

  He saw her horse refuse, straightening his knees and sliding in themarshy ground. He watched Sylvia, with an ease and grace nearlyunbelievable, somersault across the hedge and out of sight in the meadowbeyond.

  "Miss Sylvia! Are you hurt?"

  No answer. He sprang from his horse, leaving it free to graze with hers.He stormed through the hedge, his heart choking him. She lay on herside, quite motionless, the high colour fled from her cheeks, her hairhalf down. Although the soft ground should have reassured him he wasobsessed by the thought that she might never get up again.

  In the warmth of his fear barriers were consumed. Within his horizonsurvived just two people, himself and this silent object of an extended,if unconscious, adoration.

  He shrank from learning the truth, yet it was impossible to hesitate. Hehad to do what he could.

  He approached on tip-toe, knelt, and lifted her until she rested againsthim. The contact was galvanic. He became aware of his trembling hands.Some man, it occurred to him, would touch those curved, slightly partedlips. Not if he knew it, unless it were himself! He wanted to hear thoselips speak to him as if he were a human being, and not just--Morton. Howcould he dream of such things now? He fumbled for her pulse, failed atfirst to find it, and became panic-stricken. He shook her, more thanever alone, facing an irretrievable loss.

  "Open your eyes," he begged wildly. "What's the matter with you? Oh, myGod, Miss Sylvia, I can't ever get along without you now."

  He glanced haggardly around for water, any means to snatch her back;then she stirred in his arms, and with his relief came a sickeningreturn to a peopled and ordered world. He understood he had sprungheadlong with his eyes shut; that his anxiety had dictated phrases hehad had no business to form, that he would not have uttered if she hadbeen able to hear. Or, good Lord! Had she heard? For she drew herselfconvulsively away, the colour rushing back, her eyes opening, and theyheld a sort of horror.

  "Are you hurt?" he said, trying to read her eyes.

  She got to her knees, swaying a trifle.

  "I remember. A bit of a fall. Stunned me. That's all. But you saidsomething, Morton! Will you please repeat that?"

  Her eyes, and her voice, which had a new, frightening quality, stung hisquick temper. What he had suffered a moment ago was a little sacred. Hecouldn't afford to let her cheapen it one cent's worth.

  "I guess I don't need to repeat it," he said. "It was scared out of me,Miss Sylvia, because I thought--I know it was silly--but I thought youwere dead. I never dreamed you could hear. I'll try to forget it."

  He saw her grope in the wet grass at her knees. Scarcely understanding,he watched her rise, lifting her riding crop, her face disclosing atemper to match his own.

  "You're an impertinent servant," she said. "Well, you'll not forget."

  She struck at his face with the crop. He got his hand up just in time,and caught her wrist.

  "Don't you touch me," she whispered.

  His jaw went out.

  "You'll learn not to be afraid of my touch, and I'm not a servant. Youget that straight."

  She struggled, but he held her wrist firmly. The sight of the crop, thememory of her epithet, thickened his voice, lashed his anger.

  "Have it your own way. You say I shan't forget, and I won't. I'm goingafter you, and I usually get what I go after. You'll find I'm a humanbeing, and I'd like to see anybody hit me in the face and get away withit."

  "Let me go! Let me go!"

  He released her wrist, dragging the crop from her grasp. He snapped itin two and flung the pieces aside. The slight noise steadied him. Itseemed symbolic of the snapping of his intended fate. She drew slowlyback, chafing the wrist he had held. Her face let escape the desire tohurt, to hurt hard.

  "Someone else will have the strength," she whispered. "You'll bepunished, you--you--stable boy."

  She forced her way blindly through the hedge. Responding to his customhe started automatically after her to hold her stirrup. She faced him,raising her hands.

  "Keep away from me, you beast!"

  Unaided, she sprang into her saddle and started home at a hard gallop.

  George glanced around thoughtfully. He was quite calm now. The familiarlandscape appeared strangely distorted. Was that his temper, or areflection from his altered destiny? He didn't know how the deuce hecould do it, but he was going to justify himself. Maybe the realsituation had never been explained to her, and, as the price of hercompanionship, he had, perhaps, let her hold him too cheaply; but now hewas going to show her that he was, indeed, instead of a servant, a humanbeing, capable of making his boasts good.

  He picked up the two pieces of her riding crop and thrust them into hispocket. They impressed him as a necessary souvenir of his humiliation, areminder of what he had to do. She had hurt. Oh, Lord! How she had hurt!He experienced a hot desire to hurt back. The scar could only be healed,he told himself, if some day he could strike at her beautiful,contemptuous body as hard as she had just now struck at him.

  II

  He mounted and pressed his horse, but he had only one or two glimpses ofSylvia, far ahead, using her spurs, from time to time raising her handas if she had forgotten that her crop had been torn from her, broken,and thrown aside.

  Such frantic haste was urged by more than the necessity of escape. Whatthen, if not to hasten his punishment, to tell her father, her mother,and Lambert? She had threatened that someone else would have thestrength to give him a thrashing. Probably Lambert. Aside from that howcould they punish a man who had only committed the crime of letting agirl know that he loved her? All at once he guessed, and he laughedaloud. They could kick him out. He wanted, above everything else, to bekicked out of a job where he was treated like a lackey, although he wastold he was nothing of the kind. Expert with horses, doing Old Planter afavour for the summer! Hadn't she just called him a servant, a stableboy? He wanted to put himself forever beyond the possibility of beinghumiliated in just that way again.

  In the stable he found a groom leading Sylvia's horse to a stall.

  "Take mine, too, and rub him down, will you?"

  The groom turned, staring.

  "The nerve! What's up, George?"

  "Only," George said, deliberately, "that I've touched my last horse formoney."

  "Say! What goes on here? The young missus rides in like a cyclone, andlooking as if she'd been crying. I always said you'd get in trouble withthe boss's daughter. You're too good looking for the ladies,Georgie----"

  "That's enough of that," George snapped. "Scrape him down, and I'll bemuch obliged."

  He went out, knowing that the othe
r would obey, for as a rule people didwhat George wanted. He took a path through the park toward home, walkingslowly, commencing to appreciate the difficulties he had brought uponhimself. His predicament might easily involve his parents. The afternoonwas about done, they would both be there, unsuspecting. It was his dutyto prepare them. He experienced a bitter regret as he crossed the linethat a few months ago had divided their property, their castle, fromOakmont. Now Old Planter could cross that line and drive them out.

  Before George came in sight of the house he heard a rubbing, slappingnoise, and with a new distaste pictured his mother bending over awashtub, suggesting a different barrier to be leaped. As he entered theopen space back of the house he wanted to kick the tub over, wanted tosee sprawling in the dirt the delicate, intimate linen sent down weeklyfrom the great house because his mother was exceptionally clever withsuch things. To the uncouth music of her labour her broad back rose andbent rhythmically. His father, wearing soiled clothing, sat on the porchsteps, an old briar pipe in his mouth.

  Abruptly his mother's drudgery ceased. She stared. His father rosestiffly.

  "You've got yourself in trouble," he said.

  George had not fancied the revolution had unfurled banners so easilydiscernible. He became self-conscious. His parents' apprehension madematters more difficult for him. They, at least, were too old to revolt.

  "I suppose I have," he acknowledged shortly.

  His father used the tone of one announcing an unspeakable catastrophe.

  "You mean you've had trouble with Miss Sylvia."

  "George!" his mother cried, aghast. "You've never been impertinent withMiss Sylvia!"

  "She thinks I have," George said, "so it amounts to the same thing."

  His father's face twitched.

  "And you know Old Planter can put us out of here without a minute'snotice, and where do you think we'd go? How do you think we'd get breadand butter? You talk up, young man. You tell us what happened."

  "I can't," George said, sullenly. "I can't talk about it. You'll hearsoon enough."

  "I always said," his mother lamented, "that Georgie wasn't one to knowhis place up there."

  "Depends," George muttered, "on what my place is. I've got to find thatout. Look! You'll hear now."

  A bald-headed figure in livery, one of the house servants, glided towardthem through the shrubbery, over that vanished boundary line, withnervous haste. George squared his shoulders. The messenger, however,went straight to the older man.

  "Mr. Planter's on his ear, and wants to see you right off in thelibrary. What you been up to, young Morton?"

  George resented the curiosity in the pallid, unintelligent eyes, thefellow's obvious pleasure in the presence of disaster. It would haveappeased him to grasp those sloping shoulders, to force the grinningface from his sight. A queer question disturbed him. Had Sylvia feltsomething of the sort about him?

  "Come on," the elder Morton said. "It's pretty hard at my age. You'llpay for this, George."

  "Old Planter would never be that unfair," George encouraged him.

  "Georgie! Georgie!" his mother said when the others were out of sight,"what have you been up to?"

  He walked closer and placed his arm around her shoulders.

  "I've been getting my eyes opened," he answered. "I never ought to havelistened to them. I never ought to have gone up there. I did saysomething to Miss Sylvia I had no business to. If I'd been one of herown kind, instead of the son of a livery stable keeper, I'd have gotpolite regrets or something. It's made me realize how low I am."

  "No," she said with quick maternal passion. "You're not low. Maybe someday those people'll be no better than we are."

  He shook his head.

  "I'd rather I was no worse than they are. And I will be. I won't put upwith it. If some people have to be treated like dirt, I'm going to helpdo the treating."

  "That's no right way of thinking," she warned. "It's money makes themare go."

  But in Sylvia's case, George admitted, there was other propulsion thanthat; something more fragile, and harder to understand or capture forone's self.

  "Don't you worry, I'll make money," he said.

  She glanced up quickly.

  "Who's that?"

  A brisk masculine voice volleyed through the shrubbery:

  "Young Morton! I say, young Morton!"

  "It's Mr. Lambert," she breathed. "Go quick."

  George remembered what Sylvia had said about someone else having thestrength.

  "Can't you guess, Ma, what the young lady's brother wants of me?"

  The bitterness left his face. His smile was engaging.

  "To give me the devil."

  "Young Morton! Young Morton!"

  "Coming!" he called.

  "George," she begged, "don't have any trouble with Mr. Lambert."

  III

  She watched him with anxious eyes, failing to observe, because she washis mother, details that informed his boasts with power. His ancestryof labour had given him, at least, his straight, slender, and unusuallymuscular body, and from somewhere had crept in the pride, just nowstimulated, with which he carried it. His wilful, regular features,moreover, guarded by youth, were still uncoarsened.

  He found Lambert Planter waiting beyond the old boundary behind a screenof bushes, his hands held behind his back. In his face, which had someof Sylvia's beauty, hardened and enlarged, dwelt the devil George hadforeseen.

  George nodded, feeling all at once at ease. He could take care ofhimself in an argument with Lambert Planter. No such distances separatedthem as had widened beyond measure a little while back between him andSylvia. He wondered if that conception sprang from Lambert, or if itcame simply from the fact that they were two men, facing each otheralone; for it was from the first patent that Sylvia had asked herbrother to complete a punishment she had devised as fitting, but whichshe had been incapable of carrying out herself. Lambert, indeed, broughthis hands forward, disclosing a whip. It was a trifle in his way as hetook off his coat.

  "That's right," George said. "Make yourself comfortable."

  "You won't help matters by being impertinent, Morton."

  Lambert's voice contrasted broadly with George's round, loud tones.While, perhaps, not consciously affected, its accents fell according tothe custom of the head master of a small and particular preparatoryschool. George crushed his instinct to mock. What the deuce had hecraved ever since his encounter with Sylvia unless it was to be one withmen like Lambert Planter? So all he said was:

  "What's the whip for?"

  "You know perfectly well," Lambert answered. "There's no possible excusefor what you said and did this afternoon. I am going to impress that onyou."

  "You mean you want a fight?"

  "By no means. I wouldn't feel comfortable fighting a man like you. I'dnever dreamed we had such a rotten person on the place. Oh, no, Morton.I'm going to give you a good horse-whipping."

  George's chin went out. His momentary good-humour fled.

  "If you touch me with that whip I'm likely to kill you."

  Without hesitating Lambert raised the whip. George sprang and got hishands on it, intent only on avoiding a blow that would have carried thesame unbearable sting as Sylvia's riding crop. Such tactics took Lambertby surprise. George's two hands against his one on the stock werevictorious. The whip flew to one side. Lambert, flushing angrily,started after it. George barred his path, raising his fists.

  "You don't touch that thing again."

  Lambert's indecision, his hands hanging at his sides, hurt George nearlyas much as the lashing would have done. He had to destroy that attitudeof sheer superiority.

  "I'm not sure you're a man," he said, thickly, "but you tried to hit me,so you can put your pretty hands up or take it in the face."

  He aimed a vicious blow. Lambert side-stepped and countered. George'sear rang. He laughed, his self-respect rushing back with the keen joy ofbattle. In Lambert's face, stripped of its habitual repression, herecognized an equal excitement.
It was a man's fight, with blood drawnat the first moment, staining both of them. Lambert boxed skillfully,and his muscles were hard, but after the first moment George sawvictory, and set out to force it. He looked for fear in the other's eyesthen, and longed to see it, but those eyes remained as unafraid asSylvia's until there wasn't left in them much of anything conscious. Asa last chance Lambert clinched, and they went down, fighting like a pairof furious terriers. George grinned as he felt those eclectic handsendeavouring in the most brotherly fashion to torture him. He managed topin them to the ground. He laughed happily.

  "Thought you hated to touch me."

  "You fight like a tiger, anyway," Lambert gasped.

  "Had enough?"

  Lambert nodded.

  "I know when I'm through."

  George didn't release him at once. His soul expanded with a sense ofpower and authority earned by his own effort. It seemed an omen. Iturged him too far.

  "Then," he mused, "I guess I'd better let you run home and tell yourfather what I've done to you."

  "That," Lambert said, "proves I was right, and I'm sorry I fought you."

  George tried to think. He felt hot and angry. Was the other, after all,the better man?

  "I take it back," he muttered. "Ought to have had enough sense to knowthat a fellow that fights like you's no tattle-tale."

  "Thanks, Morton."

  George's sense of power grew. He couldn't commence too soon to use it.

  "See here, Mr. Planter, I came up here to help with some horses yourpeople didn't know how to handle, and let myself get shifted to thisother job; but I'm not your father's slave, and anyway I'm getting out."

  He increased the pressure on Lambert's arms.

  "Just to remind you what we've been fighting about, and that I'm notyour slave, you call me Mr. Morton, or George, just as if I was about asgood as you."

  Lambert smiled broadly.

  "Will you kindly let me go--George?"

  George sprang up, grinning.

  "How you feel, Mr. Lam----" He caught himself--"Mr. Planter?"

  Lambert struggled to his feet.

  "Quite unwell, thanks. I'm sorry you made such a damned fool of yourselfthis afternoon. We might have had some pretty useful times boxingtogether."

  "I'd just as leave tell you," George said, glancing away, "that I neverintended to say it. I didn't realize it myself until it was scared outof me."

  Lambert put on his coat.

  "It won't bear talking about."

  "It never hit me," George said, huskily, "that even a cat couldn't lookat a queen."

  "Perfectly possible," Lambert said as he walked off, feeling hisbruises, "only the queen mustn't see the cat."

  IV

  George went, obliterating as best he could the souvenirs of battle.Water, unfortunately, was a requisite, and the nearest was to be foundat his own home. His mother gasped.

  "You did! After what I said!"

  At the pump he splashed cold water over his face and arms.

  "I thrashed him," he spluttered.

  "I guess that settles it for your father and me."

  "Young Planter won't tell anybody," George assured her. "Although Idon't see how he's going to get away with it unless he says he was runover by an automobile and kicked by a mule."

  "What's come over you?" she demanded. "You've gone out of your head."

  He dodged her desire for details. As Lambert had said, the thingwouldn't bear talking about. For the first time in his life he stoodalone, and whatever he accomplished from now on would have to be donealone.

  He saw his father striding toward them, the anxious light gone from hiseyes. George experienced a vast relief.

  "Father looks a little more cheerful," he commented, drying his face.

  "Get supper, Ma," the man said as he came up.

  She hesitated, held by her curiosity, while he turned on George.

  "I don't wonder you couldn't open your mouth to me. You're to be out ofhere to-morrow."

  "I'd made up my mind to that."

  "And Old Planter wants to see you at nine o'clock to-night."

  "Since you and Ma," George said, "seem on such good terms with him Isuppose I'll have to go."

  "Thank the Lord we are," his father grumbled. "I wouldn't have blamedhim if he had packed us all off. He was more than fair. I've lookedafter you so far, but you'll have to shift for yourself now."

  "And the only thing I didn't like about it," George mused, "was leavingyou and Ma."

  "What did he say to Miss Sylvia?" his mother whispered.

  "Said he couldn't get along without her, and was going to have her."

  He might have been speaking of one who had ventured to impersonate thedeity.

  "And he touched her! Put his arms around her!"

  The horror in his mother's face grew.

  "Georgie! Georgie! What could you have been thinking of?"

  He leaned against the pump.

  "I'm thinking now," he said, softly, "it's sort of queer a man's fatherand mother believe there's any girl in the world too good for theirson."

  "Lots of them," his father snapped. "Sylvia Planter most of all."

  "Oh, yes," his mother agreed.

  He straightened.

  "Then listen," he said, peremptorily. "I don't think so. I told her Iwas going to have her, and I will. Just put that down in your books.I'll show the lot of you that I'm as good as she is, as good asanybody."

  The late sun illuminated the purpose in his striking face.

  "Impertinent servant!" he cried. "Stable boy! Beast! It's pretty roughto make her marry all that. It's my only business from now on."

  V

  He went to his room, leaving his parents aghast. With a nervous hurry herid himself of his riding breeches, his puttees, his stock.

  "That," he told himself, "is the last time I shall ever wear anythinglike livery."

  When he had dressed in one of his two suits of ordinary clothing he tookthe broken riding crop and for a long time stared at it as though thevenomous souvenir could fix his resolution more firmly. Once his handslipped to the stock where Sylvia's fingers had so frequently tightened.He snatched his hand away. It was too much like an unfair advantage, astolen caress.

  "Georgie! Georgie!"

  His mother's voice drifted to him tentatively.

  "Come and get your supper."

  He hid the broken crop and went out. His father glanced disapproval.

  "You'd do better to wear Old Planter's clothes while you can. It'sdoubtful when you'll buy any more of your own."

  George sat down without answering. Since his return from the ride thatafternoon his parents and he had scarcely spoken the same language, andby this time he understood there was no possible interpreter. It madehim choke a little over his food.

  The others were content to share his silence. His father seemed onlyanxious to have him away; but his mother, he fancied, looked at him withsomething like sorrow.

  Afterward he fled from that nearly voiceless scrutiny and paced one ofthe park paths, counting the minutes until he could answer Old Planter'ssummons. He desired to have the interview over so that he could snapevery chain binding him to Oakmont, every chain save the single oneSylvia's contempt had unwittingly forged. He could not, moreover, planhis immediate future with any assurance until he knew what the great manwanted.

  "Only to make me feel a little worse," he decided. "What else could hedo?"

  What, indeed, could a man of Planter's wealth and authority not do? Itwas a disturbing question.

  Through the shrubbery the lights of the house gleamed. The moonlightoutlined the immense, luxurious mass. Never once had he entered thegreat house. He was eager to study the surrounding in which women likeSylvia lived, which she, to an extent, must reflect.

  In that serene moonlight he realized that his departure, agreeable andessential as it was, would make it impossible for him during anindefinite period to see that slender, adolescent figure, or thefeatures, lovely and into
lerant, that had brought about this revolutionin his life. He acknowledged now that he had looked forward each day tothose hours of proximity and contemplation; and there had been from thefirst, he guessed, adoration in his regard.

  It was no time to dwell on the sentimental phase of his situation. Hedespised himself for still loving her. His approaching departure he mustaccept gladly, since he designed it as a means of coming closer--closeenough to hurt.

  He wondered if he would have one more glimpse of her, perhaps in thehouse. He glanced at his watch. He could go at last. He started for thelights. Would he see her?

  At the corner of the building he hesitated before a fresh dilemma. Hislogical entrance lay through the servants' quarters, but he squared hisshoulders and crossed the terrace. It was impossible now that he shouldever enter the house in which she lived by the back door.

  It was a warm night, so the door stood open. The broad spaces of thehall, the rugs, the hangings, the huge chairs, the portraits in giltframes against polished walls, the soft, rosy light whose source hefailed to explore, seemed mutely to reprove his presumption.

  He rang. He did not hear the feet of the servant who answered. The vapidman that had trotted for his father that afternoon suddenly shut off hisview.

  "You must wear rubbers," George said.

  "What you doing here? Go 'round to the back."

  "Mr. Planter," George explained, patiently, "sent for me."

  "All right. All right. Then go 'round to the back where you belong."

  George reached out, caught the other's shoulder, and shoved him to oneside. While the servant gave a little cry and struggled to regain hisbalance, George walked in. A figure emerged painfully from an easy chairin the shadows by the fireplace.

  "What's all this, Simpson?"

  The polished voice gave the impression of overcoming an impediment,probably a swollen lip.

  "It's young Morton, Mr. Lambert," Simpson whined. "I told him to go tothe back door where he belongs."

  "What an idea!" Lambert drawled. "Enter, Mr. Morton. My dear Mr. Morton,what is the occasion? What can we do for you? I must beg you to excusemy appearance. I had a trifling argument with my new hunter thisafternoon."

  George grinned.

  "Must be some horse."

  None the less, he felt a bruise. It would have been balm to destroyLambert's mocking manner by a brusque attack even in this impressivehall.

  "Your father sent for me."

  "Shall I put him out, sir?" Simpson quavered.

  Lambert burst into a laugh.

  "I shouldn't try it. We can't afford too many losses in one day. Goaway, Simpson, and don't argue with your betters. You might not be asclever as I at explaining the visible results. I'll take care of Mr.Morton."

  Simpson was bewildered.

  "Quite so, sir," he said, and vanished.

  "My father," Lambert said, "is in the library--that first door. Wait.I'll see if he's alone."

  Painfully he limped to the door and opened it, while George waited,endeavouring not to pull at his cap.

  "Father," Lambert said, smoothly, "Mr. Morton is calling."

  A deep voice, muffled by distance, vibrated in the hall.

  "What are you talking about?"

  Lambert bowed profoundly.

  "Mr. Morton from the lodge."

  George stepped close to him.

  "Want me to thrash you again?"

  Lambert faced him without panic.

  "I don't admit that you could, but, my dear--George, I'm too fatiguedto-night to find out. Some day, if the occasion should arise, I hope Imay. I do sincerely."

  He drew the door wide open, and stepped aside with a bow that held nomockery. A white-haired, stately woman entered the hall, and, as shepassed, cast at George a glance curiously lacking in vitality. In herGeorge saw the spring of Sylvia's delicacy and beauty. Whatever OldPlanter might be this woman had something from the past, not to beacquired, with which to endow her children. George resented it. It madethe future for him appear more difficult. Her voice was in keeping,cultured and unaffected.

  "Mr. Planter is alone, Morton. He would like to see you."

  She disappeared in a room opposite. George took a deep breath.

  "On that threshold," Lambert said, kindly, "I've often felt the sameway, though I've never deserved it as you do."

  George plunged through and closed the door.

  The room was vaster than the hall, and darker, impressing him confusedlywith endless, filled book-shelves; with sculpture; with a difficult mazeof furniture. The only light issued from a lamp on a huge and litteredtable at the opposite end.

  At first George glanced vainly about, seeking the famous man.

  "Step over here, Morton."

  There was no denying that voice. It came from a deep chair whose backwas turned to the light. It sent to George's heart his first touch offear. He walked carefully across the rugs and around the table until hefaced the figure in the chair. He wanted to get rid of his cap. Hecouldn't resist the temptation to pull at it; and only grooms and stableboys tortured caps.

  The portly figure in evening clothes was not calculated to put a culpritat ease. Old Planter sat very straight. The carefully trimmed white sidewhiskers, the white hair, the bushy brows above inflamed eyes, composeda portrait suggestive of a power relentless and not to be trifled with.George had boasted he was as good as any one. He knew he wasn't as goodas Old Planter; their disparity of attainment was too easily palpable.No matter whether Old Planter's success was worthy, he had gone outinto the world and done things. He had manipulated railroads. He hadpiled up millions whose number he couldn't be sure of himself. He hadbuilt this house and all it stood for. What one man had done anothercould. George stopped pulling at his cap. He threw it on the table asinto a ring. His momentary fear died.

  "You sent for me, sir."

  The mark of respect flowed naturally. This old fellow was entitled toit, from him or any one else.

  The bass voice had a dynamic quality.

  "I did. This afternoon you grossly and inexcusably insulted my daughter.It will be necessary to speak of her to you just once more. That's why Itold your father to send you. If I were younger it would give mepleasure to break every bone in your body."

  The red lips opened and shut with the precision of a steel trap. Theysoftened now in a species of smile.

  "I see, Morton, you had a little argument with a horse this afternoon."

  George managed to smile back.

  "Nothing to speak of, sir."

  "I wish it had been. I take a pleasure in punishing you. It isn'tbiblical, but it's human. I'm only sorry I can't devise a punishment tofit the crime."

  "It was no crime," George said bravely, "no insult."

  "Keep your mouth shut. Unfortunately I can't do much more than run youaway from here, for I don't care to evict your parents from their homefor your folly; and they do not support you. Mr. Evans will pay you offin the morning with a month's extra wages."

  "I won't take a cent I haven't earned," George said.

  Old Planter studied him with more curiosity.

  "You're a queer livery stable boy."

  "I'm banking on that," George said, willing the other should make whathe would of it.

  "It's there if you wish it," Old Planter went on. "I sent for you sothat I could tell you myself that you will be away from Oakmont andfrom the neighbourhood by noon to-morrow. And remember your home is nowa portion of Oakmont. You will never come near us again. You will forgetwhat happened this afternoon."

  He stood up, his face reddening. George wanted to tell him that Sylviaherself had said he shouldn't forget.

  "If, Morton," the old man went on with a biting earnestness, "onceyou're away from Oakmont, you ever bother Miss Sylvia again, or make anyattempt to see her, I'll dispossess your parents, and I'll drive you outof any job you get. I'll keep after you until you'll understand whatyou're defying. This isn't an idle threat. I have the power."

  The father completel
y conquered him. He clenched his knotted fists.

  "I'd destroy a regiment of creatures like you to spare my little girlone of the tears you caused her this afternoon."

  "After all," George said, defensively, "I'm a human being."

  Old Planter shook his head.

  "If your father hadn't failed you'd have spent your life in a liverystable. It takes education, money, breeding to make a human being."

  George nodded. He wouldn't need to plan much for himself, after all.Sylvia's father was doing it for him.

  "I've heard some pretty hard words to-day, sir," he said. "It's waked meup. Can't a man get those things for himself?"

  He fancied reminiscence in Old Planter's eyes.

  "The right kind can. Get out of here now, Morton, and don't let me seeyou or hear of you again."

  George stepped between him and the table to pick up his cap. His nervestightened. Close to his cap lay an unmounted photograph, not very large,of Sylvia. What a companion piece for the broken crop! What an ornamentfor an altar dedicated to ambition, to anger, and to love! He would takeit under her father's nose, following her father's threats.

  He slipped his cap over the photograph, and picked up both, the preciouslikeness hidden by the cheap cloth.

  "Good-night, sir."

  He thought Old Planter started at the ring in his voice. He walkedswiftly from the room. Let Old Planter look out for himself. What didall those threats amount to? Perhaps he could steal Sylvia as easilyfrom under her terrible parent's nose.

  VI

  Lambert, hands in pockets, stopped him in the hall.

  "Packed off, as you deserve, but you'll need money."

  "Thanks," George said. "I don't want any I don't earn."

  "If father should kick me out," Lambert drawled, "I'd be inclined totake what I could get."

  "I'd rather steal," George said.

  Lambert smiled whimsically.

  "A word of advice. Stealing's dangerous unless you take enough."

  George indicated the library door. He tried to imitate Lambert's manner.

  "Then I suppose it's genius."

  "What are you getting at?"

  "I mean," George said, "you people may drive me to stealing, but it'llbe the kind you get patted on the back for."

  "Sounds like Wall Street," Lambert smiled.

  George wanted to put himself on record in this house.

  "I'm going to make money, and don't you forget it."

  Lambert's smile widened.

  "Then good luck, and a good job--George."

  George crushed his helpless irritation, turned, and walked out the frontdoor; more disappointed than he would have thought possible, because hehad failed to see Sylvia.

  Reluctantly he returned to the nearly silent discomfort of his parents.He tried to satisfy their curiosity.

  "Nothing but threats. I'm to be driven to crime if I'm ever heard ofafter I leave Oakmont in the morning."

  "He might have made it worse," his father grunted.

  The conversation died for lack of an interpreter.

  His father made a pretence of reading a newspaper. His mother examinedher swollen hands. Her eyes suggested the nearness of tears. George gotup.

  "I suppose I'd better be getting ready."

  As he stooped to kiss her his mother slipped an arm around his neck.

  "Mother's little boy."

  George steadied his voice.

  "Good-night, Dad."

  His father filled his pipe reflectively.

  "Good-night, George."

  No word of sympathy; no sympathy at all, beyond a fugitive,half-frightened hint from his mother, because he had run boldly againsta fashion of thinking; little more, really.

  He softly closed the door of his room, the last time he would ever dothat! He sat on the edge of the bed. He took Sylvia's photograph fromhis pocket and studied it with a deliberate lack of sentiment. Hefancied her desirable lips framing epithets of angry contempt and thoseother words to which he had given his own significance.

  "You'll not forget."

  He looked so long, repeating it in his mind so often, that at last hiseyes blurred, and the pictured lips seemed, indeed, to curve andstraighten.

  "You'll not forget."

  He tapped the photograph with his forefinger.

  "You're going to help me remember," he muttered. "I'll not forget."

  VII

  He placed the photograph and the broken crop at the bottom of hisoilcloth suitcase. The rest of his packing was simple; he had so littlethat was actually his own. There were a few books on a shelf, relics ofhis erratic attendance at the neighbouring high school--he regretted nowthat his ambition there had been physical rather that mental. Even inthe development of his muscles, however, his brain had grown a gooddeal, for he was bright enough. If he made himself work, drawing onwhat money he had, he might get ready for college by fall. He hadalways envied the boys, who had drifted annually from the high school tothe remote and exhilarating grandeur of a university.

  What had Old Planter's sequence been? Education, money, breeding. Ofcourse. And he guessed that the three necessities might, to an extent,walk hand in hand. The acquisition of an education would mean personalcontacts, helpful financially, projecting, perhaps, that culture that hefelt was as essential as the rest. Certainly the starting place for himwas a big university where a man, once in, could work his way through.Lambert went to Yale. Harvard sprang into his mind, but there was thequestion of railroad fare and lost time. He'd better try his luck atPrinceton which wasn't far and which had, he'd heard, a welcome for boysworking their way through college.

  He examined his bank book. Fortunately, since he had lived with hisparents, he had had little opportunity or need for spending. The balanceshowed nearly five hundred dollars, and he would receive fifty more inthe morning. If he could find someone to bolster up his insufficientschooling for a part of that amount he'd make a go of it; he'd be fairlyon his course.

  He went to bed, but he slept restlessly. He wanted to be away fromOakmont and at work. Through his clouded mind persisted his desire for aparting glimpse of Sylvia. If he slept at all it was to the discordantmemory of her anger.

  The sun smiled into his room, summoning him to get up and go forth.

  His father was not there. As if to emphasize the occasion, his motherdeserted her washtub, served his breakfast herself, stood about inhelpless attitudes.

  "George," she whispered, toward the close of the desolate meal, "try toget a job near here. Of course you could never come home, but we couldgo to see you."

  "Father," he said, "is kicking me out as much as Old Planter is, and youback him up."

  She clasped her hands.

  "I've got to. And you can't blame your father. He has to look afterhimself and me."

  "It makes no difference. I'm not going to take a job near by," he said.

  "Where are you going?" she asked, sharply.

  He stared at her for a moment, profoundly sorry for her and for himself.

  "I'm going to get away from everything that would remind me I've everbeen treated like something less than human."

  She gave a little cry.

  "Then say good-bye, my son, before your father comes back."

  VIII

  His father returned and stood impatiently waiting. There was nothing tohold George except that unlikely chance of a glimpse of Sylvia. He wouldsay good-bye here, go up to the offices for his money, and then walkstraight out of Oakmont. He stepped from the house, swinging hissuitcase, his overcoat across his arm.

  "I'm off," he said, trying to make his voice cheery.

  His father considered his cold pipe. He held out his hand.

  "It's a bad start, but maybe you'll turn out all right after all."

  George smiled his confidence.

  "Well, let us hear from you," his father went on, "although as thingsare I don't see how I could help you much."

  "Don't worry," George said.

  He walked to his
mother, who had returned to her work. He kissed herquickly, saying nothing, for he saw the tears falling from her cheeks tothe dirty water out of which linen emerged soft and immaculate. Hestrode toward the main driveway.

  "Good-bye," he called quickly.

  The renewed racket at the tub pursued him until he had placed a screenof foliage between himself and the little house. His last recollectionof home, indeed, was of swollen hands and swollen eyes, and of clean,white tears dropping into offensive water.

  He got his money and walked past the great house and down the driveway.He would not see home again. At a turn near the gate he caught hisbreath, his eyes widening. The vague chance had after all materialized.Sylvia walked briskly along, accompanied by a vicious-looking bulldog ona leash. Her head was high and her shoulders square, as she alwayscarried them. Her eyes sparkled. Then she saw George, and she paused,her expression altering into an active distaste, her cheeks flushingwith tempestuous colour.

  "I can't go back now," George thought.

  She seemed to visualize all that protected her from him. He put hischeap suitcase down.

  "I'm glad I saw you," he said, deliberately. "I wanted to thank you forhaving me fired, for waking me up."

  She didn't answer. She stood quite motionless. The dog growled,straining at his leash toward the man in the road.

  "I've been told to get out and stay out," he went on, his temper lashedby her immobility. "You know I meant what I said yesterday when Ithought you couldn't hear. I did. Every last word. And you might as wellunderstand now I'll make every word good."

  He pointed to the gate.

  "I'm going out there just so I can come back and prove to you that Idon't forget."

  Her colour fled. She stooped swiftly, gracefully, and unleashed theanxious bulldog.

  "Get him!" she whispered, tensely.

  Like a shot the dog sprang for George. He caught the animal in his armsand submitted to its moist and eager caresses.

  "It's a mistake," he pointed out, "to send a dog that loves the stablesafter a stable boy."

  He dropped the dog, picked up his suitcase, and started down the drive.The dog followed him. He turned.

  "Go back, Roland!"

  Sylvia remained crouched. She cried out, her contralto voice crowdedwith surprise and repulsion:

  "Take him with you. I never want to see him again."

  So, followed by the dog, George walked bravely out into the worldthrough the narrow gateway of her home.