The Guarded Heights

by Wadsworth Camp

  PART IV

  THE FOREST

  I

  "Profession?"

  "Member of the firm of Morton, Planter, and Goodhue."

  Slightly startled, a fairly youthful product of West Point twisted onthe uncomfortable orderly room chair, and glanced from the name onGeorge's card to the tall, well-built figure in a private's uniformfacing him. George knew he looked like a soldier, because some confidingidiot had blankly told him so coming up on the train; but he hadn't thefirst knowledge to support appearances, didn't even know how to stand atattention, was making an effort at it now since it was clearly expectedof him, because he had sense enough to guess that the pompous, slightlyungrammatical young man would insist during the next three months onmany such tributes.

  "I see. You're _the_ Morton."

  George was pleased the young man was impressed. He experienced again thefeelings with which he had gone to Princeton. He was being weighed, notas skilfully as Bailly had done it, but in much the same fashion. He hada quick thought that it was going to be nice to be at school again.

  "Any special qualifications of leadership?"

  The question took George by surprise. He hesitated. A reserve officer,sitting by to help, asked:

  "Weren't you captain of the Princeton football team a few years ago?"

  "Yes, but we were beaten."

  "You must learn to say, 'sir,' Mr. Morton, when you address an officer."

  George flushed. That was etching his past rather too sharply. Then hesmiled, and amused at the silly business, mimicked Simpson's servility.

  "Very well, sir. I'll remember, sir."

  The West Point man was pleased, he was even more impressed, because heknew football. He made marks on the card. When George essayed a saluteand stepped aside for the next candidate he knew he wasn't submerged inthis mass of splendid individualities which were veiled by thesimilarity of their uniforms.

  Lambert, Goodhue, and he were scattered among different companies. Thatwas as well, he reflected, since his partners already wore officers' hatcords. The spare moments they had, nevertheless, they spent together,mulling over Blodgett's frequent reports which they never found timethoroughly to digest. Even George didn't worry about that, for hisconfidence in Blodgett was complete at last.

  He hadn't time to worry about much, for that matter, beyond the demandsof each day, for Plattsburgh was like Princeton only in that it arousedall his will power to find the right path and to stick to it. At timeshe wished for the nearly smooth brain with which he had entered college.He had acquired too many wrinkles of logic, of organization, ofefficiency, of common-sense, to survive these months without frequentmad desires to talk out in meeting, without too much humorousappreciation of some of the arbiters of his destiny. Regular armyofficers gave him the impression of having been forced through a long,perpetually contracting corridor until they had come out at the end asnarrow as one of the sheets of paper work they loved so well. But he gotalong with them. That was his business. He was pointed out enviously asone of the football captains. It was a football captains' camp. All suchgiants were slated for company or battery commander's commissions atleast.

  If he got it, George wondered if he would hate a captain's uniform asmuch as the private's one he wore.

  With the warm weather the week-ends offered sometimes a relief. Men'swives or mothers had taken little houses in the town or among the hills,and the big hotel on the bluff opened its doors and welcomed other wivesand mothers, and many, many girls who would become both a little soonerthan they had fancied because of this.

  Betty arrived among the first, chaperoned for the time by the Sinclairs.George dined with them, asked Betty about Sylvia, and received evasiveresponses. Sylvia was surely coming up later. Betty was absorbed,anyway, in her own affairs, he reflected unhappily. He felt lost in thishuge place where nearly everyone seemed to be paired.

  After dinner Lambert remained with Betty and Mrs. Sinclair, but Georgeand Mr. Sinclair wandered, smoking, through the grove above the lake.George had had no idea that the news, for so long half expected, wouldaffect him as it did.

  "I suppose," Sinclair muttered, "you've heard about poor Blodgett."

  "What?" George asked, breathlessly. "We've little time for newspapershere."

  "I'm not sure," Sinclair answered, "that it's in the papers, but in towneverybody's talking about it. Sylvia's thrown him over."

  II

  George paused and considered the glowing end of his cigar. Instead ofvast relief he first of all experienced a quick sympathy for Blodgett.He wanted to say something; it was expected of him, but he was occupiedwith the effort to get rid of this absurd sympathy, to replace it by aprofound and unqualified satisfaction.

  "Why? Do you know why?" was all he managed.

  That was what he wanted, her private reason for this step which all atonce left the field quite open, and shifted their struggle back to itsold, honest basis. It was what he had told her would happen, musthappen. Since she had agreed at last why had she involved poor oldBlodgett at all? Had that merely been one of her defences which hadbecome finally untenable? Had George conceivably influenced her to itsassumption, at last to its abandonment?

  He stared at the opaque white light which rose like a mist from thewaters of the lake. He seemed to see, as on a screen, an adolescentfigure with squared shoulders and flushed cheeks tearing recklesslyalong on a horse that wasn't sufficiently untamed to please its rider.He replaced his cigar between his lips. Naturally she would be the mostexigent of enthusiasts. Probably that was why Blodgett had been sopitifully anxious to crowd his bulk into the army. She had to beuntrammelled to cheer on the younger, stronger bodies. That was why shehad done it, because war had made her see that George was right bybringing her to a stark realization of the value of the younger,stronger bodies.

  Sinclair had evidently reached much the same conclusion, for he wassaying something about a whim, no lasting reason----

  "I've always cared for Sylvia, but it's hard to forgive her this."

  "After all," George said, "Blodgett wasn't her kind. She'd have beenunhappy."

  In the opaque light Sinclair stared at him.

  "Not her kind! No. I suppose he's his own kind."

  Temporarily George had driven forth his sympathy. Blodgett, after all,hadn't been above some sharp tricks to win such liking and admiration.Sinclair, of all people, suffering for him!

  "I mean," George said, "he'd bought his way, hadn't he, after a fashion,to her side?"

  Sinclair continued to stare.

  "I don't quite follow. If you mean Josiah's wanted to play with pleasantpeople--yes, but the only buying he's ever done is with his amazinggenerosity. He's pulled me for one out of a couple of tight holes afterI'd flown straight in the face of his advice. Nothing but a superb goodnature could be so forgiving, don't you think?"

  George walked on, keeping step with Sinclair, saying nothing more;fighting the old instinct to reach forward, to grasp Blodgett's hand, tobeg his pardon; realizing regretfully, in a sense, that the last supportof his jealous contempt had been swept away. He was angry at the blow tohis self-conceit. It frightened him to have that attacked. He couldn'tput up with it. He would rid himself again of this persistent sympathyfor a defeated rival. Just the same, before accepting any more favoursfrom Blodgett, he desired to clasp the pudgy hand.

  Betty didn't know any more than Sinclair, nor did she care to talk aboutthe break.

  "I can't bear to think of all the happiness torn from that cheerfulman."

  George studied her face in the light from the windows as they paced upand down the verandah. There was happiness there in spite of theperplexing doubt with which she glanced from time to time at him. Therewas no question. Betty's kindness had been taken away from him. He triedto be glad for her, but he was sorry for himself, trying to fancy whathis life would have been if he had permitted his aim to be turned aside,if he had yielded to the temptation of an unfailing kindness. It hadnever been in his nature. Why go back
over all that?

  "One tie's broken," he said, "and another's made. We're no longer thegood friends we were, because you haven't told me."

  Her white cheeks flooded with colour. She half closed her eyes.

  "What, George?"

  "That the moon is made of honey. I'm really grateful to Lambert forthese few minutes. Don't expect many more. I can't see you go without alittle jealousy, for there have been times when I've wanted youabominably, Betty."

  They had reached the end of the verandah and paused there in a lightthat barely disclosed her wondering smile; her wistful, reminiscentexpression.

  "It's funny," she said with a little catch in her voice, "to look backon two children. I suppose I felt about the great George Morton as mostgirls did."

  "You flatter me," he said. "Just what do you mean?"

  "It's rather tearful one can laugh about such things," she answered. "Solong ago! The great athlete's become a soldier!"

  "The stable boy's become a slave," he laughed. "Oh, no. Most girlscouldn't feel much sentiment about that kind of greatness."

  "Hush!" she whispered. "You know the night you told me all that Ithought it was a preliminary to your confessing how abominably youwanted me."

  "Now, really, Betty----"

  "Quite true, George."

  "And you ran away."

  "And you," she said with a little laugh, "didn't follow."

  "Maybe I was afraid of the dragons in the castle. If I'd followed----?"

  "We'd have made the dragons angels."

  Beneath their jesting he was aware of pain in his heart, in her eyes; aperception of lost chances, chances that never could have been captured.One couldn't have everything. She had Lambert. He had nothing. But hemight have had Betty.

  He stooped and pressed his lips to her forehead.

  "That's as near as I shall ever come," he thought, sorrowfully,wondering, against his will, if it were true.

  "It's to wish you and Lambert happiness," he said aloud.

  She raised her fingers to her forehead and let them linger therethoughtfully. She sighed, straightened, spoke.

  "I'm no longer a sentimental girl, but the admiration has survived,grown, George. Never forget that."

  "And the kindness?" he asked.

  "Of course," she said. "Why should that ever go?"

  But he shook his head.

  "All the kindness must be for Lambert. You wouldn't give by halves.When, Betty?"

  "Let us walk back. I've left him an extraordinarily long time."

  "When?" he repeated.

  "I don't know," she answered. "After the war, if he comes home. Ofcourse, he wants it before. Lambert hurries one so."

  "It's the war," he said, gravely, "that hurries one."

  III

  "I've wormed it out of Betty," he said to Lambert on the way back tobarracks.

  He added congratulations, heartfelt, accompanied by a firm clasp of thehand; but Lambert seemed scarcely to hear, couldn't wait for George tofinish before breaking in.

  "You and Betty have always been like brother and sister. She says so.I've seen it myself."

  George was a trifle uncomfortable.

  "What of it?"

  "If you get a chance point out to her in your brotherly way that thesooner she marries me the more time we'll have together outside ofheaven. I can't very well go at her on that tack. Sounds slushy, but youknow there's a good chance of my not coming home, and she insists onwaiting."

  With all his soul George shrank from such a task. He glanced at theother's long, athletic limbs.

  "There are worse fates than widowhood for war brides," he said,brutally.

  Lambert made a wry face.

  "All the more reason for grabbing what happiness I can."

  "Pure selfishness!" George charged him.

  "You talk like a fond parent," Lambert answered. "I believe Betty is theonly one who doesn't think in those terms. She has other reasons;ridiculous ones. When she tells them to you you'll come on my side."

  "Perhaps," George said, vaguely.

  Betty's obstinacy wasn't Lambert's only worry. Several times he openedhis mouth as if to speak, and apparently thought better of it. Georgecould guess the sense of those unexpressed phrases, and could understandwhy Lambert should find it difficult to voice them to him. It wasn'tuntil they were in the sand of the company street, indeed, that Lambertmanaged to state his difficulty, in whispers, so that the sleepingbarracks shouldn't be made restless. George noticed that the otherdidn't mention Sylvia's name, but it was there in every word, with asort of apology for her, and a relief that she wasn't after all going tomarry one so much older and less graceful than herself.

  "I wish you'd suggest a way for me to pull out. I've thought it over. Ican't think of any pretty one, but I don't want to be under obligationsany longer to a man who has been treated so shabbily."

  It amused George to find himself in the position of a Sinclair, fightingwith Lambert to spare Blodgett's feelings. For Blodgett, Lambert'sproposed action would be the final humiliation.

  A day or two later, in fact, Lambert showed George a note he had hadfrom Blodgett.

  "Never let this come up again," a paragraph ran. "If it made any difference between me and the rest of the family I'd feel I'd got more than I deserve. I know I'm not good enough for her. Let it go at that----"

  "You're right," Lambert said. "He's entitled to be met just there. I'vedecided it shall make no difference to the business."

  George was relieved, but Lambert, it was clear, resented the situation,blamed it on Sylvia, and couldn't wholly refrain from expressing hisdisapproval.

  "No necessity for it in the first place. Can't see why she picked him,why she does a lot of things."

  "Spoiled!" George offered with a happy grin.

  "Prefer to say that myself," Lambert grunted, "although God knows I'mbeginning to think it's true enough."

  IV

  George doubted if he would see Sylvia at Plattsburgh at all, sofrequently was her visit postponed. Perhaps she preferred to cloisterherself really now, experiencing a sense of shame for the blowcircumstances had made her strike at one who had never quite earned it;yet when she came, just before the end of camp, he detected noself-consciousness that he could trace to Blodgett. Lambert and hearrived at the hotel late one Saturday afternoon and saw her on theterrace with her mother and the Alstons. For weeks George had forecastedthis moment, their first meeting since she had bought back her freedomat the expense of Blodgett's heart; and it disappointed him, startledhim; for she was--he had never fancied that would hurt--too friendly.For the first time in their acquaintance she offered her hand willinglyand smiled at him; but she had an air of paying a debt. What debt? Hecaught the words "Red Cross," "recreation."

  "Rather faddish business, isn't it?" he asked, indifferently.

  He was still intrigued by Sylvia's manner. A chorus attacked him. Sylviaand Betty, it appeared, were extreme faddists. Only Mrs. Planter smiledat him understandingly from her eminent superiority. As he glanced athis coarse uniform he wanted to laugh, then his temper caught him. Thedebt she desired to pay was undoubtedly the one owed by a people. Hewanted to grasp her and shout in her ear:

  "You patriotic idiot! I won't let you insult me that way."

  "We have to do what we can," she was saying vehemently. "I wish I were aman. How I wish I were a man!"

  If she were a man, he was thinking, he'd pound some sensible judgmentsinto her excited brain. Or was all this simply a nervous reaction fromher mental struggles of the past months, from her final escape--anecessary play-acting?

  He couldn't manage a word with her alone before dinner. The partywandered through grass-floored forest paths whose shy peace fled fromthe approach of uniforms and the heavy tramp of army boots. He resentedher flood of public questions about his work, his prospects, his mentalattitude toward the whole business. Her voice was too kind, her mannertoo sweet, with just the proper touch of sadness. She wasn't going tospare him a
nything of the soldier's due. Since he was being fattened,presumably for the butcher, she would turn his thoughts from theknife----

  He longed for the riding crop in her fingers; he would have preferredits blows.

  If he got her alone he would put a stop to such intolerable abuse, butthe chance escaped him until long after dinner, when the moon swung highabove the lake, when the men in uniform and their women were paired inthe ballroom, or on the terrace and balconies. He asked her to dance atlast and she made no difficulty, giving him that unreal and provokingsmile.

  "You dance well," she said when the music stopped.

  They were near a door. He suggested that they go outside.

  "While I tell you that if you offer me any more of that gruel I'llpublicly accuse you of treason."

  She looked at him puzzled, hesitating.

  "What do you mean?"

  "When it comes to being killed," he answered, "I prefer the Huns toempty kindness. It's rather more useful for the country, too. Pleasecome out."

  She shook her head. Her eyes were a little uncertain.

  "Yes, you will," he said. "You've let yourself in for it. I'm the victimof one of your war charities. Let me tell you that sort of thing leadsfrom the dance floor to less public places. After all, the balcony isn'tvery secluded. If you called for help it would come promiscuously,immediately."

  She laughed. She tried to edge toward her mother. He stopped her.

  "Be consistent. Don't refuse a dying man," he sneered.

  "Dying man!" she echoed.

  "You've impressed me with it all evening. For the first time in yourlife you've tried to treat me like a human being, and you've succeededin making me feel a perfect fool. Where's the pamphlet you've beenreciting from? I'll guarantee it says the next move is to go to thebalcony and be very nice and a little sentimental to the poor devil."

  Her head went up. She walked out at his side. He arranged chairs closetogether at the railing where they seemed to sit suspended in limitlessemptiness above the lake and the mountains flattened by the moonlight.Later, under very different circumstances, he was to recall that idea ofhelpless suspension. She caught it, too, evidently, and gave it adifferent interpretation. It was as if, engrossed by her own problems,she had for the moment forgotten him.

  "This place is so high! It gives you a feeling of freedom."

  He knew very well what was in her mind.

  "I'm glad you can feel free. I'm glad with all my heart you are freeagain."

  Caught by her sensations she didn't answer at once. He studied herduring that brief period when she was, in a fashion, helpless before hiseager eyes. Abruptly she faced him, as if the sense of his words hadbeen delayed in reaching her, or, as if, perhaps, his frank regard haddrawn her around, a little startled.

  "I shall not quarrel with you to-night," she said.

  "Good! Then you must let me tell you that while I'm sorry as I can befor poor old Blodgett, I'm inexpressibly glad for you and for thisparticular object of your charity."

  "It does not concern you," she said.

  "Enormously. I wonder if you would answer one or two questions quitetruthfully."

  She stirred uneasily, seemed about to rise, then evidently thoughtbetter of it. The orchestra resumed its labours. Many figures near bygravitated toward the ballroom, leaving them, indeed, in something verynear seclusion. And she stayed to hear his questions, but she begged himnot to ask them.

  "You and Lambert are friends. What you are both doing makes me want tothink of that, makes me want to make concessions, but don'tmisunderstand, don't force me to quarrel with you until after this isover."

  He paid no attention to her.

  "I suppose the war made you realize I was right about Blodgett?"

  "You cannot talk about that."

  "Has the war shown you I was right about myself?" he went on.

  "Are you going to make my good resolutions impossible?" she asked.

  Over his shoulder George saw the men in khaki guiding pretty girls aboutthe dance floor. The place was full of a heady concentration of pleasurethat had a beautiful as well as a pitiful side. About him the atmospherewas frankly amorous, compounded of multiple desires of heart and mindwhich strained for fulfilment before it should be too late. For himSylvia was a part of it--the greater part. It entered his senses as thedelightful and faint perfume which reached him from her. It becameponderable in her dark hair; in her lips half parted; in her gracefulpose as she bent toward him attentively; in her sudden movement ofwithdrawal, as if she had suddenly realized he would never give her herway.

  "Isn't it time," he asked, "that you forgot some of your childish prideand bad temper? Sylvia! When are you going to marry me?"

  Her laughter wasn't even, but she arose unhurriedly. She paused, indeed,and sank back on the arm of the chair.

  "So even now," she said, "it's to be quarrels or nothing."

  "Or everything," he corrected her. "I shall make you realize it somehow,some day. What's the use putting it off? Let's forget the ugly part ofthe past. Marry me before I go to France."

  He was asking her what he had accused Lambert of unjustifiably wantingBetty to do. All at once he understood Lambert's haste. He stretched outhis hand to Sylvia. He meant it--with all his heart he meant it, but sheanswered him scornfully:

  "Is that your way of saying you love me?"

  The bitterness of many years revived in his mind, focusing on thatquestion. If he should answer it impulsively she would be in a positionto hurt him more than she had ever done. George Morton didn't dare takechances with his impulses, and the bitterness was in his voice when heanswered:

  "You've never let me fancy myself at your feet in a sentimental fit."

  But it was difficult for him not to assume such an attitude: not to takeher hand, both of her hands; not to draw her close.

  "If you'd only answer me----" he began.

  She stood up.

  "Just as when I first saw you!" she cried, angrily.

  She controlled herself.

  "You shan't force me to quarrel. Come in. Let us dance once."

  In a sense he put himself at her feet then.

  "I'm afraid to dance with you to-night," he whispered.

  She looked at him, her eyes full of curiosity. Her eyes wavered. Sheturned and started across the gallery. In a panic he sprang after her.

  "All right. Let us dance," he said.

  He led her to the floor and took her in his arms, but he had animpression of guiding an automaton about the room. Almost at once sheasked him to stop by the door leading to the gallery. He looked at herquestioningly. Her distaste for the civilian Morton was undisguised atlast from the soldier Morton. But there was more than that to be read inher colourful face--self-distaste, perhaps; and a sort of fright,comparable with the panic George had just now experienced on theverandah. Her voice was tired.

  "I've done my best. I can't keep it up."

  "No more war kindness!" he said. "Good!"

  He watched her, her draperies arranging themselves in perplexinglygraceful folds, as she hurried with an air of flight away from him alongthe gallery.

  V

  The evening the commissions were awarded George appreciated theingratitudes and cruelties of service rather more keenly than he haddone even as a youngster at Oakmont.

  "It's like tap day at New Haven," Lambert said, nervously.

  He had paused for a moment to compare notes with George. He hurried nowto his own organization for fear something might have happened duringhis absence. The suspense increased, reaching even George, who all alonghad been confident of success.

  In the dusk the entire company crowded the narrow space between thebarracks--scores of men who had been urged by passionate politicians toabandon family, money, everything, for the discomforts, sometimes thedegradations, of this place, for the possible privilege of dying for acause. It had had to be done, but in the hearts of many that night wasthe fancy that it might have been done rather differently. It was clear,f
or instance, that the passionate and patriotic politicians hadn'ttroubled to tear from a reluctant general staff enough commissions forthe size and quality of these first camps. Many of the men, therefore,who with a sort of terror shuffled their feet in the sand, would be senthome, to the draft, or to the questioning scorn of their friends, undersuspicion of a form of treason, of not having banged the drum quite hardenough. And it wasn't that at all.

  George, like everyone else, had known for a long time there wouldn't beenough commissions to go around. Why, he wondered now, had the fellowschosen for dismissal been held for this public announcement of failure.And in many cases, he reflected, there was no failure here beyond theinsolvency of a system. Among those who would go back to the world withaverted faces were numbers who hadn't really come at all within thevision of their instructors, beyond whom they could not appeal. Andwithin a year this same reluctant army would be reaching out eagerly forinferior officer material. And these men would not forget. You couldnever expect them to forget.

  Two messengers emerged from the orderly room and commenced to thread therestless, apprehensive groups, seeking, with a torturing slownessfinding candidates to whom they whispered. The chosen ran to the orderlyroom, entered there, according to instructions, or else formed a longline outside the window where sat the supreme arbiter, the giver, in away of life and death, the young fellow from West Point.

  Men patted George on the back.

  "You'll go among the first, George."

  But he didn't. He paced up and down, watching the many who waited forthe whisper which was withheld, waited until they knew it wouldn'tcome, expressed then in their faces thoughts blacker than the closingnight, entered at last into the gloomy barracks where they sat on theirbunks silently and with bowed heads.

  Was that fate, through some miracle of mismanagement, reserved for him?It couldn't be. The fellow had seen him at the start. George had forcedhimself to get along with him, to impress him. Somebody touched Georgeon the arm. A curiously intense whisper filled his ear.

  "You're wanted in the orderly room, Morton."

  In leaving the defeated he had an impression of a difficult andsorrowful severance.

  In the orderly room too many men rubbed shoulders restlessly. A relievedsigh went up. It was as if everyone had known nothing vital could occurbefore his arrival. The young West Pointer was making the most of hismoment. The war wasn't likely to bring him another half so great.

  Washington, he announced, had cut down the number of higher commissionshe had asked for.

  George's name was read among the first.

  "To be captain of infantry, United States Reserve--George Morton."

  There was something very like affection in the West Pointer's voice.

  "I recommended you for a majority, Mr. Morton. Stick to the job as youhave here, and it will come along."

  Lambert and Goodhue found him as he crowded with the rest through thelittle door. They had kept their captaincies. Even Goodhue released alittle of his relief at the outcome.

  "Any number busted--no time to find out whether they were good or bad."

  The dark, hot, sandy street was full of shadowy figures, calling,shouting, laughing neurotically.

  "Good fellow, but I had you on my list." "My Lord! I never expected morethan a private in the rear rank." "What do you think of Blank? Lost outentirely." "Rotten deal." "Not the only one by several dozens." "Hearabout Doe? Wouldn't have picked him for a shave tail. Got a captaincy.Teacher's pet."

  Brutally someone had turned on the barrack lights. Through the windowsthe successful ones could see among the bunks the bowed and silentfigures, must have known how sacrilegious it was to project theirhappiness into this place which had all at once become a sepulchre ofdead sacrifices.

  "I hope," George muttered to his friends, "I'll never have to see quiteso much suffering on a battlefield."

  VI

  It wasn't pleasant to face Blodgett, but it had to be done, for allthree of the partners had determined out of necessity to spend thegreater portion of their leaves at the office. George slipped in alonethe morning he got back to New York. Blodgett looked up as if he hadbeen struck, taking in each detail of the uniform and its insignia,symbols of success. The face seemed a little less round, infinitely lesscontented. Sitting back there in his office he had an air of havingsought a corner. If Sylvia didn't, he clearly appreciated the shame ofthe situation. George took the pudgy hand and pressed it, but hecouldn't say anything and Blodgett seemed to understand and be grateful.He failed, however, to hide his envy of the uniform.

  "I'd give my money and something besides," he said, "to be able to climbinto that."

  "You're lucky you can't," George answered, half meaning it.

  As a substitute Blodgett spoke of some dollar-a-year work in Washington.

  "But don't worry, George. I'll see everything here is looked after."

  George was glad Blodgett had so much to take care of, for it was clearthat the more work he had the better off he would be. In Blodgett'spresence he tried not to think of Sylvia and his own intentions. Hewrote her, for the first time, boldly asking, since he couldn't suggestsuch a visit to Lambert, if he might see her at Oakmont. She didn't keephim in suspense. He smiled as he read her brief reply, it had been soobviously dictated by the Sylvia who was going to be good to soldiers nomatter how dreadful the cost.

  "I thought I made you understand that what you proposed at Plattsburgh can never become less preposterous; my response less determined. So of course it wouldn't do for you to come. When we see each other, as we're bound to do, before you sail, I shall try to forget the absolute lack of any even merely friendly ground between us. It would hurt Lambert----"

  "Damn Lambert!" he muttered.

  But he didn't tear her letter up. He put it in the pocket of his blouse.He continued to carry it there.

  Instead of going to Oakmont, consequently, he spent a Sunday atPrinceton, vastly amused at the pacifist Bailly. Minute by minute theattenuated tutor cursed his inability to take up a gun and pop atGermans, interspersing his regrets with:

  "But of course war is dreadful. It is inconceivable in a healthybrain----" and so forth.

  He had found a substitute for his chief ambition. He was throwinghimself heart and soul into the efforts of the Y.M.C.A. to keep soldiersamused and fed.

  "For Princeton," he explained, "has become an armed camp, a mill tomanufacture officers; nothing more. The classics are as defunct asHomer. I had almost made a bad pun by suggesting that of them allMartial alone survives."

  Before he left, George was sorry he had come, for Lambert took pains toleave Betty alone with him as they walked Sunday evening by the lake.More powerful than Lambert's wishes in his mind was the memory of howBetty and he had skated here, or come to boat races, or walked like thisin his undergraduate days; and she didn't take kindly to hisinterference, letting him see that to her mind a marriage with Lambertnow would be too eager a jump into the house of Planter; tooinconsiderate a request for the key to the Planter coffers.

  "For Lambert may not come back," she said.

  "That's just it," he urged, unwillingly. "Why not take what you can besure of?"

  "What difference would it make?" she asked. "Would I love Lambert anymore? Would he love me any more?"

  "I think so," he said.

  She shook her head.

  "But the thought of a wife might make a difference at the front; mightmake him hesitate, or give a little less. We all have to giveeverything. So I give Lambert--entirely--if I have to."

  George didn't try to say any more, for he knew she was right; yet withthe opening of Camp Upton and the birth of the division the ratherabrupt marriages of soldiers multiplied. During the winter Officers'House sheltered excited conferences that led to Riverhead wherelicenses, clergymen, and justices of the peace could be found; and therewas scarcely a week-end that didn't see the culmination in town of aromance among George's own friends and acquaintances.

&
nbsp; The week-ends he got were chiefly valuable to him because they offeredchances of seeing Sylvia. Few actually developed, however, for therewere not many general parties, since men preferred to cling, notpublicly, during such brief respites to those they loved and were on thepoint of quitting.

  The Alstons had taken a house for the winter, and George caught herthere once or twice, and would rather not have seen her at all, she wasso painfully cordial, so bound up in her war work of which he felthimself the chief victim. He began to fear that he would not see heralone again before he sailed; that he might never be with her aloneagain.

  He didn't care either for the pride she took in Dalrymple's presence atthe second camp.

  "He's sure to do well," she would say. "He's always had all sorts ofpossibilities. Watch the war bring them out."

  Why did women like the man? There was no question that they did. Theytalked now, in ancient terms, of his permanent exit from the field ofwild oats. He could be so fascinating, so thoughtful--of women. But mendidn't like him. Dalrymple's fascinating ways had caught them toofrequently, too expensively. And George didn't believe in his reform,saw symptoms, as others did, of its true value when, at the close of thesecond camp, Dalrymple got himself assigned to the trains of thedivision. It was rumoured he had left Plattsburgh a second lieutenant.It was fact that he appeared at Upton a captain. Secret intrigues inWashington by fond parents, men whispered; but the women didn't seem tocare, for Dalrymple hadn't shown himself before any of them carryingless than the double silver bars of a captain.

  George received his prophesied majority at the moment of thisdisagreeable arrival. That did impress Sylvia to the point of making hermore cordial in public, more careful than before not to give him a wordin private. As the day of departure approached he grew increasinglyrestless. He had never experienced a sensation of such completehelplessness. He was bound by Upton. She could stand aside and mock himwith her studied politenesses.

  Blodgett ran down a number of times, to sit in George's quarters,working with the three partners over figures. They made tentative listsof what should be sold at the first real whisper of peace.

  "But there'll be no peace for a long time," Blodgett promised. "There'sa lot of money for you boys in this war yet."

  They laughed at him, and he looked a little hurt, apparently unable tosee anything humorous in his cheerful promise.

  Dalrymple was aware of these conferences, for he was frequently aboutthe regimental area. George wasn't surprised, when he sat alone onenight, to hear a tap on his window pane, to see Dalrymple's face at thewindow.

  "Hesitate to disturb a major, and all that," Dalrymple said as heentered. "Two rooms. You're lucky."

  "Not luck; work," George said, shortly. "What is it? Didn't come here toenvy my rank, did you?"

  Although he was in far better shape nervously and physically than he hadbeen that day in George's office, Dalrymple bore himself with much thesame confused and hesitant manner. It recalled to George the existenceof the note which the other had made no effort to redeem.

  "You know," Dalrymple began, vaguely, "there's a lot of--what do youcall it--bunk--about this hurrah for the dear old soldier business. Factis, the more chance there is of a man's getting blown up the nastiersome people become."

  George laughed shortly.

  "You mean when you owe them money."

  "As Driggs used to say," Dalrymple answered, "'you're a very penetratingperson.'"

  He hesitated, then went on with an increasing difficulty:

  "You're one of the people I owe money to."

  Wandel had taken George's hint, evidently. George was sorry he had everlet it drop. But was he? Mightn't it be as well in the end? In spite ofall this talk of people's leaving their bones in France, there was afair chance that both Dalrymple and he would bring theirs, unaltered,back to America.

  "Don't worry," George said. "I shan't press you."

  "Handsome enough," Dalrymple thanked him in a voice scarcely above awhisper. "But everybody isn't that decent. It's this talk of thedivision sailing that's turned them nasty."

  George fingered a pamphlet about poison gases. He didn't much blamedebtors for turning nasty.

  "You want to borrow some more money from me," he said.

  Dalrymple's face lightened.

  "If you'd be that good; but it's a lot."

  "Why," George asked, quietly, "don't you go to someone you're closerto?"

  Dalrymple flushed. He wouldn't meet George's eyes.

  "Dicky would give it me," he said, "but I can't ask him; I've made himtoo many promises. So would Lambert, but it would be absurd for me to goto him."

  "Why absurd?" George asked, quietly.

  "Wholly impossible," was all Dalrymple would say. "Quite absurd."

  There came back to George his ugly sensations at Blodgett's, and he knewhe would give Dalrymple a lot of money now, as he had given him alittle then, and for precisely the same reason.

  "I'm afraid I've been a bit hard on my friends," Dalrymple admitted. "Asa rule they've dried up."

  "So you come to one who isn't a friend?" George asked.

  "Now see here, Morton, that's scarcely fair."

  "You haven't forgotten that day in my office," George accused him, "whenyou made a brutal ass of yourself."

  "Said I was sorry. Don't you ever forget anything?"

  Dalrymple was angry enough himself now, but his worry apparently forcedhim on.

  "I wouldn't have come to you at all, only Driggs said--and you saidyourself once, and you can spare it. I know that. See here. Unlesssomebody helps me these people will go to Division Headquarters orWashington. They'll stop my sailing. They'll----"

  "Don't cry," George interrupted. "You want money, and you don't give ahang where it comes from. That's it, isn't it?"

  "I have to have money," Dalrymple acknowledged.

  "Then you ought to have sense enough to know the only reason I'd give itto you. Do you think I'd care if they held you in this country for yoursilly debts? What you borrow you have to pay back in one way or another.Don't make any mistake. If I give you money it's to be able to make youpay as I please. You've always had a knife out for me. I don't mindputting one in my own hands. If you want money on those terms come to myoffice with your accounts Saturday afternoon. We'll see what can bedone."

  Dalrymple was quite white. He moistened his lips. As he left hemuttered:

  "I can't answer back. I have to have money. You've got me where youwant."

  VII

  Dalrymple's necessities turned out to be greater than George hadimagined. They measured pretty accurately the extent of hisreformation. George got several notes to run a year in return forapproximately twenty thousand dollars.

  "Remember," he said at the close of the transaction, "you pay those backwhen and how I say."

  "I wouldn't have come to you if I could have helped it," Dalrymplewhined. "But don't forget, Morton, somebody will pull me out at a pinch.I'm going to work to pay you if I live. I'm through with nonsense. Giveme a chance."

  George nodded him out, and sent for his lawyer. In case of his deathDalrymple's notes would go back to the man. Everything else he haddivided between his mother and the Baillys. He wrote his mother a longletter, telling her just what to do. Quite honestly he regretted hisinability to get West to say good-bye. The thought of bringing her toNew York or Upton had not occurred to him.

  For during these days of farewells everyone flocked to Upton, sittingabout the hostess houses all day and evening for an occasional chat withtheir hurried men. Then they let such moments slip by because of afeeling of strangeness, of dumb despair.

  The Alstons and the Baillys were there, and so, of course, was Sylvia,with her mother, more minutely guarded than she had ever been. His fewglimpses of her at luncheon or supper at Officers' House increased theevil humour into which Dalrymple had thrown him. Consequently he lookedat her, impressing upon his morose mind each detail of her beauty thathe knew very well he might never study again. The
old depression ofcomplete failure held him. She was going to let him go without a word.Even this exceptional crisis was without effect upon her intolerantmemory. He would leave her behind to complete a destiny which he,perhaps, after all, had affected only a very little.

  With the whispered word that there would be no more meetings atOfficers' House, that before dawn the regiment would have slipped fromUpton, George turned to his packing with the emotions of a violentlyconstricted animal. He wouldn't even see her again. When Lambert came toconfer with him about some final dispositions he watched him like suchan animal, but Lambert let him see that he, too, was at a loss. He hadsent word by an orderly that he couldn't get to Officers' House thatevening.

  "I couldn't make it any plainer. If they've any sense they'll know andhunt me up."

  They were wise, and a little of George's strain relaxed, for they foundLambert in his quarters, and they made it clear that they had come tosay good-bye to George, too. After many halting efforts they gave uptrying to express themselves.

  "The Spartans were better at this sort of thing," Bailly said at thelast as he clasped George's hand.

  "Every Hun I kill or capture, sir, I'll think of as your Hun."

  Without words, without tears, Mrs. Bailly kissed his lips. George triedto laugh.

  Betty wouldn't say good-bye, wouldn't even shake hands.

  "I shan't think of killing," she said. "Just take care of yourselves,and come back."

  George stared at her, alarmed. He had never seen her so white. Lambertfollowed her from the room. The Baillys went out after them. Why didMrs. Planter linger? There she stood near the door, looking at Georgewithout the slightest betrayal of feeling. He had an impression she wasgoing to say:

  "We've really quite enjoyed Upton."

  At least she held Sylvia a moment longer, Sylvia who had said nothing,who had not met his eyes, who had seemed from the first anxious toescape from this plank room littered with the paraphernalia of battle.Mrs. Planter held out her hand, smiling.

  "Good-bye, Major. One doesn't need to wish you success. You inspireconfidence."

  He was surprised at the strength of her white hand, felt it draw himcloser, watched her bend her head, heard her speak in his ear so lowthat Sylvia couldn't hear--a whisper intense, agonized, of a qualitythat seemed like a white-hot iron in his brain:

  "Take care of my son. Bring him back to me."

  She straightened, releasing his hand.

  "Come, Sylvia," she said, pleasantly.

  Without looking back she went out.

  "Good luck, Major," Sylvia said, and prepared to follow.

  Quickly George reached out, caught her arm, and drew her away from thedoor.

  "You're not going to say good-bye like this."

  In her effort to escape, in her flushed face, in her angry eyes, he readher understanding that no other man she knew could have done just this,that it was George Morton's way. Why not? He had no time for veneer now.It was his moment, probably his last with her.

  With her free hand she reached behind her to steady herself against thetable. Her fingers touched the gas mask that lay there, then stiffenedand moved away. Some of the colour left her face. Her arm became passivein his grasp.

  "Let me go. How do you want me to say good-bye?"

  He caught her other arm.

  "Give me something to take. Oh, God, Sylvia! Let me have my kiss."

  VIII

  Never since he had walked out of the great gate with Sylvia's dog at hisheels to a wilful tutoring of his body and brain had George yielded tosuch untrammelled emotion, to so unbounded a desire. This moment ofparting, in which he had felt himself helpless, had swept it allaway--the carefully applied manner, the solicitous schooling of animpulsive brain, the minute effort to resemble the class of which he hadimagined himself a part. Temporarily he was back at the starting point,the George Morton who had lifted Sylvia in his arms, blurting outimpossible words, staring at her lips with an abrupt and narrowrealization that sooner or later he would have to touch them.

  Sylvia's quick action brought some of it back, but he had no remorse, nofeeling of reversion, for the moment itself was naked, inimical tomasquerade.

  "Lambert!" she called.

  Her voice didn't suggest fright or too sharp a hurry. Looking at herface he could understand how much her control had cost, for herexpression was that of the girl Sylvia, filled with antipathy,abhorrence, an inability to believe. It appeared to tell him that if hehad ever advanced toward her at all, he had just now forced himself backto his own side of the vast space dividing them.

  "Don't be a fool," he whispered. "I could take it, but you have togive."

  Her lips were pressed tight as if in a defence against the possibleapproach of his. They both heard a quick step outside. He let her armsgo, and turned to the door where Dalrymple stood, unquestionably good tolook upon in his uniform. He frowned at this picture which might havesuggested to him a real intimacy between George Morton and SylviaPlanter.

  "Lambert's gone on with Betty and the others. What's up?"

  Sylvia's voice wasn't quite steady.

  "The Major can't leave the area. I want somebody to take me to Officers'House."

  George nodded. He had quite recovered his control, and he knew he hadfailed, that there was nothing more to be done. The thought of thedoubtful days ahead was like a great burden on his soul.

  "I've one more word for the Major," she said at the door, motioningDalrymple on.

  George went close to her.

  "It's only this," she said. "I'm sorry it had to come at the lastminute."

  He laughed shortly.

  "It was the last minute that made it. I'm not sorry."

  Her face twisted passionately, as if she were on the point of angrytears.

  "I hope I shall never see you again. Do you understand that?"

  "Quite," he said, dryly. "To George on going to the wars!"

  "I didn't mean just that," she cried, angrily.

  "It's your only chance," he said, "and I can understand how you can wishI shouldn't come back."

  "I didn't mean it," she repeated.

  "Don't count too heavily on it," he went on. "I can't imagine dyingbefore having had what I have always wanted, have always sooner or laterintended to get. If I come back I shall have it."

  Without another word she turned and left him. He watched her walk sideby side with Dalrymple out of the area.

  IX

  There were moments on the voyage, in the training area in Flanders, evenat the front, when he was sorry he had tried to take something of Sylviawith him to battle; for, as it was, he had of her nothing whateverexcept a wish that she should never see him again. There was a deepirony, consequently, in his official relations with her brother, for itwas Lambert who saluted him, who addressed him perpetually as "sir," whowanted to know if the major would approve of this, that, or the other.It was grotesque. He wanted to cry aloud against this necessaryservility of a man whose sister couldn't abide the inferiority of itsobject.

  And he hated war, its waste, its bad management, its discomforts, itsdangers. Was it really true he had involved himself in this filthbecause of Sylvia? Then that was funny. By gad, he would see her again!But he watched his chances dwindle.

  While the battalion was in reserve in Lorraine Lambert and he ran intoDalrymple at the officers' club beneath division headquarters inBaccarat. George saw him first.

  "The intrepid warrior takes his ease," he muttered.

  Dalrymple left three staff men he was with and hurried across the room.

  "New York must be a lonesome place," he said. "Everybody here. Had aletter from Sylvia, Lambert."

  Why should she write to him? Far from women's eyes he was back at it.One of the staff men, in fact, wandered over and whispered to George.

  "Either you chaps from the trains? Somebody ought to take him to hisbillet. General or chief-of-staff might drift through. Believe he'd slap'em on the shoulder."

  "Not a bad idea," Geo
rge said, contemptuously.

  Dalrymple didn't even try to be cordial to him, knowing George wasn'tlikely to make trouble as long as they were in France. Lambert took careof him, steered him home, and a few days later told George withsurprised laughter that the man had been transferred to a showy andperfectly safe job at G.H.Q.

  "Papa, and mama, and Washington!" Lambert laughed.

  "Splendid thing for the war," George sneered.

  But he raved with Lambert when Goodhue was snatched away by a generalwho chose his aides for their names and social attainments.

  "Spirit's all through the army," Goodhue complained, bitterly. "Whydoesn't it occur to them to get the right men for the right places?"

  He sighed.

  "Suppose we'll get through somehow, but there'll be too much mourningsold at home."

  All along that had been in George's mind, and, in his small way, he didwhat he could, studying minutely methods of accomplishing his missionsat the minimum cost to his battalion; but on the Vesle he grewdiscouraged, seeing his men fall not to rise; or to be lifted to astretcher; or to scramble up and stagger back swathed with first-aidrolls, dodging shells and machine-gun spirts; or, and in some ways thatwas hardest of all to watch, to be led by some bandaged ones, blindedand vomiting from gas.

  He had no consecutive sleep. He never got his clothes off. He snatchedfood from a tin can. He suffered from the universal dysentery. He wasunder constant fire. He lay in shallow funk holes, conferring with hiscompany and platoon commanders. At best he sat in the cellar of asmashed house, poring, by the light of a candle, over maps andcomplicated orders. Most of the time he wore a gas mask which had theadvantage, however, of shutting out the stifling odour of decay. Henever had time to find out if he was afraid. He reached a blessed stateof indifference where getting hit appeared an inevitable and restfulprospect.

  Driggs Wandel arrived surprisingly on the day the Germans were fallingback to the Aisne, at a moment when most of the artillery fire wascoming from the American side, when it was possible to sit on a sunnybank outside the battalion dugout breathing only stale souvenirs of lastnight's gas shells.

  "_Bon jour_, most powerful and disreputable of majors!"

  George held out his hand.

  "Bring any chocolate, Driggs? Sit down, you idiot. Jerry's never seensuch a nice new uniform."

  Suddenly he lost his temper. Why the devil couldn't he get some pleasureout of this extraordinary reunion? Why did he have to greet Wandel as ifhe had seen him daily since their parting more than three years ago on adusky pier in New York? He had heard that Wandel, with the declarationof war, had left the ambulance for a commission in the field artillery.He saw him now wearing the insignia of a general staff major.

  "Just attached to your corps headquarters," Wandel said. "Didn't wantthe job, would rather have been a fighting man with my pretty guns.Suppose some fool of a friend of the family brought the usual influencewithout consulting me."

  "Glad to see you, Driggs," George muttered, "although I don't seem ableto tell you so. How did you get here?"

  "Guide from regimental headquarters. Wanted to see how the submergedheroes live. Nasty, noisy, smelly spot to be heroic in."

  "A picnic to-day."

  "I've always suspected," Wandel said, "that picnics were unhealthy."

  "Better have come," George grinned, "any other day we've been here thepast few weeks."

  Wandel laughed.

  "Don't think I didn't pick my day. The general staff takes nounnecessary risks. Tell me, my George, when did you shave last? When didyou wash your pretty face last? When did you take your swank clothes offlast?"

  "I think when I was a very little boy," George sighed.

  Wandel became abruptly serious, turned so, perhaps, by a large shellfragment, still warm, which he had picked up. As he fingered it hestared at George.

  "I know," George said, "that I point a moral, but even little boys wouldbe glad to be made clean if they got like this. Don't rub it in."

  "To the contrary," Wandel said, thoughtfully, "I'm going back over a lotof years. I'm remembering how that most extraordinary man, FreshmanGeorge Morton, looked. I'm thinking that I've always been right aboutyou."

  The warm sun, the diminution of racket, this sudden companionship, haddrawn George a little from his indifferent, half-dazed condition. He,too, could look back, and without discomfort. On the Vesle it was onlydeath that counted. Birth didn't amount to a hill of beans, or money, oreducation, except in that it made a man an officer. So George answeredfrankly:

  "All along you've guessed a lot about me, Driggs."

  "Known, George."

  "Would you mind telling me how?"

  "It would be a pleasure to point out to you," Wandel drawled, "that alot of people aren't half as big fools as you've credited them withbeing. You looked a little what you were at first. You've probablyforgotten that when you matriculated you put down a place of residence,a record easily available for one who saw, as I did, means of using you.Even a fool could have guessed something was up the night Betty was goodenough to make herself a part of the _beau monde_. I gathered a lot fromLambert then."

  "Yet," George said, almost indifferently, "you went on being a friend."

  "Your political manager, George," Wandel corrected. "I'm not sure itwould have gone much further if it hadn't been for Dicky."

  George was thoroughly aroused at last.

  "Did Dicky know?"

  "Not mere facts," Wandel answered. "What difference did they make? Buthe could see what you had started from, how great the climb you weretaking. That's why he liked and admired you, because of what you were,not because of what you wanted people to think you were. That's reallywhat first attracted me to you, and it amused me to see you fancying youwere getting away with so much more than you really were."

  "Extraordinary!" George managed. "Then the heights are not so wellguarded?"

  "Ah, yes--guarded," Wandel said, "but not against great men."

  George kicked at the ground with his heel.

  "Funny how unimportant it all seems here," he muttered.

  It wasn't only the surroundings that made it seem unimportant; it washis remembrance of Sylvia who had known more than Wandel, more thananybody, yet had never opened the gate.

  "You've taken all my conceit away," he went on. "Once it might have mademe want to put myself out. Now I'm quite content to let Jerry do it."

  Wandel's voice warmed, was less affected than George had ever heard it.

  "What are you talking about? You've won a great victory. You shouldcarry laurels on your brow. You've climbed to the top. You've definedfor us all a possible socialism."

  George smiled.

  "A hell of a thing to talk about here! But tell that to Squibs, willyou, little man, when you get back? We've had some rare battles overit."

  Wandel hurried on.

  "You've made yourself one of us, if it's any satisfaction. You're asgood as the best of us--of the inheritors."

  George folded his arms on his knees and bowed his head. Wandel's voicewas startled.

  "What's up?"

  "Maybe I'm crying," George mumbled. "Ought to be, because I'm so filthytired, and I know you're wrong, Driggs. I'm rotten inside. I haven'teven started to climb."

  But when he looked up there were no tears in his eyes, and his dirtyface had altered with its old whimsical smile.

  "Besides, it's enough to make me cry to know you wouldn't say all thisunless you were certain I'm going to be killed."

  "Hope not," Wandel laughed, "but picnics are full of germs. What'sthis?"

  A grimy figure approached like a man fantastically imitating someanimal. His route was devious as if he were perpetually dodgingsomething that miraculously failed to materialize. He stopped,straightened reluctantly, and saluted George.

  "Captain sent me on, sir. I've located Jerry opposite at----"

  He rattled off some coordinates. George looked him over.

  "How did you find that out?" he snapp
ed.

  "Ran across Jerry----"

  The dirty young man recited jerkily and selflessly a story of fear andrisks overcome, of cunning stealth, of passionate and promiscuousmurder----

  "Report back," George said.

  When he had gone George called for his adjutant and turned to Wandel.

  "Before anything happens to me," he said, "I'll recommend that dirtyyoung assassin for a citation."

  Wandel laughed in a satisfied way.

  "I'm always right about you, great man. Don't you see that? Never thinkabout your own citation----"

  George stared at him, uncomprehending.

  "Citation! A thousand citations for a bed!"

  He watched Wandel uneasily when, at the heels of a guide, he dodged downthe slope in search of Lambert, calling back:

  "Don't swallow any germs."

  "That's very fine, Driggs," he thought, "but why all that and not therest? I'd give a good deal to guess what you know about me and SylviaPlanter."

  X

  George hoped Wandel would find Lambert. Day by day he had dreaded badnews. Other officers and men got hit every hour; why not himself orLambert? For he had never forgotten Mrs. Planter's unexpected andrevealing whisper. It had shown him that even beneath such exteriorsemotion lurks as raw, as desirous, as violent as a savage's. The rest,then, was habit which people inherited, or acquired, or imitated withvarying success. It had made him admire her all the more, had forced onhim a wish to obey her, but what could he do? It was not in him to playfavourites. One man's life was as good as another's; but he watchedLambert as he could, while in his tired brain lingered a feeling of fearfor that woman's son.

  During the peaceful days dividing the Aisne and the Argonne he looked atLambert and fingered his own clothing, stained and torn where death hadnearly reached, with a wondering doubt that they could both be whole,that Mrs. Planter in her unemotional way could still welcome guests toOakmont. And he recalled that impression he had shared with Sylvia onthe bluff above Lake Champlain of being suspended, but he no longer feltfree. He seemed to hang, indeed, helplessly, in a resounding silencewhich at any moment would commence giving forth unbearable, Gargantuannoises; for, bathed and comfortable, eating in leisure from a mess-kit,he never forgot that this was a respite, that to-morrow or the next dayor the day after the sounding board would reverberate again, holding hima deafened victim.

  Wandel caught up with them one evening in the sylvan peace that precededthe fatal forest uproar. The Argonne still slumbered; was nearly silent;offered untouched trees under which to loaf after a palatable coldsupper. The brown figures of enlisted men also lounged near by,reminiscing, wondering, doubtless, as these officers did, about NewYork which had assumed the attributes of an unattainable paradise.

  George hadn't been particularly pleased to see Wandel. What Wandel knewmade more difference in this quiet place, and George had a vague, shamedrecollection of having accused himself of being rotten inside, of nothaving even started to climb.

  "Must have had a touch of shell shock without knowing it," he mused ashe stared through the dusk at the precise, clean little man.

  Indifferently he listened to Lambert's good-natured raillery at thegeneral staff, then he focussed his attention, for Lambert's voice hadsuddenly turned serious, his hand had indicated the lounging figures ofthe enlisted men.

  "With all your ridiculous fuss and feathers at nice headquarterschateaux, I don't suppose you ever get to know those fellows, Driggs."

  "I don't see why not," Wandel drawled.

  "Do you love them, everyone?"

  "Can't say that I do, but then my heart is only a small organ."

  "I do," Lambert said, warmly. "And you'll find George does. You can'thelp it when you see them pulling through this thing. They're real men,aren't they, George?"

  George yawned.

  "Are they any more so," he asked, dryly, "than they were when they livedin the same little town with you? I mean, if all you say about them istrue why did you have to wait for war to introduce you to unveil theiradmirable qualities?"

  Lambert straightened.

  "It's wrong," he said, defiantly, "that I should have waited. It's wrongthat I couldn't help myself."

  "And you once tried to take a horse whip to me," George whispered in hisear.

  It was Lambert's absurd earnestness that worried him. Did Lambert, too,have a touch of shell shock? Wandel was trying to smooth out hisdoubts.

  "I think what you mean to say is that war, aside from military rank, isa great leveller. We can leave that out altogether. You know theprofessional officer's creed: 'Good Colonel, deliver us.' 'We beseech yeto hear us, good General,' and so on up to the top man, who begs theSecretary of War, who prays to the President, who, one ventures to hope,gets a word to God. You mean, Lambert, that out here it never occurs toyou to ask these men who their fathers were, or what preps they went to,or what clubs they're members of. It's the war spirit--aside frommilitary rank--this sham equality. Titled ladies dine with embarrassedTommies. Your own sister dances with doughboys who'd be a lot happier ifshe'd leave them alone. It's in the air, beautiful, gorgeous, hystericalwar democracy which declares that all men are equal until they'rewounded; then they're superior; or until they're dead; then they'reforgotten."

  George grunted.

  "You're right, Driggs. It won't survive the war."

  "Paper work!" Wandel sneered.

  "It ought to last!" Lambert cried. "I hope it does."

  "Pray that it doesn't," Wandel said. "I fancy the real hell of war comesafter the war is over. We'll find that out, if we live. As for me, evennow when we're all beloved brothers, I'd give a good deal to be sittingin a Fifth Avenue club looking out on lesser men."

  "I would, too," George said, fervently.

  Lambert spoke with abysmal seriousness.

  "I'd rather have some of the splendid lesser men sitting on the sameside of the window with me."

  George stared at him. What had happened to this aristocrat who had oncemade a medieval gesture with a horse whip? Certainly he, the plebeianvictim of that attack, had no such wish. Put these men on the same sideof a club window, or a factory window, for that matter, and they'd dragthe whole business down to their level, to eternal smash fast enough.Why, hang Lambert! It amounted to visualizing his sister as a slattern.He smiled with a curious pride. Reddest revolution couldn't make herthat. She wouldn't come down off her high horse if a dozen bayonetswere at her throat. What the deuce was he thinking about? Why should hebe proud of that? For, if he lived, he was going to drag her offhimself, but he wouldn't make her a slattern.

  "You talk like Allen," he said, "and you haven't even his excuse."

  "I've seen the primeval for the first time," Lambert answered.

  "I'll admit it has qualities," Wandel yawned. "Anyway, I'm off."

  Mrs. Planter came back to George's mind, momentarily as primeval as aman surrendered to the battle lust. What one saw, except inself-destructive emergencies, he told himself, was all veneer. Ages,epochs, generations, merely determined its depth. The hell after war!Did Wandel mean there was danger then of an attempt to thin the veneer?Was Lambert, of all people, going to assist the Allens to plane it away?

  "It would mean another dark ages," he mused.

  His own little self-imposed coat he saw now had gone on top of a farthicker one without which he would have been as helpless as a bushman orsome anthropoidal creature escaped from an unexplored country.

  He laughed, but uncomfortably. Those two had made him uneasy, andSquibs, naturally, was at Lambert's folly. There had been a letter a dayor two ago which he had scarcely had time to read because of the demandsof an extended movement and the confusion of receiving replacements andre-equipping the men he had. He read it over now. "Understanding,""Brotherhood."

  "You are helping to bring it about, because you are helping to win thiswar."

  In a fit of irritation he tore the letter up. What the devil was hefighting the war for?

  The questio
n wouldn't let him asleep. Lambert, Wandel, and Squibsbetween them had made him for the first time in his life thoroughly,uncomfortably, abominably afraid--physically afraid--afraid of beingkilled. For all at once there was more than Sylvia to make him want tolive. He didn't see how he could die without knowing what the deuce hewas fighting this man's war for, anyway.

  XI

  He hadn't learned any more about it when Lambert and he were caught onthe same afternoon a week later.

  In the interminable, haggard thicket the attack had abruptly halted.Word reached George that Lambert's company was falling back. To him thatwas beyond belief if Lambert was still with his men. He hurried forwardbefore regimental headquarters had had a chance to open its distantmouth. There were machine-gun nests ahead, foolish stragglers told him.Of course. Those were what he had ordered Lambert to take. The companywas disorganized. Little groups slunk back, dragging their rifles as ifthey were too heavy. Others squatted in the underbrush, waitingapparently for some valuable advice.

  George found the senior lieutenant, crouched behind a fallen log,getting the company in hand again through runners.

  "Where's Captain Planter?"

  The lieutenant nodded carelessly ahead.

  "Hundred yards or so out there. He ran the show too much himself," hecomplained. "Bunch of Jerries jumped out of the thicket and threw potatomashers, then crawled back to the guns. When the captain went down themen near him broke. Sort of thing spreads like a pestilence."

  "Dead?" George asked.

  "Don't know. Potato mashers!"

  "Why haven't you found out?" George asked, irritably.

  The complaining note increased in the other's voice.

  "He's at the foot of that tree. Hear those guns? They're just zipping afew while they wait for someone to get to him."

  "Pull your company together," George said with an absurd feeling that hespoke to Mrs. Planter. "I'll go along and see that we get him and thosenests. They're spoiling the entire afternoon."

  The lieutenant glanced at him, startled.

  "I can do it----"

  "You haven't," George reminded him.

  He despatched runners to the flank companies and to regimentalheadquarters announcing that he was moving ahead. When the battalionadvanced, like a lot of fairly clever Indians, he was in the van, makingstraight for the tree. He had a queer idea that Mrs. Planter quietlysearched in the underbrush ahead of him. The machine guns, which hadbeen trickling, gushed.

  "You're hit, sir," the lieutenant said.

  George glanced at his right boot. There was a hole in the leather, buthe didn't feel any pain. He dismissed the lieutenant's suggestion ofstretcher bearers. He limped ahead. Why should he assume this risk forLambert? Sylvia wouldn't thank him for it. She wouldn't thank him foranything, but her mother would. He had to get Lambert back and completehis task, but he was afraid to examine the still form he saw at last atthe base of the tree, and he knew very well that that was only becauseLambert was his friend. He designated a man to guide the stretcherbearers, and bent, his mind full of swift running and vicious tackles,abrupt and brutal haltings of this figure that seemed to be asleep, thatwould never run again.

  Lambert stirred.

  "Been expecting you, George," he said, sleepily.

  "Anything besides your leg?" George asked.

  "Guess not," Lambert answered. "What more do you want? Thanks forcoming."

  George left him to the stretcher bearers and hurried on full of envy;for Lambert was going home, and George hadn't dared stop to urge him toforget that dangerous nonsense he had talked the other night. Nonsense!You had only to look at these brown figures trying to flank the spoutingguns. Why did they have to glance continually at him? Why had theypaused when he had paused to speak to Lambert? Same side of the window!But a few of them stumbled and slept as they fell.

  He had just begun to worry about the blood in his right boot whensomething snapped at the bone of his good leg, and he pitched forwardhelplessly.

  "Some tackle!" he thought.

  Then through his brain, suddenly confused, flashed an overwhelminggratitude. He couldn't walk. He couldn't go forward. He wouldn't have totake any more risks beyond those shared with the stretcher bearers whowould carry him back. Like Lambert, he was through. He was goinghome--home to Sylvia, to success, to the coveted knowledge of why he hadfought this war.

  The lieutenant, frightened, solicitous, crawled to him, summoning up thestretcher bearers, for the advance had gone a little ahead, the Germanrange had shortened to meet it.

  "How bad, sir?"

  George indicated his legs.

  "Never learned how to walk on my hands."

  The lieutenant straightened, calling out cursing commands. Georgemanaged to achieve a sitting posture. By gad! This leg hurt! It made hima little giddy. Only once before, he thought vaguely, had he experiencedsuch pain. What was the trouble here? The advance had halted, probablybecause the word had spread that he was down.

  What was it Lambert had said about putting the rank and file on the sameside of the window? The rank and file wanted an officer, and the higherthe officer the farther it would go. That was answer enough for Lambert,Squibs, Allen----And he would point it out to them all, for thestretcher bearers had come up, had lifted him to the stretcher, wereready to start him back to decency, to safety----

  Thank God there wasn't any multitude or an insane trainer here to orderhim about.

  "They've stopped again," the lieutenant sobbed. "Some of them are comingback."

  That sort of thing did spread like a pestilence, but there was nothingGeorge could do about it. He had done his job. Good job, too. Softbillet now. Decency. Sylvia. No Green. No multitude----

  "You make a touchdown!"

  And he became aware at last of the multitude--raving higher officers incomfortable places; countless victims of invasion, waiting patiently togo home; myriads in the cities, intoxicated with enthusiasm and wine,tumbling happily from military play to patriotic bazaar; but mosteloquent of all in that innumerable company were the silent and coldbrown figures lying about him in the underbrush.

  His brain, a little delirious, was filled with the roaring from thestands. The crowd was commanding him to get ahead somehow, to wipe outthose deadly nests, to let the regiment, the army, tired nations, sweepon to peace and the end of an unbelievable madness.

  Once more he glanced through blurred eyes at his clothing and sawlivery, and this time he had put it on of his own free will. He seemedto hear Squibs:

  "World lives by service."

  "I'm in the service," he thought. "Got to serve."

  It impressed him as quite pitiful that now he would never know just why.

  "Where you going?" he demanded of the stretcher bearers who had begun tocarry him back.

  They tried to explain, hurrying a little. He threatened them with hisrevolver.

  "Turn around. Let's go--with the battalion."

  The lieutenant saw, the men saw, these frightened figures running withloping steps, carrying a stretcher which they jerked and twitched sothat the figure lying on it with arm raised, holding a revolver,suffered agonies and struggled not to be flung to the ground. And thelieutenant and the men sprang to their feet, ran forward, shouted:

  "Follow the Major!"

  The German gunners, caught by surprise, hesitated, had trouble,therefore, shortening their ranges; and as panic spreads so does thesudden spirit of victory.

  "Same side of the window!" George grumbled as the bearers set him downbehind the captured guns.

  "Just the same," he rambled, "fine fellows. Who said they weren't finefellows?"

  He wanted to argue it angrily with a wounded German propped against ashattered tree, but the lieutenant interrupted him, bringing up amedical orderly, asking him if he had any instructions. George answeredvery pleasantly:

  "Not past me, Mr. Planter! Rank and file myself!"

  The lieutenant glanced significantly at the medical orderly. He lookedsharply at George's hair
and suddenly pointed.

  "They nicked him in the head, too."

  The orderly knelt and examined the place the lieutenant had indicated.

  "Oh, no, sir. That's quite an old scar."

  XII

  "Lost a leg or two?" Allen asked.

  "Not yet. Don't think I shall. Planter's not so lucky, but he'll gethome sooner."

  Allen brought George his one relief from the deadly monotony of the basehospital. He had sent for him because he wanted his opinion as to thepossibility of an armistice. Blodgett, however, hadn't waited for theresult of the conference. The day Allen arrived a letter came from him,telling George not to worry.

  "King Ferdy along about the last of September whispered I'd better beginto unload. It's a killing, George."

  With his mind clear of that George could be amused by Allen. The friendof the people wore some striking clothes from London tailors andhaberdashers. He carried a cunning little cane. He had managed somethingextremely neat in moustaches. He spoke with a perceptible West Endaccent. But in reply to George's sneering humour he made thisastonishing remark:

  "It isn't nearly as much fun being a top-hole person as I thought it wasgoing to be."

  "You're lucky to have found it out," George said, "for your job's aboutover. Of course I could get you something in Wall Street."

  "Doubt if I should want it," Allen said. "I've always got my old job."

  George whistled.

  "You mean you'd go back to long hair, cheap clothes, and violent words?"

  "Why not? I only took your offer, Morton, because I was inclined toagree with you that in the outside world's anxiety to look at what wasgoing on over the fence people'd stop thinking. Russia didn't stopthinking, and after the armistice you watch America begin to use itsbrain."

  "You mean the downtrodden," George sneered.

  "That's the greater part of any country," Allen said, his acquiredaccent forgotten, his perfectly clean hands commencing to gesture.

  But George wouldn't listen to him, got rid of him, turned to the wallwith an ugly feeling that he had gone out of his way to nurture one ofthe makers of the hell after war.