The Guarded Heights. Camp Wadsworth

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

      Simpson was bewildered.

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

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

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

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

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

      "What are you talking about?"

      Lambert bowed profoundly.

      "Mr. Morton from the lodge."

      George stepped close to him.

      "Want me to thrash you again?"

      Lambert faced him without panic.

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

      He drew the door wide open, and stepped aside with a bow that held no mockery. A white-haired, stately woman entered the hall, and, as she passed, cast at George a glance curiously lacking in vitality. In her George saw the spring of Sylvia's delicacy and beauty. Whatever Old Planter might be this woman had something from the past, not to be acquired, with which to endow her children. George resented it. It made the future for him appear more difficult. Her voice was in keeping, cultured and unaffected.

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

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

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

      George plunged through and closed the door.

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

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

      "Step over here, Morton."

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

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

      "You sent for me, sir."

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

      The bass voice had a dynamic quality.

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

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

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

      George managed to smile back.

      "Nothing to speak of, sir."

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

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

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

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

      Old Planter studied him with more curiosity.

      "You're a queer livery stable boy."

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

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

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

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

      The father completely conquered him. He clenched his knotted fists.

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

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

      Old Planter shook his head.

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

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

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

      He fancied reminiscence in Old Planter's eyes.

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

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

      He slipped his СКАЧАТЬ