The Guarded Heights & The Straight Path. Charles Wadsworth Camp

Alston's white-clad figure emerged and crossed the sidewalk while George pulled off his cap and held the gate open for her. He suffered an ugly suspense. What would she say? Would she speak to him at all? Phrases that Sylvia might have used to her flashed through his mind; then he saw her smile as usual. She held out her hand. The warmth of her fingers seemed to reach his mind, making it less unyielding. The fancy put him on his guard.

      "I know you passed," she said.

      He walked with her across the narrow yard to the porch.

      "I think so, to-day."

      She paused with her foot on the lower step. The light from the corner disclosed her face, puzzled and undecided; and his uneasiness returned.

      "I am just returning this," she said, holding up a book. "I'd be glad to drop you at your lodging——"

      "I'll wait."

      While she was inside he paced the sidewalk. There had been a question in her face, but not the vital one, which, indeed, she wouldn't have troubled to ask. Sylvia had not recognized him, or, recognizing him, had failed to give him away.

      Betty came gracefully down the steps, and George followed her into the pleasant obscurity of the automobile. He could scarcely see her white figure, but he became aware again of the delightful and singular perfume of her tawny hair. If Sylvia had spoken he never could have sat so close to her. He had no business, anyway——

      She snapped on the light. She laughed.

      "I said you were bound to meet Lambert Planter."

      He had started on false ground. At any moment the ground might give way.

      "If I wasn't quite honest about that the other morning," he said, "it was because I had met Lambert Planter, but under circumstances I wanted to forget."

      "I'm sorry," she said, softly, "that I reminded you; but he seemed glad to see you this morning. It is all right now, isn't it?"

      "Yes," he answered, doubtfully.

      That thrilling quality of her voice became more pronounced.

      "I'm glad. For he's a good friend to have. He's a very real person; I mean, a man who's likely to do big things, don't you think?"

      "Yes," he said again.

      Why was he conscious of resentment? Why did he ask himself quickly if Lambert thought of her with equal benevolence? He pulled himself up short. What earthly business was it of his what Betty Alston and Lambert Planter thought of each other? But he regretted the briefness of his companionship with Betty in the unaccustomed luxury of the car. It surrounded him with a settled and congenial atmosphere; it lessened, after the first moments, the sharp taste of the ambition to which he had condemned himself.

      "Don't worry," she said, as he descended at his lodging, "you'll get in. Dear old Squibs told me so."

      He experienced a strong impulse to touch her hand again. He thanked her, said good-night, and turned resolutely away.

      It was only after long scrutiny of Sylvia's photograph that he attacked Bailly's marked passages. Again and again he reminded himself that he had actually seen her that day, and that she had either not remembered him, or had, with a deliberate cruelty, sought to impress him with his ugly insignificance in a crowded and pleasurable landscape.

      Then why should this other girl of the same class treat him so differently?

      The answer came glibly. For that instant he was wholly distasteful to himself.

      "Because she doesn't know."

      He picked up a piece of the broken riding crop, flushing hotly. He would detach himself from the landscape for Sylvia. He would use that crop yet.

      X

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      He worked all the next day in the examination hall. He purposely chose a seat in the row behind Goodhue. Five or six men, clearly all friends of Goodhue's, sat near him, each modelled more or less as he was. George noticed one exception, a short fellow who stood out from the entire room. At first George thought it was because he was older, then he decided it was the light moustache, the thick hair, the eyes that lacked lustre, the long, white fingers. The man barely lifted his examination sheets. He glanced at them once, then set to work. He was the first to rise and hand his papers in. The rest paused, stared enviously, and sighed. George heard Goodhue say to the man next him:

      "How do you suppose Spike does it?"

      George wondered why they called the dainty little man Spike.

      He was slow and painstaking himself, and the room was fairly well emptied before he finished. Except for the French, he was satisfied. He took a deep breath. The ordeal was over. For the first time in more than two months he was his own master. He could do anything he pleased.

      First of all, he hurried to Squibs Bailly.

      "Lend me a novel—something exciting," he began. "No, I wouldn't open a text-book even for you to-night. The schedule's dead and buried, sir, and you haven't given me another."

      Bailly's wrinkled face approved.

      "You wouldn't be coming at me this way if there was any doubt. You shall have your novel. I'm afraid——"

      He paused, laughing.

      "I mean, my task with you is about done. You've more brain than a dinosaur. It is variously wrinkled where once it was like a babe's. Except for the French, you should handle your courses without superhuman effort. Don't ever let me hear of your getting a condition. Your next schedule will come from Stringham and Green."

      He limped to a bookcase and drew out a volume bound in red.

      "Without entirely wasting your time, you may amuse yourself with that."

      "'Treasure Island.'"

      George frowned doubtfully.

      "We studied something about this man. If he's good enough to get in the school books maybe he isn't just what I'm looking for to-night."

      "Have you ever perused Nick Carter, or, perhaps Old Sleuth?" Bailly asked.

      George smiled.

      "I know I have to forget all that."

      "In intellectual circles," Bailly agreed.

      He glanced slyly around.

      "I've scanned such matter," he whispered, "with a modicum of enjoyment, so I can assure you the book you have in your hand possesses nearly equal merit, yet you may discuss it without losing caste in the most exalted places; which would seem to indicate that human judgment is based on manner rather than matter."

      "You mean," George said, frowning, "that if a man does a rotten thing it is the way he does it rather than the thing itself that is judged?"

      Bailly limped up and down, his hands behind his back. He faced George with a little show of bewildered temper.

      "See here, Freshman Morton, I've taught you to think too fast. You can't fasten a scheme of ethics on any silly aphorism of mine. Go home and read your book. Dwell with picturesque pirates, and walk with flawless and touching virtue. Delve for buried treasure. That, at least, is always worth while."

      George's attitude was a challenge.

      "Remembering," he said, softly, "to dig in a nice manner even if your hands do get dirty."

      Bailly sprawled in his chair and waved George away. "You need a preacher," he said, "not a tutor."

      XI

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      In his room George opened his book and