The Guarded Heights & The Straight Path. Charles Wadsworth Camp
all his heart he wanted to ask Betty why she had been so kind to him from the beginning, why she was so kind now. He longed to tell her how it had affected him. She glanced up curiously. Without realizing it his grasp had tightened. He relaxed it, wondering what had been in his mind. It was this odd proximity to a beautiful girl who had been kind to him that had for a moment swung him from his real purpose in coming here, the only purpose he had. He resumed his inspection of the crowding faces. He didn't see Lambert or Sylvia. Had he been wrong? It was incredible they shouldn't appear.
The music stopped.
"Thanks," he said. "Three after this."
His voice was wistful.
"I did like that."
He desired to tell her that he didn't care to dance with any one else, except Sylvia, of course.
"I enjoyed it, too. Will you take me back?"
But her partner met them on the way, and he commenced to trail his.
It was halfway through the next number that he knew he had not planned futilely. It was like Sylvia to arrive in that fashion—a distracting element in a settled picture, or as one beyond the general run for whom a special welcome was a matter of course. To George's ears the orchestra played louder, as if to call attention to her. To his eyes the dancers slackened their pace. The chatter certainly diminished, and nearly everyone glanced toward the door where she stood a little in advance of her mother and two men.
George was able to judge reasonably. In dress and appearance she was the most striking woman in the room. Her dark colouring sprang at one, demanding attention. George saw Dalrymple unevenly force a path in her direction. He caught his breath. The dance resumed its former rhythm. In its intricacies Sylvia was for a time lost.
Sometime later Lambert drifted in. George saw him dancing with Betty. He also found Sylvia. He managed to direct his partner close to her a number of times. She must have seen him, but her eyes did not waver or her colour heighten. He wouldn't ask for an introduction. There was no point. His imagination pictured a number of probable disasters. If he should ask her to dance would she recognize him, and laugh, and demand, so that people could hear, how he had forced a way into this place?
George relinquished his partner to a man who cut in. From a harbour close to the wall he watched Sylvia, willing himself to the point of action.
"I will make her know me before I leave this dance," he said to himself.
Dalrymple had her now. His weak face was too flushed. He was more than ever in people's way. George caught the distress in Sylvia's manner. He remembered Wandel's advice, what Betty had asked him to do for her. He dodged, without further reflection, across the floor, and held out his hand.
"If I may——"
Without looking at him she accepted his hand, and they glided off, while Dalrymple stared angrily. George scarcely noticed. There was room in his mind for no more than this amazing and intoxicating experience. She was so close that he could have bent his head and placed his lips on her dark hair—closer than she had been that unforgettable day. The experience was worthless unless she knew who he was.
"She must know," he thought.
If she did, why did she hide her knowledge behind an unfathomable masquerade?
"That was kind of you," he heard her say. "Poor Dolly!"
She glanced up. Interrogation entered her eyes.
"I can't seem to remember——"
"I came from Princeton with Dick Goodhue," he explained. "It seemed such a simple thing. Shouldn't I have cut in?"
He looked straight at her now. His heart seemed to stop. She had to be made to remember.
"My name is George Morton."
She smiled.
"I've heard Betty talk of you. You're a great football player. It was very kind. Of course it's all right."
But it wasn't. The touch of her hand became unbearable to George because she didn't remember. He had to make her remember.
They were near the entrance. He paused and drew her apart from the circling dancers.
"Would you mind losing a little of this?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. "It may seem queer, but I have something to tell you that you ought to know."
She studied him, surprised and curious.
"I can't imagine——" she began. "What is it?"
It was only a step through the door and to an alcove with a red plush bench. The light was soft there. No one was close enough to hear. She sat down, laughing.
"Don't keep me in suspense."
He, too, sat down. He spoke deliberately.
"The last two times I've seen you you wouldn't remember me. Even now, when I've told you my name, you won't."
Her surprise increased.
"It's about you! But I said Betty had——Who are you?"
He bent closer.
"If I didn't tell you you might remember later. Anyway, I wouldn't want to fight a person whose eyes were closed."
Her lips half parted. She appeared a trifle frightened. She made a movement as if to rise.
"Just a minute," he said, harshly.
He called on the hatred that had increased during the hours of his mental and physical slavery, a hatred to be appeased only through his complete mastery of her.
"It won't take much to remind you," he hurried on. "Although you talk to me as if I were a man now, last summer I was a beast because I had the nerve to touch you when you were thrown from your horse."
She stood up quickly, reaching out for the alcove curtain. Her contralto voice was uneven.
"Stop! You shouldn't have said that. You shouldn't have told me."
All at once she straightened, her cheeks flaming. She started for the ballroom. He sprang after her, whispering over her shoulder:
"Now we can start fair."
She turned and faced him.
"I don't know how you got here, but you ask for a fight, Mr. Morton——"
He smiled.
"I am Mr. Morton now. I'm getting on."
Then he knew again that sickening sensation of treacherous ground eager to swallow him.
"Are you going to run and tell them," he asked, softly, "as you did your father last summer?"
She crossed the threshold of the ballroom. He watched her while she hesitated for a moment, seeking feverishly someone in the brilliant, complacent crowd.
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