The Guarded Heights Part 88

She shook her head.

"I am grateful. I wanted to see you to tell you that, and how sorry I am--so beastly sorry, George."

Her voice drifted away. It made him want his arms about her, made him want her lips again. The room became a black and restless background for this shadowy, desired, and forbidden figure.

Impulsively he slipped to his knees and placed his head against the side of her chair. Across his hair he fancied a fugitive brushing of fingers.

She burst out with something of her former impetuous manner.

"I used to want that! Now you shan't!"

He arose, and she stooped swiftly forward, as if propelled objectively, and, before he realized what she was doing, touched the back of his hand with her lips.

She sprang upright and faced him from the mantel, more afraid than ever, staring at him, her cheeks wet with tears.

"That's all," she whispered. "It's what I wanted to tell you. Please go.

We mustn't see each other again."

In the room he was aware only of her, but he knew, in spite of his own blind instinct, that between them was a wall as of transparent and heavy gla.s.s against which he would only break his strength.

"Sylvia," he whispered in spite of that knowledge, "I want to touch your lips."

"They've never been anybody else's," she cried in a sudden outburst.

"Never could have been. I see that now. That's why I've hated you----"

"Yet you love me now. You do love me, Sylvia?"

"I love you, George," she said, wearily. "I think I always have."

"Then why--why----"

She turned on him, nearly angry.

"How can you ask that? You haven't forgotten that first day, either, have you? You took something of me then, and I couldn't forget it. That was what hurt and humiliated; I couldn't forget, couldn't get out of my mind what you--one of the--the stablemen--had taken of me, Sylvia Planter. And I thought you could never give it back, but last night you did, and I----Everything went to pieces----And it had to be last night, after I'd lost my temper. I see that. That's the tragedy of it."

"I don't quite understand, Sylvia."

She smiled a little through her tears.

"Betty would. Any woman would. You must go now--please."

"When will I see you again?" he asked.

"This way? Never."

"What nonsense! You'll get a divorce. You must."

She straightened. Her head went back.

"I won't lie that way."

"I'll hit on some means," he boasted. "You belong to me."

"And I've found it out too late," she said, "and I don't believe I could have found it out before. Think of that, George, when it seems too hard.

I had to be caught by my own rotten temper before I'd let you wake me up."

She drew a little away, and when he started forward motioned him back.

Her face flooded with colour, but she met his eyes bravely.

"That was something. I will never forget that, either, but it doesn't make me feel--unclean, as I did that day at Oakmont and afterward. I don't want to forget it ever. Now you understand."

She ran swiftly to the door and opened it. He followed her and saw Betty at the farther end of the room talking to Mr. Planter.

"Why do you do that?" he asked, desperately.

"I want to tell you why I'll never forget," she answered in a half whisper. "Because I love you. I love you. I want to say it. I think it every minute, so don't you see you have to help me keep it straight and beautiful always, George?"

XXII

"Who has made my little girl cry?"

The quavering tones reminded George. He walked from the little room toward the others, and he saw that Old Planter had caught Sylvia's hand, had drawn her to him, had felt the tears on her cheeks.

There rushed back to George that ancient interview in the library at Oakmont, and here he was back at it, even in Old Planter's presence, making her cry again. He wondered what Old Planter had said when Lambert had told him who George Morton really was.

"You see, sir," he said, moodily, "I haven't changed so much from the stable boy, Morton, you once threatened to send to smash if----"

Sylvia broke in sharply.

"He's never been told----"

"What are you talking about?" the old man quavered. "Was there ever a Morton on my place, Sylvia? An old man, yes. He's dead. A young one----"

Slowly he shook his head from side to side. He peered suspiciously at George out of his dim eyes.

"I don't remember."

Suddenly he cried out with a flash of the old authority:

"I'm growing sensitive, Morton. No jokes! What's he talking about?"

Sylvia took his hand. Her lips trembled.

"Never mind, Father. Come."

And as he let her guide him he drifted on.

"Sylvia! Have you got everything you want? I'll give you anything you want if only you won't cry."