II
George paused and considered the glowing end of his cigar. Instead of vast relief he first of all experienced a quick sympathy for Blodgett. He wanted to say something; it was expected of him, but he was occupied with the effort to get rid of this absurd sympathy, to replace it by a profound 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 at once left the field quite open, and shifted their struggle back to its old, honest basis. It was what he had told her would happen, must happen. Since she had agreed at last why had she involved poor old Blodgett at all? Had that merely been one of her defences which had become finally untenable? Had George conceivably influenced her to its assumption, at last to its abandonment?
He stared at the opaque white light which rose like a mist from the waters of the lake. He seemed to see, as on a screen, an adolescent figure with squared shoulders and flushed cheeks tearing recklessly along on a horse that wasn't sufficiently untamed to please its rider. He replaced his cigar between his lips. Naturally she would be the most exigent of enthusiasts. Probably that was why Blodgett had been so pitifully anxious to crowd his bulk into the army. She had to be untrammelled to cheer on the younger, stronger bodies. That was why she had done it, because war had made her see that George was right by bringing her to a stark realization of the value of the younger, stronger bodies.
Sinclair had evidently reached much the same conclusion, for he was saying 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 been unhappy."
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 pleasant people—yes, but the only buying he's ever done is with his amazing generosity. He's pulled me for one out of a couple of tight holes after I'd flown straight in the face of his advice. Nothing but a superb good nature 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, to beg his pardon; realizing regretfully, in a sense, that the last support of his jealous contempt had been swept away. He was angry at the blow to his self-conceit. It frightened him to have that attacked. He couldn't put up with it. He would rid himself again of this persistent sympathy for a defeated rival. Just the same, before accepting any more favours from Blodgett, he desired to clasp the pudgy hand.
Betty didn't know any more than Sinclair, nor did she care to talk about the break.
"I can't bear to think of all the happiness torn from that cheerful man."
George studied her face in the light from the windows as they paced up and down the verandah. There was happiness there in spite of the perplexing doubt with which she glanced from time to time at him. There was no question. Betty's kindness had been taken away from him. He tried to be glad for her, but he was sorry for himself, trying to fancy what his 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 had never been in his nature. Why go back over all that?
"One tie's broken," he said, "and another's made. We're no longer the good 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 for these few minutes. Don't expect many more. I can't see you go without a little jealousy, for there have been times when I've wanted you abominably, Betty."
They had reached the end of the verandah and paused there in a light that barely disclosed her wondering smile; her wistful, reminiscent expression.
"It's funny," she said with a little catch in her voice, "to look back on two children. I suppose I felt about the great George Morton as most girls did."
"You flatter me," he said. "Just what do you mean?"
"It's rather tearful one can laugh about such things," she answered. "So long ago! The great athlete's become a soldier!"
"The stable boy's become a slave," he laughed. "Oh, no. Most girls couldn't feel much sentiment about that kind of greatness."
"Hush!" she whispered. "You know the night you told me all that I thought it was a preliminary to your confessing how abominably you wanted 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; a perception of lost chances, chances that never could have been captured. One couldn't have everything. She had Lambert. He had nothing. But he might 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 there thoughtfully. 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. Of course, he wants it before. Lambert hurries one so."
"It's the war," he said, gravely, "that hurries one."