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                                 SYLVIA




                          _By Upton Sinclair_


                     SYLVIA
                     LOVE’S PILGRIMAGE
                     PLAYS OF PROTEST
                     THE FASTING CURE
                     THE JUNGLE
                     THE INDUSTRIAL REPUBLIC
                     THE METROPOLIS
                     THE MONEYCHANGERS
                     SAMUEL THE SEEKER
                     KING MIDAS
                     PRINCE HAGEN
                     THE JOURNAL OF ARTHUR STIRLING
                     MANASSAS
                     THE OVERMAN




                                 SYLVIA
                               _A NOVEL_


                                 ——BY——

                             UPTON SINCLAIR


                      THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
                       PHILADELPHIA      CHICAGO




                          Copyright, 1913, by
                        THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.


                        Published, May 15, 1913
        First Printing, April, 1913. Second Printing, May, 1913
                       Third Printing, May, 1913




                                   TO
                           THE PEOPLE AT HOME

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                CONTENTS


                                 BOOK I

                           SYLVIA LOVES    11


                                BOOK II

                           SYLVIA LINGERS 147


                                BOOK III

                           SYLVIA LOSES   277




                                 SYLVIA




                                 BOOK I
                             _Sylvia Loves_


                                  § 1

This is the story of Sylvia Castleman, of her love and her marriage. The
story goes back to the days of her golden youth; but it has to be told
by an old woman who had no youth at all, and who never dreamed of having
a story to tell. It begins with scenes of luxury among the proudest
aristocracy of the South; it is told by one who for the first thirty
years of her life was a farmer’s wife in a lonely pioneer homestead in
Manitoba, and who, but for the pictures and stories in magazines, would
never have known that such a world as Sylvia Castleman’s existed.

Yet I believe that I can tell her story. Eight years of it I lived with
her, so intensely that it became as my own existence to me. And the rest
I gathered from her lips, even to the tiniest details. For years I went
about my daily tasks with Sylvia’s memories as a kind of radiance about
me, like a rainbow that shimmers over the head of a plodding traveler.
In the time that I knew her, I never came to the end of her picturesque
adventures, nor did I ever know what it was to be bored by them. The
incident might be commonplace—a bit of a flirtation, the ordering of a
costume, the blunder of a negro servant; but it was always Sylvia who
was telling it—there was always the sparkle of her eyes, the mischievous
smile, the swift glow of her countenance. And as the story progressed,
suddenly would come some incident so wild that it would make you catch
your breath; some fantastic, incredible extravagance; some strange,
quixotic trait of character. You would find yourself face to face with
an attitude to life out of the Middle Ages, with some fierce, vivid
passion that carried you back even farther.

What a world it is! I know that it exists—for Sylvia took me home with
her twice. I saw the Major wearing his faded gray uniform (it was
“Reunion Day”) and discoursing upon the therapeutic qualities of “hot
toddies.” I watched the negro boy folding and unfolding the newspaper,
because Mrs. Castleman was obeying her physician and avoiding
unnecessary exertion. I shook hands with Master Castleman Lysle, whose
names were reversed by special decree of the state legislature, so that
the memory of his distinguished ancestress might be preserved to
posterity. And yet it will always seem like a fairy-story world to me. I
can no more believe in the courtly Bishop, praying over my unrepentant
head, than I can believe in Don Quixote. As for “Uncle Mandeville”—I
could more easily persuade myself that I once talked with Pan Zagloba in
the flesh.

I have Sylvia’s picture on my desk—the youthful picture that means so
much to me, with its strange mixture of coquetry and wistfulness, of
mischief and tenderness. Downstairs in the dining-room is the portrait
of Lady Lysle, which is so much like her that strangers always mistook
it. And if that be not enough, now and then Elaine steals into my room,
and, silent as a shadow, takes her seat upon the little stool beside me,
watching me with her sightless eyes. Her fingers fly swiftly at her
knitting, and for hours, if need be, she moves nothing else. She knows
by the sound of my pen that I am busy; with the wonderful acuteness of
the blind she knows whether I am successful or not, whether what I write
be joyous or painful.

How much she knows—much more than I dream, perhaps! I wonder about it,
but I never ask her. Both Frank and I have tried to talk to her, but we
cannot; it is cowardly, pitiful, perhaps—but we cannot! She used to ask
questions in the beginning, but she must have felt our pain, for she
asks no more; she simply haunts our home, the incarnation of the
tragedy. So much of her mother she has—the wonderful red-brown eyes, the
golden hair, the mobile, delicate features. But the sparkle of the eyes
and the glow in the cheeks, the gaiety, the rapture—where are they? When
I think of this, I clutch my hands in a sort of spasm, and go to my work
again.

Or perhaps I go into Frank’s den and see him sitting there, with his
haggard, brooding face, his hair that turned gray in one week. He never
asks the question, but I see it in his eyes: “How much have you done
to-day?” A cruel taskmaster is that face of Frank’s! He is haunted by
the thought that I may not live to finish the story.

The hardest thing of all will be to make you see Sylvia as she was in
that wild, wonderful youth of hers, when she was the belle of her state,
when the suitors crowded about her like moths about a candle-flame. How
shall one who is old and full of bitter memories bring back the magic
spirit of youth, the glamor and the glow of it, the terrifying
blindness, the torrent-like rush, the sheer, quivering ecstasy of it?

What words shall I choose to bring before you the joyfulness of Sylvia?
When I first met her she was twenty-six, and had known the kind of
sorrow that eats into a woman’s soul as acid might eat into her eyes;
and yet you would think she had never been touched by pain—she moved
through life, serene, unflinching, a lamp of cheerfulness to every soul
who knew her. I met her and proceeded to fall in love with her like the
veriest schoolgirl; I would go away and think of her, and clasp my hands
together in delight. There was one word that kept coming to me; I would
repeat it over and over again—“Happy! Happy! Happy!” She was the
happiest soul that I have ever known upon the earth; a veritable
fountain of joy.

I say that much; and then I hasten to correct it. It seems to be easy
for some people to smile. There comes to me another word that I used to
find myself repeating about Sylvia. She was wise! She was wise! She was
wise with a strange, uncanny wisdom, the wisdom of ages upon ages of
womanhood—women who have been mothers and counselors and homekeepers,
but above all, women who have been managers of men! Oh, what a manager
of men was Sylvia! For the most part, she told me, she managed them for
their own good; but now and then the irresistible imp of mischievousness
broke loose in her, and then she managed them any way at all, so long as
she managed them!

Yet that, too, does her less than justice, I think. For you might search
all over the states of the South, where she lived and visited, and where
now they mention her name only in whispers; and nowhere, I wager, could
you find a man who had ceased to love her. You might find hundreds who
would wish to God that she were alive again, so that they might run away
with her. For that is the third thing to be noted about Sylvia
Castleman—that she was good. She was so good that when you knew her you
went down upon your knees before her, and never got up again. How many
times I have seen the tears start into her eyes over the memory of what
the imp of mischievousness and the genius of management had made her do
to men! How many times have I heard her laughter, as she told how she
broke their hearts, and then used her tears for cement to patch them up
again!


                                  § 2

I realize that I must make some effort to tell you how she looked. But
when I think of words—how futile, stale and shopworn seem all the words
that come to me. In my early days my one recreation was cheap
paper-covered novels and historical romances, from which I got my idea
of the _grand monde_. Now, when I try to think of words with which to
describe Sylvia, it is their words that come to me. I know that a
heroine must be slender and exquisite, must be sensitive and haughty and
aristocratic. Sylvia was all this, in truth; but how shall I bring to
you the thrill of wonder that came to me when I encountered her—that
living joy she was to me forever after, so different from anything the
books had ever brought me!

She was tall and very straight, free in her carriage; her look, her
whole aspect was quick and eager. I sit and try to analyze her charm,
and I think the first quality was the sense she gave you of cleanness. I
lived with her much; I saw her, not merely made up for parties, but as
she opened her eyes in the morning; and I cannot recall that I ever saw
about her any of those things that offend us in the body. Her eyes were
always clear, her skin always fair; I never saw her with a cold, or
heard her speak of a headache. If she were tired, she would not tell you
so—at least, not if she thought you needed her. If there was anything
the matter with her, there was only one way you found it out—that she
stopped eating.

She would do that at home, when someone was ill and she was under a
strain. She would literally fade away before your eyes—but still just as
cheerful and brave, laughing at the protests of the doctors, the
outcries of her aunts and her colored “aunties.” At such times she had a
quite new kind of beauty, that seemed to strike men dumb; she used to
make merry over it, saying that she could go out when other women had to
shut themselves behind curtains. For thinness brought out every line of
her exquisitely chiseled features; every quiver of her soul seemed to
show—her tense, swift being was as if cut there in living marble, and
she was some unearthly creature, wraith-like, wonderful, thrilling.
There were poets in Castleman County; they would meet her in this
depleted state, and behave after the fashion of poets in semi-tropical
climates—stand with their knees knocking and the perspiration oozing out
upon their foreheads; they would wander off by moonlight-haunted streams
and compose enraptured verses, and come back and fall upon their knees
and implore her to accept the poor, feeble tribute of their adoration.

I have seen her, too, when she was strong and happy, and then she would
be well-made and shapely, with a charm of a more earthly sort. Then her
color would be like the roses she always carried; and in each of her
cheeks would appear the most adorable of dimples, and under her chin
another. She had a nose that was very straight and finely carved; and
right in the center, under the tip, the sculptor had put a tiny little
groove. She had also a chin that was very straight, and right in the
center of this was a corresponding little groove. You will laugh
perhaps; but those touches added marvelously to the expressiveness of
her countenance. How they would shift and change when, for instance, her
nostrils quivered with anger, or when the imp of mischievousness took
possession of her, and the network of quaint wrinkles gathered round her
eyes!

Dimples, I know, are an ultra-feminine property; but Sylvia’s face was
not what is ordinarily called feminine—it was a kind of face that
painters would give to a young boy singing in a church. I used to tell
her that it was the kind they gave to angels of the higher orders;
whereupon she would put her arms about me and whisper, “You old goose!”
She had a pair of the strangest red-brown eyes, soft and tender; and
then suddenly lighting up—shining, shining!

I don’t know if I make you see her. I can add only one detail more, the
one that people talked of most—her hair. You may see her hair, very
beautifully done, in the portrait of Lady Lysle. The artist was shrewd
and put the great lady in a morning robe, standing by the open window,
the sunlight falling upon a cascade of golden tresses. The color of
Sylvia’s hair was toned down when I knew her, but they told me that in
her prime it had been vivid to outrageousness. I sit before the
painting, and the present slips away and I see her as she was in the
glow of her youth—eager, impetuous, swept with gusts of merriment and
tenderness, like a mountain lake in April.

So the old chroniclers report her, nine generations back, when she came
over to marry the Governor of Massachusetts! They have her wedding gown
preserved in a Boston Museum, and the Lysles have a copy of it, so that
each generation can be married in one like it. But Sylvia was the first
it became, being the first blonde since her great progenitor. How
strange seems such a whim of heredity—not merely the color of the hair
and eyes, the cut of the features, but a whole character, a personality
hidden away somewhere in the germ-plasm, and suddenly breaking out,
without warning, after a couple of hundred years!


                                  § 3

When I think of Sylvia’s childhood and all the hairbreadth escapes of
which she told me, I marvel that she ever came to womanhood. It would
seem to be a perilous part of the world to raise children in, with
horses and dogs and guns, and so many half-tamed negroes—to say nothing
of all the half-tamed white people. Sylvia had three younger sisters and
whole troops of cousins—the Bishop’s eleven children, and the children
of Barry Chilton, his brother. I picture their existence as one long
series of perilous escapes, with runaway horses, kicking mules and
biting dogs, and negroes who shot and stabbed one another in sudden,
ferocious brawls, or set fire to Castleman Hall in order that some other
negro might be suspected and lynched.

Also there were the more subtle perils of the pantry and the green-apple
orchard. I did not see any accident during my brief stay at the place,
but I saw the dietetic ferocities of the family and marveled at them. It
seemed to me that the life of that most precious of infants, Castleman
Lysle, was one endless succession of adventures with mustard and ipecac
and castor oil. I want somehow to make you realize this world of
Sylvia’s, and I don’t know how I can do it better than by telling of my
first vision of that future heir of all the might, majesty and dominion
of the Lysles. It was one of the rare occasions when the Major was
taking him on a journey. The old family horses were hitched to the old
family carriage, and with a negro on the box, another walking at the
horses’ heads, a third riding on a mule behind, and a fourth sent ahead
to notify the police, the procession set forth to the station. I know
quite well that I shall be called a liar; yet I can only give my solemn
word that I saw it with my own eyes—the chief of police, duly notified,
had informed all the officers on duty, and the population of a bustling
town of forty thousand inhabitants, in the United States of America in
the twentieth century, were politely requested not to drive automobiles
along the principal avenue during the half hour that it took to convey
Master Lysle to the train! And of course such a “request” was a command
to all the inhabitants who were genteel enough to own automobiles. Was
not this the grandson of the late General Castleman, the grand-nephew of
a former territorial governor? Was he not the heir of the largest, the
oldest and the most famous plantation in the county, the future
dispenser of favors and arbiter of social fates? Was he not,
incidentally, the brother of the loveliest girl in the state, to whom
most of the automobile owners in the town had made violent love?

I would like to tell more about that world and Sylvia’s experiences in
it—some of those amazing tales! Of the negro boy who bit a piece out of
the baby’s leg, because he had heard someone say that the baby looked
sweet enough to eat; of the negro girl who heard a war-story about “a
train of gun-powder,” and proceeded with Sylvia’s aid to lay such a
train from the cellar to the attic of the house. I would like to tell
the whole story of her girlhood, and the strange ideas they taught her;
but I have to pick and choose, saving my space for the things that are
necessary to the understanding of her character.

Sylvia’s education was a decidedly miscellaneous one at first. “I think
it is time the child had some regular training,” her great-aunt, Lady
Dee, would say to the child’s mother. “Yes, I suppose you are right,”
would be the answer. But then Lady Dee would go, and Major Castleman
would come in, observing, “It’s marvelous the way that child picks
things up, Miss Margaret.” (A habit from his courtship days, you
understand.) “We must be careful not to overstimulate her mind.” To
which his wife would respond, agreeably, “I’m sure you know best, Mr.
Castleman.”

Every morning Sylvia would go with her father on his rounds to interview
the managers of the three plantations; the Major in his black broadcloth
frock-coat, a wide black hat and a white “bosom” shirt, riding horseback
with an umbrella over his head, and followed at a respectful distance by
his “boy” upon a mule. On these excursions Sylvia would recite the
multiplication table, and receive lessons in the history of her country,
from the point of view of its unreconstructed minority. Also she had
lessons on this subject from her great-aunt, who never paid one of her
numerous servants their small quarterly stipend that she did not
exclaim: “Oh, how I _hate_ the Yankees!”

I must not delay to introduce this great-aunt, who was Sylvia’s
monitress in the arts and graces of life, and left her on her death-bed
such a curious heritage of worldliness. Lady Dee was the last surviving
member of a younger branch of the line of the Lysles. She was not a real
countess, like her great ancestress; the name “Lady” had been given her
in baptism. Early in the last century she had come over the mountains in
a lumbering coach, with an escort of mounted riders, to marry the
Surveyor General of the Territory. She still had a picture of this
coach, along with innumerable other treasures in cedar chests in her
attic: fan-sticks of carved ivory, inlaid with gold; gold garter buckles
with wonderful enameling; old seals and silver snuff-boxes; rare jewels,
such as white topazes and red amethysts; and a whole trunkful of the
curious tiny silk parasols with which great ladies used to protect their
creamy complexions—no more than ten inches across, and with handles of
inlaid and carven ivory. When Sylvia was a little girl with two pigtails
hanging down her back, it was one of the joys of her life to explore
these treasures, and deck herself in faded ball costumes and chains of
jewels and gold.

Also, from Lady Dee she received contributions to her moral training;
not in set discourses, but incidentally and by allusions. Rummaging in
the cedar chests she once came upon a miniature which she had never seen
before; a lady in whom she recognized the eyes of the Lysles, and the
arrogance which all their portraits show. “Who is this, Aunt Lady?” she
asked; and the old gentlewoman frowned and answered, “We never speak of
her, my dear. She is the one woman who ever disgraced our name.”

Sylvia hesitated a long time before she spoke again. She had heard much
of family skeletons in the table-talk—but always other families. “What
did she do?” she asked, at last.

“She was married to three men,” was the reply.

Again Sylvia hesitated. “You mean,” she ventured—“you mean—at the same
time?”

Lady Dee stared. “No, my dear,” she said, gravely. “Her husbands died.”

“But—but—” began the other, timidly, groping to find her way in a
strange field of thought.

“If she had been a woman of delicacy,” pronounced Lady Dee, “she would
have been true to one love.” Then, after a pause, she added, solemnly,
“Remember this, my child. Think before you choose, for the women of our
family are like Sterne’s starling—when they have once entered their
cage, they never come out.”

It was Lady Dee who objected to the desultory nature of Sylvia’s
education, and began a campaign, as a result of which the Major sent her
off to a “college” at the age of thirteen. You must not be frightened by
this imposing statement, for it is easy to call yourself a “college” in
the South. Sylvia was away for three years, during which she really
studied, and acquired much more than the usual accomplishments of a
young lady.

She had an extraordinarily capable mind; serene and efficient, like
everything else about her. When I met her I was a woman of forty-five,
who a few years before had broken with my whole past, having discovered
the universe of knowledge. I had been like a starving person breaking
into a well-filled larder, and stuffing myself greedily and
promiscuously. I had taken upon myself the task of contending with other
people’s prejudices, and my rapture over Sylvia Castleman was partly the
realization that here was a woman—actually a woman—who had no prejudices
whatever. She wanted me to tell her all I knew; and it was a great
delight to expound to her a new set of ideas, and see her mind go from
point to point, leaping swiftly, laying hold of details, ordering,
comparing—above all, applying. That you may have a picture of this mind
in action, let me tell you what she did in her girlhood, all
unassisted—how she broke with the religion of her forefathers.


                                  § 4

That brings me to the Bishop, Basil Chilton, who had come into the
family by marriage to one of Sylvia’s aunts. At the time of his marriage
he had been a young Louisiana planter, handsome and fascinating. He had
met Nannie Castleman at a ball, and at four o’clock in the morning had
secured her promise to marry him before sunset. People said that he was
half drunk at the time, and this was probably a moderate estimate, for
he had been wholly drunk for a year or two afterwards. Then he had shot
a man in a brawl and, despite the fact that he was a gentleman, had
almost been punished for it. The peril had sobered him; a month or two
later, at a Methodist revival, he was converted, made a sensational
confession of his sins, and then, to the horror of his friends, became a
preacher of Methodism.

To the Castlemans this was a calamity—to Lady Dee a personal affront.
“Whoever heard of a gentleman who was a Methodist?” she demanded; and as
the convert had no precedents to cite, she quarreled with him and for
many years never spoke his name. Also it was hard upon Nannie
Castleman—who had entered her cage and had to stay! They had compromised
on the bargain that the children were to be brought up in her own faith,
which was Very High Church. So now the unhappy preacher, later Bishop,
sat in his study and wrote his sermons, while one by one his eleven
children came of age, and danced and gambled and drank themselves to
perdition in the very best form imaginable. When I met the family, the
last of the daughters, Caroline, was just making her _début_, and her
mother, nearly sixty, was the gayest dancer on the floor. It was the
joke of the county, how the family automobile would first take the
Bishop to prayer meeting, and then return to take the mother and the
children to a ball.

Basil Chilton looked like an old-world diplomat, as I had come to
conceive that personage from reading novels. He had the most charming
manners—the kind of manners which cannot be cultivated, but come from
nobility of soul. He was gentle and gracious even to servants; and yet
imposing, with his stately figure and smooth, ascetic face, lined by
care. He lived just a pony-ride from Castleman Hall, and almost every
morning during vacations Sylvia would stop and spend a little while with
him. People said that he loved her more than any of his own children.

So you can imagine what it meant when one day the girl said to him,
“Uncle Basil, I have something to tell you. I’ve been thinking about it,
and I’ve made up my mind that I don’t believe in either heaven or hell.”

Where had she got such an idea? She had certainly not learned it at the
“college,” for the institution was “denominational” and had no
text-books of later date than 1850. Somewhere she had found a volume of
Huxley’s “Lay Sermons,” but she had got nothing out of that, for the
Major had discovered her reading page three, and had solemnly consigned
the book to the flames. No, it was simply that she had been thinking for
herself.

The Bishop took it well. He did not try to frighten her, he did not even
show her his distress of mind. He told her that she was an angel, the
very soul of purity and goodness, and that God would surely lead her to
truth if only she kept herself humble. As Sylvia put it to me: “He knew
that I would come back, and I knew that I would never come back.”

And that was the situation between them to the very end—the bitter end.
He always believed that she would learn to see things as he saw them. He
died a year or so ago, the courtly old gentleman—consoled by the thought
that he was now to meet his God and Sylvia face to face, and hear the
former explain to the latter the difference between Divine Law and mere
human ideas of Justice.

The rest of the family were not so patient as the Bishop. To have a
heretic in the household was even worse than having a Methodist! Mrs.
Castleman, who agreed with the Bible as she agreed with everything, was
dumb with bewilderment; while the Major set to work to hunt out dusty
volumes from the attic. He read every word of Paley’s “Evidences” aloud
to his daughter, and some of Gladstone’s essays, and several other
books, the very names of which she forgot. You may smile at this
picture, but it was a serious matter to the Castlemans, who had based
their morality upon the fear of fire and brimstone and the weeping and
gnashing of teeth, and who kept Sylvia three months from school to
impress such images upon her imagination.

There were several religious sects represented in the county. These were
generally at war with one another, but they all made common cause in
this emergency, and committees of old ladies from the “Christians,” the
“hard-shell Baptists,” the “predestination Presbyterians,” would come to
condole with “Miss Margaret,” and would kneel down in the parlor with
Sylvia and pray for her salvation, shedding tears over the cream velour
upholstery of the hand-carved mahogany sofas. A distant cousin who was
“in orders,” a young gentleman of charming presence and special training
in dialectics, was called in to answer the arguments of this wayward
young lady, and stayed for three days, probing deeply into his patient’s
mind—not merely her theological beliefs, but the attitude to life which
underlay them. When he had finished he said to her, “My dear Sylvia, it
is my opinion that you are the most dangerous person in this county.”
She told me the story, and added, “I hadn’t the remotest idea what the
man meant!” But I answered her that he had been perfectly right. In
truth, he was a seer, that young clergyman!


                                  § 5

There was a general feeling that Sylvia had learned more than was good
for her; and so the family made inquiries, and selected the most
exclusive and expensive “finishing school” in New York, for the purpose
of putting a stop to her intellectual development. And so we come to the
beginning of Sylvia’s wordly career, and to the visit she paid to Lady
Dee—who now, at the age of ninety, felt herself failing rapidly, and
wished to leave to her great-niece her treasures of worldly counsel.

Lady Dee was one of those quaint figures you meet in the South, who go
to balls and parties when they are old enough to be sewing the
_layettes_ of their great-grandchildren. I have seen a picture of her at
the age of eighty-five, in a cerise-colored silk ball-gown with a lace
“bertha,” her white hair curled in front and done in a pile with a
coronet of diamonds. You must imagine her now, in an invalid’s chair
upon the gallery, but still with her hair dressed as of old; telling to
Sylvia tales of her own young ladyhood—and incidentally, with such
deftness that the girl never guessed her purpose, introducing
instruction in the strategy and tactics of the sex war.

Life was short, according to Lady Dee, and the future was uncertain. A
woman bloomed but once, and must make the most of that. To be the center
of events during her hour, that was life’s purpose; and to achieve it,
it was necessary to know how to hold men. Men were sometimes said to be
strange and difficult creatures, but in reality they were simple and
easily handled. The trouble was that most women went blindly at the
task, instead of availing themselves of the wisdom which their sex had
been storing up for ages, in the minds of such authorities as Lady Dee.

The old lady went on to expound the science of coquetry. I had read of
the sex game, as it is played in the _grand monde_, but I had never
supposed that the players were as conscious and deliberate as this
veteran expert. She even used the language of battle: “A woman’s shield,
my child, is her innocence; her sharpest weapon is her _naïveté_. The
way to disarm a man’s suspicions is to tell him what you’re doing to
him—then you’re sure he won’t believe it!”

She would go into minute details of these Amazonian arts: how to beguile
a man, how to promise to marry him without really promising, how to keep
him at the proper temperature by judicious applications of jealousy. Nor
was this sex war to stop after the wedding ceremony—when most women
foolishly laid down their weapons. A woman must sleep in her armor,
according to Lady Dee. She must never let her husband know how much she
loved him, she must make him think of her as something rare and
unattainable, she must keep him in a state where her smile was the
greatest thing in life to him. Said the old lady, gravely: “The women of
our family are famous for henpecking their husbands—they don’t even take
the trouble to hide it. I’ve heard your grandfather, the General, say
that it was all right for a man to be henpecked, if only it was by the
right hen.”

A training, you perceive, of a decidedly worldly character; and yet
there was nothing upon which Sylvia’s relatives laid more stress than
the preserving of what they called her “innocence.” There were wild
people in this part of the world—high-spirited and hot-tempered, hard
drinkers and fast livers; there were deeds of violence, and strange and
terrible tales that you might hear. But when these tales had anything to
do with sex, they were carefully kept from Sylvia’s ears. Only once had
this rule been broken—an occasion which made a great impression upon the
child. The daughter of one of the neighboring families had eloped, and
the dreadful rumor was whispered that she had traveled in a sleeping-car
with the man, and been married at the end of the journey, instead of at
the beginning.

And there was Uncle Mandeville, the youngest of the Major’s
brothers—half drunk, though Sylvia did not know it—pacing the veranda
and discussing the offending bridegroom. “He should have been shot!”
cried Mandeville. “The damned scoundrel, he should have been shot like a
dog!” And suddenly he paused before the startled child. He was a giant
of a man, and his voice had the power of a church-organ. He placed his
hands upon Sylvia’s shoulders, pronouncing in solemn tones, “Little
girl, I want you to know that I will protect the honor of the women of
our family with my life! Do you understand me, little girl?”

And Sylvia, awe-stricken, answered, “Yes, Uncle Mandeville.” The worthy
gentleman was so much moved by his own nobility and courage that the
tears stood in his eyes; he went on, melodramatically, “With my life!
With my life! And remember the boast of the Castlemans—that there was
never a man in our family who broke his word, nor a woman with a stain
upon her name!”

That had been in Sylvia’s childhood. But now she was a young lady, about
to start for the metropolis, and the family judged that the time had
come for her to be instructed in some of these delicate matters. There
had been consultations between her mother and aunts, in which the former
had been prodded on to the performing of one of the most difficult of
all maternal duties. Sylvia remembered the occasion vividly, for her
mother’s agitation was painful to witness; she led the girl solemnly
into a darkened room, and casting down her eyes, as if she were
confessing a crime, she said:

“My child, you will probably hear evil-minded girls talking of things of
which my little daughter has never heard. When these things are
discussed, I want you to withdraw quietly from the company. You should
remain away until vulgar topics have been dismissed from the
conversation. I want your promise to do this, my daughter.”

Her mother’s sense of shame had communicated itself to Sylvia. At first
she had been staring wonderingly, but now she cast down her own eyes.
She gave the desired promise; and that was all the education concerning
sex that she had during her girlhood. This experience determined her
attitude for many years—a mingling of shame and fear. The time had come
for her to face the facts of her own physical development, and she did
so with agony of soul, and in her ignorance came near to injuring her
bodily health.

Also, the talk had another consequence, over which Mrs. Castleman would
have been sorely distressed had she known it. Though the girl tried her
best, it was impossible for her to avoid hearing some of the “vulgar”
conversation of the very sophisticated young ladies at the “finishing
school.” In spite of herself, she learned something of what sex and
marriage meant—enough to make her flesh creep and her cheeks burn with
horror and disgust. It seemed to her that she could no longer bear to
meet and talk to men. When she came home for the Christmas holidays and
discovered that her mother was expecting a child, the thought of what
this meant filled her with shame for both her parents; she wondered how
they could expect a pure-minded girl to love them, when they had so
degraded themselves. So intense was this impression that it continued
over the Easter vacation, when she returned to find the house in
possession of the new heir of all the might, majesty and dominion of the
Lysles.


                                  § 6

Miss Abercrombie’s “finishing school” was located on Fifth Avenue,
immediately opposite—so the catalogue informed you—to the mansions of
the oldest Knickerbocker families. It was Miss Abercrombie’s boast that
she had married more than half her young ladies to millionaires, and she
took occasion to drop allusions to the subject to all whom it might
interest. She ran her establishment upon an ingenious plan, about half
her pupils being the daughters of Western buccaneers, who paid high
prices, and the other half being the daughters of Southern aristocrats,
accepted at reduced rates. So the young ladies from the West got the
“real thing” in refinement, and the young ladies from the South made
acquaintances whose brothers were “eligible.”

Sylvia had always had everything that she wanted, and was under the
impression that immense sums of money had been spent upon her
upbringing. But among these new associates she found herself in the
class of the poorest. She had never owned a dress which they would
consider expensive, whereas the dresses of these girls were trimmed with
real lace, and cost several hundreds of dollars each. It was a startling
experience to many of them to discover that a girl who had so few jewels
as Sylvia could be so haughty and self-possessed; which was, of course,
just what they had come for—to acquire that superiority to their wealth
which is the apex of culture in millionairedom.

So Sylvia became an uncrowned queen, and all the lumber princesses and
copper duchesses and railroad countesses vied in entertaining her. They
treated her to box-parties, where, duly chaperoned, they listened to
possibly indecent musical comedies; and to midnight feasts where they
imperiled their complexions with peanut butter and almond paste and
chocolate creams and stuffed olives and anchovies and crackers and
mustard pickles and fruit cake and sardines and plum pudding and sliced
ham and salted almonds—and what other delicacies might come along in
anybody’s boxes from home. To aid in the digestion of these “goodies”
Sylvia was taken out twice daily, and marched in a little private parade
up Fifth Avenue, wearing a hat so large that all her attention was
required to keep it on in windy weather, and so heavy that it made her
head ache if the air were still; a collar so high that she could not
bend her head to balance the hat; high-heeled shoes upon which she
toddled with her feet crowded down upon the toes; and a corset laced so
tight that her lower ribs were bent out of shape and her liver
endangered. About the highest testimony that I can give to the
altogether superhuman wonderfulness of Sylvia is that she stayed for two
years at Miss Abercrombie’s, and came home a picture of radiant health,
eager, joyous—and lovely as the pearly tints of dawn.

She came home to prepare for her _début_; and what an outfit she
brought! You may picture her unfolding the treasures in her big bedroom,
which had been freshly done over in pink silk; her mother and aunts and
cousins bending over the trays, and the negro servants hovering in the
doorway, breathless with excitement, while the “yard-man” came panting
up the stairs with new trunks. Such an array of hats and gowns and
_lingerie_, gloves and fans, ribbons and laces, silk hose and satin
slippers, beads and buckles! The “yard-man,” a negro freshly promoted
from the corn-fields, went down into the kitchen with shining eyes,
exclaiming, “I allus said dis house was heaven, and now I knows it,
’cause I seen dem ‘golden slippers’!”

It was not a time for a girl to do much philosophizing; but Sylvia knew
that these “creations” of Paris dressmakers had cost frightful sums of
money, and she wondered vaguely why the family had insisted upon them.
She had heard rumors of a poor crop last year, and of worries about some
notes. Glad as the Major was to see her, she thought that he looked
careworn and tired.

“Papa,” she said, “I’ve been spending an awful lot of money.”

“Yes, honey,” he answered.

“I hope you don’t think I have been extravagant, Papa.”

“No, no, honey.”

“I tried to economize, but you’ve no idea how things cost in New York,
and how those girls spend money. My clothes—Mamma and Aunt Nannie
_would_ have me buy them——”

“It’s all right, my child—you have only one springtime, you know.”

Sylvia paused a moment. “I feel as if I ought to marry a very rich man,
after all the money you’ve spent upon me.”

Whereat the Major looked grave. “Sylvia,” he said, “I don’t want any
daughter of mine to feel that she has to marry. I shall always be able
to support my children, I hope.”

This was noble, and Sylvia was grateful for it; but with that serene,
observing mind of hers she could not help noting that if her father by
any chance called her attention to some man of her acquaintance, it was
invariably a “marriageable” man; and always there was added some detail
as to the man’s possessions. “Billy Harding’s a fellow with a future
before him,” he would remark. “He’s one of the cleverest business men I
know.”

Sylvia was also impressed with a comical phrase of her mother’s, which
seemed to indicate that that good lady classified poverty with smallpox
and diphtheria. The Major had suggested inviting to supper a young
medical student who was honest but penniless; and “Miss Margaret”
replied, “I really cannot see what we have to gain by exposing our
daughters to an undesirable marriage.” Sylvia concluded that her family
pinned its faith to the maxim of Tennyson’s “Northern Farmer”—

“Doän’t thou marry for munny, but goä wheer munny is!”


                                  § 7

You must have a glimpse of Castleman Hall as it was at the time of the
_début_. The old house stands upon a hill, terraced on one side, and
overlooking the river from a high bluff on the other. It is of red
brick, originally square, with a two-storied portico and hanging balcony
in front; later on there had been added two wings of white painted wood,
for the library and conservatory—now nearly covered with red roses and
Virginia creepers. On the afternoon of the great day there was a
reception to all the married friends of the family. They came in
conveyances of every kind, from family coaches to modern high-power
limousines; they came in costumes varying from the latest Paris modes to
the antebellum splendor of old Mrs. Tagliaferro, who hobbled cautiously
over the polished hardwood floors, with the help of her gold-headed cane
on one side, and her husband, the General, on the other. Once arrived,
she laid her hands upon Sylvia’s, and told her how pretty she was, and
how she must contribute a new stone to the archway through which the
Castlemans had marched to fame for so many generations. There had been
many famous Castleman beauties, quavered the old gentleman, in his turn,
but none more beautiful than the present one—save only, perhaps, her
mother. (This last as “Miss Margaret” appeared at his elbow, clad in
ample folds of gray satin and tulle.) So one by one ladies and gentlemen
came up and delivered gallant speeches and grave exhortations, until
Sylvia was overwhelmed with the sense of responsibility involved in
being a daughter of the Castlemans.

And then came the evening, with the _début_ dance for the young people.
Ten years later I saw Sylvia in the gown she wore: white chiffon over
white messaline, with roses and a string of pearls. Wonderful she must
have been that night, at the age of eighteen, the climax of her beauty;
eager, glowing, a-quiver with excitement. I picture her standing before
the mirror, childishly ravished by her own loveliness, her mother and
aunts, scarcely less excited, putting the final touches to her toilette.
I picture her girl friends in the dressing-room and the hall, gossiping,
chattering, laughing; the buzz of excitement, then the hush when she
appeared, the cries of congratulation and applause. I picture the
downstairs rooms, decorated with lilies, magnolias and white ribbons,
the furniture covered with white brocade, the chandeliers turned into
great bells of lilies, the soft light from white-shaded candles flooding
everything. I picture the swains, waiting eagerly at the foot of the
staircase, each with a bouquet for his chosen one in his hand. I can
hear the strains of the violins floating up the staircase, and see the
shimmering form of Sylvia floating down, crowned with her dazzling glory
of golden hair. There was no one in Castleman County who failed to
realize that a belle was born that night!


                                  § 8

It was just a week after these festivities that there occurred the death
of Sylvia’s great-aunt. Nothing could have been more characteristic than
the method of her departure. She left home and betook herself to an
aristocratic boarding-house, kept by a “decayed gentlewoman” in New
Orleans; she might be a long time a-dying, she said, and did not want
anybody making a fuss over her. Also she did not care to have her nieces
and nephews calling in to drop hints as to the disposition of her
rosewood bedroom set, her miniature piano and her Queen Anne baby’s
crib. She left a will in which she bequeathed her property to her
grand-niece, Sylvia Castleman, to be held in trust for her until she was
forty years of age. “Some man will take care of her while she is
beautiful,” she wrote, “but later on she may find use for my pittance.”
And finally the old lady put in a clause to the effect that the bequest
was conditional upon her grand-niece’s obeying her injunction to wear no
mourning for her. “It is impossible to make a woman with brown eyes look
presentable in black,” she wrote. And this, you understand, in a
document which had to be filed for probate! Most fortunate it was that
all the editors of newspapers in the South are gentlemen, who can be
relied upon not to print the news.

Sylvia obeyed the instructions of this extraordinary document, and felt
it a solemn duty to go to entertainments, even with tears in her eyes.
So now began a bewildering succession of dinners, dances and receptions,
balls and suppers, house parties, hunting parties, auto parties, theatre
parties. It speaks marvels for her constitution that she was able to
stand the strain. When the last light had been extinguished she would
drag herself upstairs to bed, a limp train hung over her limp arm, her
feet aching in the tiny slippers and her back aching in the cruel stays.
The Governor saw fit to appoint her as his “sponsor” at the state
militia encampment; and so for ten days she would rise every morning at
daybreak, ride out with an “escort” to witness guard-mount, and remain
in the midst of a rush of gaieties until three or four o’clock the next
morning, when the nightly dance came to an end.

Sylvia always refused to give photographs of herself to men. It was part
of her feeling about them that she could not endure the thought of her
image being in their rooms. But her enterprising Aunt Nannie, the
Bishop’s wife, presented one to the editor of a metropolitan magazine,
where it appeared under the heading of “A Reigning Beauty of the New
South.” It was taken up and reproduced in Southern papers, and after
that Sylvia found that her fame had preceded her—everywhere she went new
worshippers joined her train, and came to her hometown to lay siege to
her.

You may perhaps know something about these Southern men. I had never
dreamed of such, and I would listen spellbound for hours to Sylvia’s
tales of them. Men who, as Lady Dee had phrased it, had nothing to do
but make love to their women! There were times when the realization of
this brought me a shudder. I would see, in a sudden vision, the torment
of a race of creatures who were doomed to spend their whole existence in
the chase of their females; and the females devoting their energies to
stinging them to fresh frenzies!

The men liked it; they liked nothing else in the world so much. “You may
make me as unhappy as you please,” they would tell Sylvia—“if only you
will let me love you!” And Sylvia, in the course of time, became
reconciled to letting them love her. She learned to play the game—to
play it with constantly increasing excitement, with a love of mischief
and a thirst for triumph.

She would show her latest victim twenty moods in one evening, alluring
him, repelling him, stimulating him, scorning him, pitying him,
bewildering him. When they met again, she would be completely absorbed
in the conversation of another man. He would be reduced at last to
begging for a chance to talk seriously with her; and she, pretending to
be touched, might let him call, and show him her loveliest and most
sympathetic self. So, before he realized it, he would be caught fast. If
he happened to be especially conspicuous, or especially rich, or
especially otherwise worth while, she might take the trouble to goad him
to desperation. Then he would be ready to give proofs of his devotion—to
go through West Point, or to be made a judge, if only she would promise
to marry him. Each of these tasks she set to an unfortunate wretch, who
went off and performed it—and came back and found her married!


                                  § 9

Such were the customs of young ladies in Sylvia’s world; but I must not
fail to mention that she had sometimes the courage to set her face
against this “world.” For instance, she had a prejudice against
drunkenness. She stood fast by the bold precedent that she would never
permit an intoxicated person to dance with her; and terrible
humiliations she put upon two or three who outraged her dignity. They
hid in their rooms in an agony of remorse, and sent deputations of their
friends to plead for pardon, and went away from home and stayed for
months, until Sylvia consented to take them into her favor again.

She took her place upon the icy heights of her maidenhood, and was not
to be drawn therefrom. There were only two men in the world, outside of
fathers and uncles and cousins, who could boast that they had ever
kissed her. About both of these I shall tell you in the course of time.
She was famous among other men for her reserve—they would make wagers
and lay siege to her for months, but no one ever dared to claim that he
had secured his kiss.

With boyish frankness they would tell her of these things; they told her
all they thought about her. I have never heard of men who dealt so
frankly in personalities, who would discuss a woman and her various
“points” so openly to her face. “Miss Sylvia, you look like all your
roses to-night.”—“Miss Sylvia, I swear you’ve got the loveliest eyes in
the world!”—“You’ll be fading soon now; you’d better marry while you’ve
got a chance!”—“I came to see if you were as pretty as they say, Miss
Castleman!”

She would laugh merrily. “Are you disappointed? Don’t you find me
ado’able?”

So far I have made no attempt to give you an idea of Sylvia’s way of
speaking English. It was a drawl so charming that Miss Abercrombie had
given instructions not to mar it by rash corrections. I can only mention
a few of her words—which is as if I gave you single hairs out of her
golden glory. She always spoke of “cannles.” She could, of course, make
nothing of the letter r, and said “funnichuh” and “que-ah” and “befo-ah
mawnin’.” There had been an English heiress at Miss Abercrombie’s who
had won the whole school over to “gel,” but when Sylvia arrived, she
swept the floor with “go-il.” The most irresistible word of all I
thought was “bug;” there is no way to indicate this by spelling—you must
simply take three times as long to say it, lingering over the vowel
sound, caressing it as if you thought that “bu-u-u-gs” were the most
“ado’able” things in all the “wo’il.”

Sylvia learned to apply with deadly effect the maxim of Lady Dee—that a
woman’s sharpest weapon is her _naïveté_. “Beware of me!” she would warn
her helpless victims. “Haven’t you heard that I’m a coquette? No, I’m
not joking. It’s something I’m bitterly ashamed of, but I can’t help it;
I’m a cold-hearted, selfish creature, a deliberate breaker of hearts.”
And then, of course, the victim would thrill with excitement and
exclaim, “See what you can do to me, Miss Sylvia! I’ll send you armfuls
of roses if you can break my heart!” You may judge how these
competitions ended from a chance remark which Sylvia made to me—“When I
look back upon my life, it seems to me that I waded in a river of
roses.”

The only protection which nature has vouchsafed against these terrors is
the fact that sooner or later such cold and cruel huntresses themselves
get snared. In the simile of “Sterne’s starling,” they are lured up to a
certain cage, and after much hopping about and hesitating, much
advancing and retreating, much chattering and chirping, they adorn
themselves in satin robes and lace veils and lilies-of-the-valley, and
to the sound of sweet strains from “Lohengrin” they enter the golden
cage. And then, snap! the door is shut and locked fast, and the
proprietor of the cage mounts guard over it—in Sylvia’s part of the
world with a shotgun in his hands.


                                  § 10

So I come to the time when this haughty lady was humbled; that is to
say, the time of her meeting with Frank Shirley. Because it was through
Harriet Atkinson that she came to know him, I must first tell you in a
few words about that active and pushing young lady.

Harriet Atkinson was the one weak spot in the fortifications of
respectability which Sylvia’s parents had built up about her. Harriet’s
ancestors were Yankees, of the very most odious “carpet-bag” type. Her
grandfather had been a pawnbroker in Boston, so fierce rumor declared;
and her father was a street-railroad president, who purchased “red-neck”
legislators for use in his business. Harriet herself was a brunette
beauty, so highly colored that she looked artificial, no matter how hard
she tried to look natural.

But in spite of these appalling facts, Harriet Atkinson was the most
intelligent girl whom Sylvia had met during her three years at the
“college.” She had a wit that was irresistible, and also she understood
people. You might spend weeks in her company and never be bored; whereas
there were persons who could prove possession of the “very best blood in
the South,” but who were capable of boring you most frightfully when
they got you alone for half an hour.

Sylvia was never allowed to go to Harriet’s home, nor was Harriet ever
asked to Castleman Hall. But Sylvia refused to give up her friend, and
for a year she intrigued incessantly to force Harriet upon her
hostesses, and to persuade her own suitors to call at the Atkinson home.
In the end she married her off to the scion of a great family—with
consequences which are to be told at a later stage of my story. The
point for the present is that things happened exactly as Sylvia’s aunts
had predicted; through her intimacy with the undesirable Harriet
Atkinson she was “exposed” to the acquaintance of several undesirable
men, among them Frank Shirley.

Sylvia had known about the Shirleys from earliest childhood. She had
heard the topic talked about at the family dinner-table, and had seen
tears in her father’s eyes when the final tragedy came. For the Shirleys
were among the “best people,” and this was not the kind of thing which
was allowed to happen to such.

About twelve years previously the legislature had appropriated money for
the building of a veterans’ home, and the funds had been entrusted to a
committee, of which Robert Shirley was treasurer. The project had lapsed
for a couple of years, and when the money was called for, Robert Shirley
was unable to produce it. Rumors leaked out, and there came a demand in
the legislature for an accounting.

The Major was one of a committee of friends who were asked by the
Governor to make a private investigation. They found that Shirley had
deposited the money to his private bank account, after the
unbusinesslike methods of a Southern gentleman. Checks had been drawn
upon it; but there was evidence at the bank tending to show that the
checks might not have been signed by Shirley himself. He had a younger
brother, a spendthrift and gambler, whom he had indulged and protected
all his life. Such were the hints which Sylvia had heard at home—when
suddenly Robert Shirley proceeded to the state Capitol and requested the
Governor to stop the investigation, declaring that he alone was to
blame.

It was a terrible thing. Shirley was besought to fly, he was told by the
Governor’s own authority that he might live anywhere outside the state,
and the search for him would be nominal. But he stood fast; the money
was gone, and some one must pay the penalty. So the world saw the
unprecedented spectacle of a man of “good family” standing trial, and
receiving a sentence of five years in the penitentiary.

He left a broken-hearted wife and four children. Sylvia remembered the
horror with which her mother and her aunts had contemplated the fate of
these latter. Two girls, soon to become young ladies, and cut off from
all hope of a future! “But, Mamma,” Sylvia cried, “it isn’t _their_
fault!” She recollected the very tone of her mother’s voice, the dying
away to a horrified whisper at the end: “My child, their father _wore
stripes_!”

The Shirleys made no attempt to hold up their heads against the storm,
but withdrew into strict seclusion on their plantation. Now, ten years
later, Robert Shirley having died in prison, his widow was a pitiful
shadow, his daughters were hopeless old maids, and his two sons were
farmers, staying at home and acting as their own managers.

Of these, Frank Shirley was the elder. I am handicapped in setting out
to tell you about him by the fact that he sits in the next room, and
will have to read what I write; he is not a man to stand for any
nonsense about himself—nor yet one whose ridicule an amateur author
would wish to face. I will content myself with stating simple facts,
which he cannot deny; for example, that he is a man a trifle below the
average height, but sturdily built and exceedingly powerful. He had in
those days dark hair and eyes, and he would not claim to have been
especially bad-looking. He is the most reserved man I have ever known,
but his feelings are intense when they are roused, and on these rare
occasions he is capable of being eloquent. He is, in general, a very
solid and dependable kind of man; he does not ask anything of anybody,
but he is willing to give, cautiously, after he has made sure that his
motive will be understood. As I read that over, it seems to me a
judicious and entirely unsentimental statement about him, which he will
have to pass.

He was, he tells me, a lively boy; but after the age of eleven he always
had, as the most prominent fact in his consciousness, the knowledge that
men set him apart as something different from themselves. And this, of
course, made intercourse with them difficult; if they were indifferent
to him, that was insult, and if they were cordial, then they were taking
pity upon him. He always knew that the people who met him, however
politely they greeted him, were repeating behind his back the inevitable
whisper, “His father wore stripes!” So naturally he found it pleasanter
not to meet people.

Then, too, there were his mother and sisters; it was hard not to be
bitter about them. He knew that the girls were gentle and lovely; and it
rather made men seem cowardly, that it should be certain that no one in
their own social world would ever ask them in marriage. There is so much
asking in marriage in the South—it is really difficult for a gentlewoman
to be passed over altogether. The Shirley girls could not discuss this,
even in the bosom of their family; but Frank came to understand, and to
brood over the thing in secret.


                                  § 11

So you see Frank Shirley was a difficult man to get at—as much so as if
he had been an emperor or an anchorite. I have been interested in the
psychology of sex, and I wondered how much this aloofness had to do with
what happened to Sylvia. There were so many men, and they were all so
much alike, and they were all so easy! But here was a man who was
different; a man whom one could not get at without humiliating efforts;
a man of mystery, about whom one could imagine things! I asked Sylvia,
who thought there might be something in this; but much more in a deeper
fact, which is known to poets and tellers of love-tales, but has not
been sufficiently heeded by scientists—that intuitive, commanding and
sometimes terrifying revelation of sexual affinity, which we smile at
and discredit under the name of “love at first sight.” The first time
Sylvia met Frank she did not know who he was; she saw at first only his
back; and yet she began at once to experience a thrill which she had
never known in her life before. Absurd as they may sound, I will repeat
her words: “There was something about the back of his neck that took my
breath!”

It had been some years since she had heard the Shirleys mentioned. They
had quietly declined all invitations, and this made it easy for
everybody to do with decency what everybody wanted to do—to cease
sending invitations. The Shirley plantation was remotely located, some
twenty miles away from Castleman Hall; and so little by little the
family had been forgotten.

But there was a certain Mrs. Venable, a young widow who owned a
hunting-lodge near the Shirley place; and as fate would have it, she was
one of the people whom Sylvia had persuaded to take up Harriet Atkinson.
One day, as the latter was driving to the lodge in her automobile, she
was “mired” in the midst of a terrific thunderstorm, when along came a
gentleman on horseback, who politely insisted upon her taking his
waterproof, and then mounting behind him and riding to his home up on
the hill; by which romantic method the delighted Harriet found herself
conveyed to an old and evidently aristocratic homestead, and welcomed by
some altogether lovely people.

Being younger than Sylvia, and not so much on the “inside” as to local
history, Harriet had been obliged to get the story from Mrs. Venable. It
had heightened her interest in the Shirleys—for Harriet’s great merit
was that she was human and spontaneous where she should have been
respectable. She went to call again on the family, and when she got home
she made haste to tell Sylvia about it. “Sunny,” she said—that was her
way of taking liberties with Sylvia’s complexion—“you ought to meet that
man Frank Shirley.” She went on to tell how good-looking he was, how
silent and mysterious, and what a fine voice he had. “And the sweetest,
lazy smile!” she declared. “I’m sure he could be a lady-killer if he did
not take life so seriously!” So, you see, Sylvia had something to start
her imagination going, and a reason for accepting Mrs. Venable’s
invitation to a hunting party.

One sunshiny morning in the late fall she was taking part in a
deer-hunt, carrying a rifle and looking as picturesque as possible. They
put her on a “stand” with Charlie Peyton, who ought to have been at
college, but was hanging round making a nuisance of himself by sighing
and gazing. After waiting a half hour or so, off in the woods they heard
a dog yelping. Charlie went off to investigate, thinking it might be a
bear; and so Sylvia was left to her fate.

She heard a sound in the bushes at one side, and thought it was a deer.
The creature moved past her, hidden by a dense thicket, and passed a
little way ahead, with a heavy trampling sound. She had half raised her
gun, when suddenly the bushes parted, and with a leap over a fallen log
there came into view—not a deer, but a horse with a rider upon his back.

The girl lowered her gun. The dog yelped again and the man reined up his
horse and stood listening. The horse was restive; as he drew rein upon
it, it turned slightly, exhibiting the rider’s face. To the outward eye
he was a not unusual figure, wearing the khaki shirt and knickerbockers
affected by the younger generation of planters when on duty. The shirt
was open, with a red bandana handkerchief tucked round at the throat.

But Sylvia was not looking with the outward eye. Sylvia had been reading
romances, and had a vague idea of a lover who would some day appear,
being distinguished from the ordinary admirers of salons and ball-rooms
by something knightly in his aspect. And this man seemed to have that
something. His face was a face of power, yet not harsh, rather with a
touch of melancholy.

As a rule Sylvia was immediately observant of her own emotional states,
especially where men were concerned; but this once she was too much
interested to think what she was thinking. She was noting the man’s
deeply-shadowed eyes and shiny black hair, his statue-like figure and
his mastery of the horse. She wondered if he would look in her
direction, and she waited, fascinated, for the moment when his glance
would rest upon her.

The moment came. He started slightly, and then quickly his hand went up
to his hat. “I beg your pardon,” he said, politely.

Sylvia noted his deep, full-toned voice; and with a sudden thrill she
recollected Harriet’s adventure. “Can this be Frank Shirley?” she
thought. She caught herself together and smiled. “It is for me to beg
pardon,” she said. “I came near shooting at you.”

“I deserved it,” he answered, smiling in turn. “I was trespassing on my
neighbor’s land.”

Sylvia had by now been “out” a full year, and it must be admitted that
she was a sophisticated young lady. When she met a man, her thought was:
“Could I love him? And how would it be if I married him?” Her
imagination would leap ahead through a long series of scenes: the man’s
home, his relatives and her own, his occupations, his amusements, his
ideas. She would see herself traveling with him, driving with him,
presiding at dinner-parties for him—perhaps helping to get him sober the
next morning. As a drowning man is said to live over his whole past in a
few seconds, so Sylvia might live her whole future during a figure at a
“german.”

But with this man it was different. She could not imagine him in any
position in her world. He was an elemental creature, belonging in some
wild place, where there was danger to be faced and deeds to be done.
Sylvia had read “Paul and Virginia,” and “Robinson Crusoe,” and “Typee,”
and in her mind was a vague idea of a primitive, close-to-nature life,
which one yearned for when one was tightly laced, or was sent into the
parlor to entertain an old friend of the family. She imagined this
strange knight springing forward and lifting her upon his saddle-bow, to
bear her away to such a world. She could feel his powerful arms about
her, his whispered words in her ear; she could hear the clatter of his
horse’s hoofs—away, away!

She had to make another effort, and remember who she was. “You are not
lost, I suppose?” he was asking.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I am on a ‘stand.’”

“Of course,” he replied; again there was a pause, and again Sylvia’s
brain went whirling. It was absurd how the beating of her heart kept
translating itself into the clatter of horse’s hoofs.

The man turned for a moment to listen to the dog; and she stole another
look at him. His eyes came back and caught her glance. She absolutely
had to say something—instantly, to save the situation. “I—I am not
alone,” she stammered. Oh, how dreadful—that she, Sylvia Castleman,
should stumble over words!

“My escort has gone to look for the dog,” she added. “He will be back in
a moment.”

“Oh,” he said; and Sylvia noted a sudden change in his expression—a set,
repressed look. She saw the blood mounting slowly, until it colored his
cheeks to a crimson.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, coldly. “Good-morning.” He turned his
horse and started on his way.

He had taken her words as a dismissal. But that was the least part of
the mistake. Sylvia read his mind in a flash—he was Frank Shirley, and
he thought that she had recognized him, and was thinking of his father
who had worn stripes! Yes, surely it must be that—for what right had he
to be hurt otherwise—that she did not care to stand conversing with a
strange man in a forest?

The thought sent her into a panic. She thought of nothing but the
cruelty of that idea. “No, no!” she cried, the tears almost starting
into her eyes. “I did not mean to send you away at all!”

He turned, startled by her vehemence. For a moment or two they stood
staring at each other. The girl had this one swift thought: “How
dreadful it must be to have such a thing in your mind, to have to be
waiting for insults from people—or at best, for pity!”

Then, in his quiet voice, he said, “I really think I had better go.”
Again he turned his horse, and without another glance rode away, leaving
Sylvia staring at his vanishing figure, with her hands tightly clutching
her gun.


                                  § 12

After that Sylvia felt that she had in common decency to meet Frank
Shirley. She asked nothing more about her motives—she simply _had_ to
meet him, to remove one thought from his mind. But for two days she was
at her wit’s end, and went round bored to death by everything and
everybody. She had a sudden whim to be let alone; and how difficult it
is to be let alone at a house party! There was the everlasting Charlie
Peyton, looking at her out of sickly blue eyes, and forever trying to
get hold of her hand; there was Billy Aldrich, with his sybaritic silk
socks, his shiny finger nails and talcum-powdered face; there was
Malcolm McCallum, a dandy from Louisville, with his endless stream of
impeccable suits and his caravan of trunks; there was Harvey Richards, a
“steel-man” from Birmingham, who had thrown his business to the winds
and settled down to the task of boring Sylvia. He was big and burly, and
had become the special favorite of her family; he dandled the baby
brother and made fudge with the sisters—but Sylvia declared viciously
that his idea of love-making was to poke at her with his finger.

She took to getting up very early in the morning, so that she could go
riding alone. As there was but one road, it was not her fault if she
passed near the Shirley place. And if by any remote chance he were to be
out riding too——

It was the third morning that she met him. He came round a turn, and it
all happened in a flash, before she had time to think. He gave her the
stiffest greeting that was consistent with good breeding; and then he
was past. Of course she could not look back. It was ten chances to one
that he would not do the same, but still he might, and that would be
dreadful.

She went on. She was angry with herself for her stupidity. That she
should have met him thus, and had no better wit than to let him get by!
Theoretically, of course, ladies cannot stop gentlemen to whom they have
not been introduced; but there are always things that can happen, in
cases of emergency like this. She thought of plans, and then she fell
into a rage with herself for thus pursuing a man.

The next morning when she went riding, she forced herself to turn the
horse’s head in the other direction from the Shirley place. But her
thoughts would come back to Frank, and presently she was making excuses
for herself. This man was not as other men; if he avoided her, it was
not because he did not want to know her, but because of his misfortune.
It was wicked that a man should be tied up in such a net of
misapprehension; to get him out of it would be, not unmaidenly, but
heroic. When she had met him yesterday morning, she ought to have
stopped her horse, and made him stay and talk with her. She was to leave
in two days more!

She turned her horse and went back; and when she was near the Shirley
house—here he came!

She saw him far down the road, and so had plenty of time to get her wits
together. Had he, by any chance, come out in the hope of meeting her? Or
would he be annoyed by her getting in his way? Suppose he were to snub
her—how could she ever get over it?

She took a diamond ring from her finger, and reached back and shoved it
under the saddle-cloth. It was a “marquise” ring, with sharp points, and
when she threw her weight upon it, the horse gave a jump. She repeated
the action, and it began to prance. “Now then!” whispered Sylvia to
herself.


                                  § 13

He came near; and she reined up her chafing steed. “I beg pardon,” she
said.

He raised his hat, and holding it, looked at her inquiringly.

“I think my horse must have a stone in his foot.”

“Oh!” he said, and was off in a moment, throwing the reins of his mount
over its head and handing them to her.

“Which foot?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

He bent down and examined one hoof, then another, and so on for all
four, without a word. Then, straightening up, he said, “I don’t see
anything.”

He looked very serious and concerned. How “easy” he would be! “There
really must be something,” she said. “He’s all in a lather.”

“There might be something deep in,” he answered, making his
investigation all over again. “But I don’t see any blood.” (What a fine
back he has! thought Sylvia.)

He stood up. “Let me see his mouth,” he said. “Are you sure you’ve not
held him too tight?”

“I am used to horses,” was her reply.

“Some of them have peculiarities,” he remarked. “Possibly the saddle has
rubbed——”

“No, no,” answered Sylvia, in haste, as he made a move to lift the
cloth.

It was always hard for her to keep from laughing for long; and there was
something so comical in his gravity. Then too, something desperate must
be done, for presently he would mount and ride away. “There’s surely no
stone in his foot,” he declared.

Whereat Sylvia broke into one of her radiant smiles. “Perhaps,” she
said, “it’s in _your_ horse’s foot!”

He looked puzzled.

“Don’t you see?” she laughed. “Something _must_ be wrong—or you couldn’t
be here talking to me!”

But he still looked bewildered. “Dear me, what a man!” thought she.

A color was beginning to mount in his cheeks. Perhaps he was going to be
offended! Clearly, with such a man one’s cue was frankness. So her tone
changed suddenly. “Are you Mr. Shirley?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“And do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Miss Castleman.”

“Our families are old friends, you know.”

“Yes, I know it.”

“And then, tell me—” She paused. “Honestly!”

“Why—yes.”

“I’ve been honest and told you—I’m not really worried about my horse.
Now you be honest and say why you rode out this morning.”

He waited before replying, studying her face—not boldly, but gravely. “I
think, Miss Castleman, that it would be better if I did not.”

Then it was Sylvia’s turn to study. Was it a rebuke? Had he not come out
on her account at all? Or was it still the ghost of his father’s
prison-suit?

He did not help her with another word. (I can hear Frank’s laugh as he
told me about this episode. “We silent fellows have such an advantage!
We just wait and let people imagine things!”)

Sylvia’s voice fell low. “Mr. Shirley, you have me at a great
disadvantage.” And as she said this she gazed at him with the wonderful
red-brown eyes, wide open, childlike. So far there had never been a man
who could resist the spell of those eyes. Would this man be able? The
busy little brain behind them was watching every sign.

“I don’t understand,” he replied; and she took up the words:

“It is _I_ who don’t understand. And I dare not ask you to explain!”

She was terrified at this temerity; and yet she must press on—there was
no other way. She saw gates opening before her—gates into wonderland!

She leaned forward with a little gesture of abandonment. “Listen, Frank
Shirley!” she said. (What a masterstroke was that!) “I have known about
you since I was a little girl. And I understand the way things are now,
because I am a friend of Miss Atkinson’s. She asked you to come over and
meet me, and you didn’t. Now if the reason was that you have no interest
in me—why then I’m annoying you, and I’m behaving outrageously, and I’m
preparing humiliation for myself. But if the reason is that you think I
wouldn’t meet you fairly—that I wouldn’t judge you as I would any other
man—why, don’t you see, that would be cruel, that would be wicked! If
you were afraid that I wanted to—to patronize you—to do good to you——”

She stopped. Surely she had said enough!

There was a long silence, while he gazed at her—reading her very soul,
she feared. “Suppose, Miss Castleman,” he said, at last, “that I was
afraid that you wanted to do _harm_ to me?”

That was getting near to what she wanted! “Are you afraid?” she asked.

“Possibly I am,” he replied. “It is easy for those who have never
suffered to preach to those who have never done anything else.”

Sylvia did not know quite how to meet that. It was so much more serious
than she had been looking for, when she had slipped that ring under the
saddle-cloth! “Oh,” she cried, “what shall I say to you?”

“I will tell you exactly,” he said, “and then neither of us will be
taking advantage of the other. You are offering me your friendship, are
you not?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, can you say to me that if I were to accept it, the shame of
my family would never make any difference to you?”

She cried instantly, “That is what I’ve been trying to tell you! Of
course it would not.”

“You can say that?” he persisted. “It would make no difference
whatever?”

She was about to answer again; but he stopped her. “Wait and think. You
must know just what I mean. It is not a thing about which I could endure
a mistake. Think of your family—your friends—your whole world! And think
of everything that might arise between us!”

She stared at him, startled. He was asking if he might make love to her!
She had not meant it to go so far as that—but there it was. Her own
recklessness, and his forthrightness, had brought it to that point. And
what could she say?

“Think!” he was saying. “And don’t try to evade—don’t lie to me. Answer
me the truth!”

His eyes held hers. She waited—thinking, as he forced her to. At last,
when she spoke, it was with a slightly trembling voice. “It would make
no difference,” she said.

And then she tried to continue looking at him, but she could not. She
was blushing; it was a dreadful habit she had!

It was an absolutely intolerable situation, and she must do
something—instantly. _He_ never would—the dreadful sphinx of a man! She
looked up. “Now we’re friends?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Then,” she said, laughing, “reach under the saddle-cloth and get out my
ring. I might lose it.”

Bewildered, he got the ring, and understanding at last, laughed with
her. “And now,” cried Sylvia, in her friendliest tone of voice, “get on
your horse again and behave like a man of enterprise! Come!” She touched
her mount and went galloping; she heard him pounding away behind her,
and she began to sing:

                “Waken, lords and ladies gay,
                On the mountain dawns the day,
                All the jolly chase is near
                With hawk and hound and hunting-spear!”


                                  § 14

They were good comrades now; all their problems solved, and a
stirrup-cup of happiness to quaff between them. Sylvia was amazed at
herself—the surge of exultation which arose in her and swept her along
upon its crest. Never in all her life had she been as full of verve and
animation as she was throughout that ride. She laughed, she sang, she
poured out a stream of fantasy; and all the while the clatter of the
horses hoofs—romance blending itself with reality!

But also she was studying the man. There was something in her which must
always be studying people. Thank Heaven, he was a man who could forget
himself, and laugh and be good fun! It was something to have got him out
of his melancholy, and set him to galloping here—admiring her, marveling
at her! She felt his admiration like a storm of wind pushing her along.

At last she drew up, breathless. “Dear me,” she exclaimed, “what a lot
of chattering I have done! And we must be—how many miles from home?”

“Ten, I should say,” he replied.

“And I’ve had no breakfast!” she said. “We really _must_ go back.”

He made no objection, and they turned. “You must come and see me at the
lodge,” she said. “I am going home to-morrow afternoon.”

But he shook his head. “Don’t ask me,” he replied. “You know I don’t
belong among smart people.”

She started to protest; but then she thought of Billy Aldrich with his
tight collars and fancy stick-pins—of Malcolm McCallum with his Japanese
valet; no, there was no use pretending about such things. And besides,
she did not want these people to know her secret.

“But where can we meet?” she said. (How perfectly appalling was
that—without any hint from him!)

“Can’t we ride again to-morrow morning?” he asked, quite simply.

And so they settled it. He left her at the place where the road turned
in to the lodge. He tried to thank her for what she had taken the
trouble to do; but she was frightened now—she dared not stay and listen
any longer to his voice. She waved him a bright farewell, and rode off,
feeling suddenly faint and bewildered.

She had half a mile or so to ride alone, and in that ride it was exactly
as if he were by her side. She still heard his horse’s hoofs, and felt
how he would look if she were to turn. Once she thought of Lady Dee, and
then she could not help laughing. What _would_ Lady Dee have said! How
many of the rules of coquetry had she not broken in the space of two
brief hours! But after a little more thought, she consoled herself.
Possibly there were moves in this game which even Lady Dee had never
heard of! “I don’t think I managed it so badly,” she was saying to
herself, as she dismounted from her horse.

And that was the view she took when she told Harriet about it. She had
not meant to tell Harriet at all, but the secret would out—she had to
have some one to talk to. “Oh, my dear,” she exclaimed, “he’s perfectly
wonderful!”

“Who? What do you mean?” asked Harriet.

“Frank Shirley.”

“What? You’ve met him?”

“Met him? I’ve been riding with him the whole morning, and I’ve almost
let him propose to me!”

“Sylvia!” cried Harriet, aghast.

The other stood looking before her, grown suddenly thoughtful. “Yes, I
did. And what’s more, I believe that to-morrow morning I’m _going_ to
let him propose to me.”

“Sunny,” exclaimed her friend, “are you a woman, or one of Satan’s
imps?”

For answer Sylvia took her seat at the piano and began to sing—a song by
which all her lovers set much store:

                 “Who is Sylvia? What is she,
                   That all our swains commend her?
                 Holy, fair and wise is she—
                   The heavens such grace did lend her
                 That she might adored be!”


                                  § 15

Sylvia did very little thinking that first day—she was too much
possessed by feelings. Besides this she had to go through all the
routine of a house party; to go to breakfast and make apologies for her
singular desire to ride alone; to go quail-shooting and remind Charlie
Peyton to fire off his gun now and then; to curl her hair and select a
gown for dinner—and all the while in a glow of happiness so intense as
to come close to the borderland of pain.

It was not a definite emotion, but a vague, suffused ecstasy. She was
like one who goes about hearing exquisite music; angels singing in the
sky above her, little golden bells ringing in every part of her body.
And then always, penetrating the mist of her feelings, was the memory of
Frank Shirley. She could see his eyes, as they had looked up at her; she
could hear the tones of his voice—its low intensity as he had said,
“Think of everything that might happen between us!” She would find
herself blushing crimson at the dinner-table, and would have to chatter
to hide her confusion.

When night came she went into a sleep that was a half swoon of
happiness; and awoke in the early dawn, first bewildered, then
horrified, because of what she had done—her boldness, her lack of
dignity and reserve. She had thrown herself at a man’s head! And of
course he would be disgusted and would flee from her. She drank her
coffee and dressed a full half hour too early; and meanwhile she was
planning how she would treat him that morning. But then, suppose he did
not come that morning?

She rode out in the light of a sunrise she did not see, amid the song of
birds she did not hear. Suppose he did not come! When she saw him, far
up the road, she wanted to turn and flee. Her heart pounded, her cheeks
burned, there was a clashing as of cymbals in her ears. She reined up
her horse and sat motionless, telling herself that she must be calm. She
clenched her hands and bit a little hole in her tongue; and so, when he
arrived, he found a young woman of the world awaiting him.

She saw at once that something was wrong with him. He too had been
having moods and agonies, and had come full of resolutions and
reservations! He greeted her politely, and had almost nothing to say as
they rode away together. Sylvia’s heart sank. He had come because he had
promised; but he was regretting his indiscretions. Very well, she would
show him that she, too, could be polite! Under the spur of her fierce
pride, she could be a light-hearted child, utterly unaware of the
existence of any sulking male.

So they rode on. It was such a beautiful morning, the odor of the
pine-forests was so refreshing and the song of the birds so free, that
Sylvia was soon all that she had set out to pretend. She forgot her
cavalier for several minutes, laughing and humming. When she realized
him again, she had the boldness to tease him about himself—

                “Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
                  Alone, and palely loitering?”

And when he had no poetry ready to reply, she grew tired of him
altogether, and touched her horse and cantered quickly on. Let him
follow her if he chose—what mattered it! Moreover, she rode well, and
men always noticed it; she was bare-headed, and no man ever saw the
golden glory of her hair in bright sunlight that his heart did not begin
to quiver within him!

After a while he spurred his horse and rode at her side, and without
looking, she saw that he was watching her. She gave him just a little
smile, absent-minded and barely polite. Resolving to punish him still
more, she asked him the time. He gravely drew out his watch and replied
to her question. “I will ride as far as the spring,” she said. “Then I
must be going back.”

But he did not make the expected protest. He was going to lose her, and
he did not care! Oh, what a man!

As they drew near the spring, Sylvia began to be uneasy again. She did
not want him to lose her; she wanted him to care. She stopped to breathe
her horse, and to look at the moss-ringed pool of water, and at the
field of golden-rod beyond. “How lovely!” she said; and repeated, “How
lovely!” He never said a word—and when he might so easily have said,
“Let us stay a while!”

She was growing desperate. Her horse had got its breath and had had some
water—what else? “I must have some of that golden-rod!” she exclaimed,
suddenly. What was the matter with him, staring into space in that
fashion? Had he no manners at all? “I must have some golden-rod,” she
repeated; and when he still made no move, she said, “Hold my horse,
please,” and started to dismount.

He sprang off, and took the reins of her horse, and those of his own in
the same hand, giving his other hand to her. It was the first time he
had touched her, and it sent a shock through her that sent her flying in
a panic—out into the field of flowers, where she could hide her cheeks
and her trembling!


                                  § 16

He made the horses fast to the fence, carefully and deliberately; and
meantime she was gathering golden-rod. She knew that she made a picture
in the midst of flowers. She was very much occupied as he came to her
side.

A moment later she heard his voice: “Miss Castleman.”

Panic seized her again, but she looked up, with her last flicker of
courage. “Well?” she asked.

“There is something I want to tell you,” he began. “I can’t play this
game with you—I am no match for you at all.”

“Why—what do you mean?” she managed to say.

As usual, she knew just what he meant. “I am not a man who can play with
his emotions,” he said. “You must understand this at the very outset—the
thing is real to me, and I’ve got to know quickly whether or not it is
real to you.”

There he was! Like a storm of wind that threatened to sweep away her
pretenses, the whole pitiful little structure of her coquetry. But she
could not let the structure go; it was her only shelter, and she strove
desperately to hold it in place. “Why should you assume that I play with
my emotions?” she demanded.

“You play, not with your own, but with other peoples’ emotions,” he
replied. “I know; I’ve heard about you—long ago.”

She drew herself up haughtily. “You do not approve of me, Mr. Shirley?
I’m very sorry.”

“You must know—” he began.

But she went on, in a rush of defensive recklessness: “You think I’m
hollow—a coquette—a trifler with hearts. Well, I am. It’s all I know.”
She flung her head up, looking at him defiantly.

“No, Miss Castleman,” he said, “it’s _not_ all you know!”

But her recklessness was driving her—that spirit of the gambler that was
in the blood of all her race. “It _is_ all I know.” She bent over and
began strenuously to pluck sprays of golden-rod.

“To break men’s hearts?” he asked.

She laughed scornfully. “I had a great-aunt, Lady Dee—perhaps you’ve
heard of her. She taught me—and I’ve found out through much experience
that she was right.” She gazed at him boldly, over the armful of
flowers. “‘Sylvia, never let yourself be sorry for men. Let them take
care of themselves. They have all the advantage in the game. They are
free to come and go, they pick us up and look us over and drop us when
they feel like it. So we have to learn to manage them. And, believe me,
my child, they like it—it’s what they’re made for!’”

“And you believe such things as that?”

She laughed, a superbly cynical laugh, and began to gather more flowers.
“I used to think they were cruel—when I was young. But now I know that
Aunt Lady was right. What else have men to do but to make love to us?
Isn’t it better for them than getting drunk, or gambling, or breaking
their necks hunting foxes? ‘It’s the thing that lifts them above the
brute,’ she used to say. ‘Naturally, the more of them you lift, the
better.’”

“Did she teach you to deceive men deliberately?”

“She told me that when she was ordering her wedding trousseau, she was
engaged to a dozen; a cousin of hers was engaged to another dozen, and
couldn’t make up her mind which to choose, so she sent notes to them all
to say that she’d marry the man who got to her first.”

He smiled—his slow, quiet smile. Sylvia did not know how he was taking
these things; nor did his next remark enlighten her. “Did it not
surprise you to be taught that men were the centre of creation?”

“No. They taught me that God was a man.”

He laughed, then became grave. “Why do you need so many men? You can’t
marry but one.”

“Not in the South. But when I am ready to marry that one, I want it to
be the one I want; and the only way to be sure is to have a great many
wanting _you_. When a man sees a girl so surrounded with suitors that he
can’t get near her, he knows it’s the one girl in the world for him.
Aunt Lady had a saying about it, full of wisdom.” And Sylvia looked very
wise herself. “‘Men are sheep!’”

“I see,” he said, somewhat grimly. “I fear, Miss Castleman, I cannot
enter such a competition.”

“Is it cowardice?”

“Perhaps. It has been said that discretion is the better part of valor.
You see, to me love is not a game, but a reality. It could never be that
to you, I fear.”

Poor Sylvia! She was trying desperately hard to remember and make use of
her training. But the rules she had learned were, so to speak, for
fresh-water sailing; no one had ever thought that her frail craft might
be blown out upon a stormy ocean like this. Picture her as a terrified
navigator, striving to steer with a broken rudder, and gazing up into a
mountain-wave that comes roaring down upon her!

He was a man who meant what he said. She had tried her foolish arts upon
him and had only disgusted him. He was going away; and once he had left
her, she would be powerless to get hold of him again!

Love could never be a reality to her, he had said. With sudden tears in
her voice she exclaimed, “It could! It could!”

His whole aspect changed in a moment. A fire seemed to leap into his
eyes. “You mean that?” he asked. And that was enough for her. As he
moved towards her, she backed away a step or two. She thrust out the
great bunch of golden-rod, filling his arms with that, and retreated
farther into the yellow field.

He stood for a moment, nonplussed, looking rather comical with his
unexpected load. Then he turned away without a word, and went to where
his horse was fastened, and began to tie the flowers to his saddle.

She joined him before he had finished and mounted her own horse, saying
casually, “It is late. We must return.” He mounted and rode beside her
in silence.

At last he remarked, “You are going away this afternoon?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then where can I see you?”

“You will have to come to my home.”

There was a pause. “It will be a difficult experience,” he observed.
“You will have to help me through it.”

She answered, promptly, “You must come as any other man would come. You
must learn to do that—you must simply not _know_ what other people are
thinking.”

At which he smiled sadly. “There is nothing in that. When everybody in
the world is thinking one thing about you, you find there’s no use
pretending not to know what it is.”

There he was again—simple and direct. He had a vision of the hostility
of her relatives, the horror of her friends; he went on to speak his
thoughts quite baldly. Was she prepared to face these difficulties? She
might have the courage, she might not; but at least she must be
forewarned, and not encounter them blindly. She said, “My own people
will be kind, I assure you.” And when he smiled dubiously, she added,
“Leave it to me. I promise you I’ll manage them.”


                                  § 17

Sylvia, as you know, had been taught to discuss the affairs of her heart
in the language of military science. Continuing the custom, the fortress
of her coquetry had withstood an onslaught which had brought dismay to
the garrison, who had never before known what it was to be in real
danger. In the hope of restoring confidence to the troops there was now
undertaken a raid into the territory of perfectly innocent and
defenseless neighbors.

The first victim was Charlie Peyton. He had implored one last
opportunity to prove his devotion—being unable to imagine how his
devotion could be of no interest to Sylvia. So the guests of the house
party were treated to the amazing spectacle of this dignified and
self-conscious youth standing for two hours in the crotch of an
apple-tree. Meanwhile Sylvia went off for a walk with Malcolm McCallum;
and when at last Charlie’s time was up, and he set out in search of her,
he found his rival occupied in crawling on his knees the length of a
splintery dock which ran out into the lake. Sylvia sat by, absorbed in a
book, and when Charlie questioned her as to the meaning of this strange
phenomenon, she replied that Mr. McCallum (known to us previously as
“the Louisville dandy”) was probably experimenting with the creases in
his trousers.

Dressing for luncheon and the trip home, Sylvia had a consultation with
her friend Harriet. “Do you suppose I’m really in love?” was her
question.

“With whom?” asked Harriet.

But Sylvia paid no heed to this feeble wit. “I don’t think he approves
of me, Harriet. He thinks I’m shallow and vain—a trifler with hearts.”

“What would you have him think?” persisted the other.

“He isn’t like other men, Harriet. He makes me ashamed of myself. I
think I ought to treat him differently.”

Whereat her friend became suddenly serious. “Look here, Sunny, don’t you
lose your nerve! You stick to your game!”

“But suppose he won’t stand it?”

“_Make_ him stand it! Take my advice, now, and don’t go trying
experiments. You’ve learned one way, and you’re a wonder at it—don’t get
yourself mixed up at the critical moment.”

Sylvia was gazing at herself in the mirror, wondering at the look on her
own face. “I don’t know what to do next!” she cried.

“The Lord takes care of children and fools,” said Harriet. “I hope He’s
on His job!” Then the luncheon gong sounded, and they went downstairs.

There was a new man, who had arrived the night before. He was named
Pendleton, and Sylvia found herself placed next to him. She suspected
that he had arranged this, and was bored by the prospect, and purposely
talked with Charlie Peyton on her other side. Towards the end of the
meal a servant came in and whispered to the hostess, who rose suddenly
with the exclamation, “Frank Shirley is here!” Amid the general silence
that fell Sylvia began suddenly to eat with assiduity.

The hostess went out, and returned after a minute or so with Frank at
her heels. “Do sit down,” she was saying. “At least have some of this
sherbet.”

“I’ve had my luncheon,” he replied; “I supposed you’d have finished.”
But he seated himself at the table, as requested. There was a general
pause, everybody expecting some explanation; but he volunteered none.

Opposite to Sylvia was Belle Johnston, an insipid young person who had a
reputation for wit, for which she made other people pay. “Did you think
it looked like rain, Mr. Shirley?” she inquired. Sylvia could have
destroyed her.

“The weather is very pleasant,” said Frank. No one could be sure whether
he was imperturbable, or had missed the jest altogether.

Harriet, seeing her friend’s alarming appetite and discomfort, stepped
in now to save the situation. “I hope you brought me a message from your
sister,” she remarked. “I am expecting one.”

But Frank would have none of any such devices. “I’m sorry,” he said,
“but I haven’t brought it.”

Sylvia was furious. Had he no tact, no social sense at all—not even any
common gratitude? He ought to have waited outside, where he would have
been less conspicuous; instead of sitting there, dumb as an oyster,
looking at her and obviously waiting for her! Sooner or later everyone
must notice.

With a sudden impulse she turned to the man at her side. “I am sorry you
came so late,” she said.

“I am more than sorry,” he replied, brightening instantly.

“I really must go home this afternoon,” she said.

He was encouraged by her tone of regret. “I think I will tell you
something,” he said.

“Well?”

“I came here on purpose to meet you. I was visiting my friends, the
Allens, at Thanksgiving, and all the men there were talking of you.”

This, of course, was ancient history to Sylvia. “What were they saying?”
she asked—and stole a glance at Frank.

“They said you’d never let a man go without hurting him. At least, not
if you thought him worth while.”

“Dear me!” she exclaimed, astonished and flattered. “I wonder that you
weren’t afraid to meet me!”

“I was amused,” answered the other. “I thought to myself, I’d like to
see her hurt me.”

Sylvia lifted her delicate eyebrows and gave him a slow, quiet stare,
four-fifths scorn and one-fifth challenge.

“Gad!” he exclaimed. “You are interesting for a fact! When you look like
that!”

“Not otherwise?” she inquired, now wholly scornful.

“Oh, you’re not the most beautiful woman I ever saw! Nor the cleverest!”

“Do not challenge me like that.”

“Why not?” he laughed.

“You might regret it.”

“It would be a good adventure—I’d be willing to pay the price to see the
game. I admire a woman who knows her business.”

So the banter continued; the man displaying his cleverness and Sylvia
casting upon him glances of mockery, of contempt, half veiling curiosity
and interest. He, of course, being secretly convinced of his own
irresistibility, was noting these glances and speculating about them,
thrilled by them without realizing it, persuading himself that the girl
was really coming to admire him. This was a kind of encounter which had
occurred, not once, but a hundred times in Sylvia’s career, and usually
it meant nothing in particular to her. But now it brought a reckless
joy, because of the shock it was giving to that other man—the terrible
man who sat across the way, his eyes boring into her very soul!


                                  § 18

When the luncheon was over, Sylvia made her way to Harriet Atkinson and
caught her by the arm. “Harriet!” she exclaimed. “You must help me!”

“What?” whispered the other.

“I can’t see him!”

“But why not?”

“He wants to lecture me, and I won’t stand it! I’m going into the
garden—take him somewhere else—you must!” Then, seeing Frank making
toward her, she gave Harriet a vicious pinch, and fled from the room.
There was a summer-house in the garden at the far end, and thither she
went upon flying feet.

I was never sure how it happened—whether, as Harriet always vowed, she
tried to hold Frank and could not, or whether she turned traitor to her
friend. At any rate Sylvia had been there not more than a minute, and
had scarcely begun to get control of herself, when she heard a step, and
looking up, saw Frank Shirley coming down the path.

There was but one door to the summer-house—and he soon occupied that.
“Go away!” she cried. “Go away!” (That was all that was left of her
_savoir faire_!)

He stopped. “Miss Castleman,” he said—and his voice was hard, “I came
here to see you. But now I’m sorry I came.”

The garrison rallied as to a trumpet-call. “That is too bad, Mr.
Shirley,” she said, with appalling _hauteur_. “But you know you do not
have to stay an instant.”

He gazed at her in doubt for a moment. Her heart was pounding and the
color flooding her face. “I don’t believe you know what you are doing!”
he exclaimed.

“Really!” she replied, witheringly. “Do you?”

“No,” he went on, “I don’t understand you at all. But I simply _will_
find out!”

He strode towards her. She shrank into the seat, but he caught her
hands. For a moment she resisted; but he held fast, and from his hands
she felt a current as of fire, flowing through all her veins.

Slowly he drew her to her feet. “Sylvia!” he whispered. “Sylvia! Look at
me!”

She obeyed him instinctively, and their eyes met. “You love me!” he
exclaimed. She could hear his quick breathing. She felt herself sinking
towards him. She felt his arms about her, his breath upon her cheek.

“I love you!” he murmured. And she closed her eyes, and he kissed her
again and again. In his kisses it seemed to her that she would melt
away.

She was exultant and happy. The testimony of his love was rapture to
her. But then suddenly came a fear which they had inculcated in her. All
the women who had ever talked to her on the problem of the
male-creature—all agreed that nothing was so fatal as to allow the
taking of “liberties.” Also there came sudden shame. She began to
struggle. “You must not kiss me! It is not right!”

“But, Sylvia!” he protested. “I love you!”

“Oh, stop!” she pleaded. “Stop!”

“You love me!” he whispered.

“Please, please stop!”

A gentle pressure would have held her, but she felt that he was
releasing her—all but one hand. She sank down upon the seat, trembling.
“Oh, you ought not to have done it!” she cried.

He asked, “Why not?”

“No man has ever done that to me before!” The thought of what he had
done, the memory of his lips upon her cheek, sent the blood flying there
in hot waves; she began to sob: “No, no! You should not have done it!”

“Sylvia!” he pleaded, surprised by her vehemence. “Don’t you realize
that you love me?”

“I don’t know! I’m afraid! I must have time!” She was weeping
convulsively now. “You will never respect me again!”

“You must not say such a thing as that! It is not true!”

“You will go away and remember it, and you will despise me!”

His voice was calm and very soothing. “Sylvia,” he said, “I have told
you that I love you. And I believe that you love me. If that is so, I
had a perfect right to kiss you, and you had a perfect right to let me
kiss you.”

There he was, sensible as ever; Sylvia found the storm of her emotion
dying away. She had time to recall one of the maxims of Lady Dee: “A
woman should never let a man see her weeping. It makes her cheeks pale
and her nose red.” She resolved that she would stay in the protecting
shadows of the summer-house until after he had departed.


                                  § 19

She went home; and at the dinner-table she was telling some of the
adventures of the house party. “Oh, by the way,” she said, carelessly,
“I met Frank Shirley.”

“Really?” exclaimed Mrs. Castleman. “Those poor, unfortunate people!”

“He must be quite a man now,” said Aunt Varina. “How old is he?”

“About twenty-one,” said the mother. Sylvia was amazed; she had not
thought definitely of his age, but he had seemed a mature man to her.

“I see him now and then,” put in the Major. “He comes to town. Not a
bad-looking chap.”

“He asked if he might call,” said Sylvia. “I told him, Yes. Was that
right, Papa?”

“Why, certainly,” was the reply.

“He seems a very shy, silent kind of man,” she added. “He wasn’t sure
that he’d be welcome.”

“Why, my dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Castleman. “I’m sure we’ve never made any
difference in our treatment of the Shirleys!”

“Bob Shirley’s children will always be welcome to my home, so long as
they behave themselves,” declared the father.

And so Sylvia left the matter, content with their attitude. Frank was
wrong in his estimate of her family.

Two days later there came a negro man, riding a mule and carrying a bag,
with a note from Frank. He begged her to accept this present of quail,
because she had lost so much of her hunting time, and Charlie Peyton’s
aim had been so bad. Sylvia read the note, and got from it a painful
shock. The handwriting was boyish and the manner of expression crude.
She was used to leisure-class stationery, with her monogram in gold at
the top, and this was written upon a piece of cheap paper. Somehow it
made the whole matter seem unreal and incredible to her. She found
herself trying to recall how he looked.

So she went to sleep; and awakening early the next morning, waiting for
the agreeable tinkle of the approaching coffee-cup—there suddenly he
came to her! Just as real as he had been in the summer-house, with his
breath upon her cheek! The delicious, blinding ecstasy possessed her
again—and then fresh humiliation at the memory of his kisses! Oh, why
did he not come to see her—instead of leaving her the prey of her fancy?
She could not escape from the idea that she had lost his respect by
flinging herself at his head—by permitting him to kiss her.

The next morning came the negro again, this time with a great bunch of
golden-rod. “What a present!” exclaimed the whole family; but Sylvia
understood and was happy. “It’s because of my hair,” she told the
others, laughing. It must be that he loved her, despite her
indiscretions!

He wrote that he was coming to see her that evening; and that because of
the length of the ride, he would accept her invitation and come to
dinner. So Sylvia braced herself for the ordeal.

She dressed very simply, so as not to attract attention. Uncle
Mandeville was there, and two girl cousins from Louisville, visiting the
family, and two of the Bishop’s boys and one of Barry Chilton’s, who
dropped in at the last moment to see them. That was the way at Castleman
Hall—there were never less than a dozen people at any meal, and the cook
allowed for twenty. To all this crowd Sylvia had to introduce her
strange new conquest, ignoring their glances of inquiry and parrying
their mischievous shafts.

I must let you see this family at dinner. At the head of the table sits
the Major, with gray hair and a gray imperial, wearing his black vest
cut so low that he can plead it is evening dress; still adhering
valiantly to the custom of his fathers, and carving the roast for his
growing family, while the littlest girls, who come last, follow each
portion with hungry eyes and count the number intervening. At the foot
sits Mrs. Castleman, serving the salad and dessert, her ample figure
robed in satin. “Miss Margaret” is just at that stage of her life, after
the birth of the son and heir, when she has definitely abandoned the
struggle with an expanding waistline. When I met her, some years later,
she weighed two hundred and eighty pounds, and was the best-natured and
most comically inefficient human soul I have ever encountered in my
life.

There is Aunt Varina Tuis, humble and inconspicuous, weary after a day
of trotting up and down stairs after the housekeeper, to see that the
embroidered napkins were counted before they went to the laundry, that
the drawing-room furniture was dusted, the dead flowers taken out of the
dining-room, the fleas in the servants’ quarters kept in subjection.
Mrs. Tuis’ queer little voice is seldom heard at the dinner-table,
unless she is appealed to in some matter of family history: whom this
one married, whom that one had been engaged to, whether or not it was
true that some neighbor’s grandfather had kept a grocery store, as
rumored.

Then there is Uncle Mandeville, home to recuperate from a spree in New
Orleans; enormous in every direction, rosy-faced and prosperous, with a
resounding laugh and an endless flow of fun. Beside him sits Celeste,
the next daughter, presenting a curious contrast to Sylvia, with her
restless black eyes, her positive manner and worldly viewpoint. There
are the two cousins from Louisville, healthy and radiant, and the two
Chilton boys, Clive and Harley, and Barry’s boy, who is a giant like
Uncle Mandeville, and whenever he laughs, makes the cut glass to rattle
on the buffet.

All this family hunts in one pack. They know all each other’s affairs,
and take an interest in them, and stand together against the rest of the
world. They are a noisy crew, good-humored, careless, but with hot
tempers and little control of them—so that when their interests clash
and they get on one another’s toes, they quarrel as violently as before
they loved. Their conversation is apt to be bewildering to a stranger,
for they seldom talk about general questions, having a whole arcanum of
family allusions not easily understood. At this meal, for example, they
are merry for half an hour over the latest tales of the doings of an
older brother of Clive and Harley, who has married a girl with rich
parents, but is too proud to take a dollar from them, and is forcing his
bride to play at decent poverty. When the provisions run out they visit
the Bishop, or the Major, or Uncle Barry, as may be most convenient, and
go off with an automobile-load of hams and sausage-puddings and pickles
and preserves. How many jokes there are, and what gales of merriment go
round the table! The Bishop’s son the first kleptomaniac in the family!
Barry’s young giant declaring that a single smile from the bride cost
his father a cow and calf! The little girls, Peggy and Maria, chiming in
with their tale of how the predatory couple found a lone chicken
foraging in the rose-garden, confiscated it, carried it off under
Basil’s coat, tied it by the leg under the piazza at the back of their
house in town—and then forgot it and let it starve to death!

Sylvia sat watching this tableful of care-free, rollicking people—the
men handsome, finely built, well-fed and well-groomed, the women
delicate, soft-skinned and exquisitely gowned—representing the best type
their civilization could produce. A pleasant scene it was, with snowy
damask cloth and bouquets of roses, precious old silver and quaint
hand-painted china, with a background of mahogany furniture and paneled
walls. She watched Frank in the midst of it, thinking of his home as
Harriet had pictured it—the people subdued and sombre, the stamp of
poverty upon everything. She was glad to see that he was able to fit
himself into the mood of this company, enjoying the sallies of fun and
pleasing those he talked to.

The house being full of young couples who wanted to be alone, Sylvia
took Frank into the library. She liked this room, with its red leather
furniture and cozy fireplace, and queer old book-cases with
diamond-shaped panes of glass. She liked it because the lights were on
the table, and no woman looks beautiful when lighted from over her head.
This may seem a small matter to you, but Sylvia had learned how much
depends upon detail. She remembered one of the maxims of Lady Dee: “Get
a man on your home-ground, where you can have things as you want them;
and then place your chair to show the best side of your face.”

These things I set down as Sylvia told them to me—a long time
afterwards, when we could laugh over them. It was a fact about her all
the way through, that whatever she did, good or bad, she knew why she
was doing it. In this she differed from a good many other women, who are
not honest, even with themselves, and who feel that things become vulgar
only when they are mentioned. The study of her own person and its charms
was of course the very essence of her rôle as a “belle.” At every stage
of her life she had been drilled and coached—how to dance, how to enter
a drawing-room, how to receive a compliment, how to toy with a suitor.
At Miss Abercrombie’s, the young ladies had an etiquette teacher who
gave them instructions in the most minute details of their deportment;
not to bend your body too much, but mainly your knees, when you sat
down; not to let your hands lie flat at your sides, but to turn your
little fingers gracefully out; never to hesitate or think of yourself
when entering a room, but to fix your thoughts upon some person, and
move towards that person with decision. Sylvia had needed this last
instruction especially, for in the beginning she had had a terrible time
entering rooms. It should be a comfort to some would-be belles to know
that Sylvia Castleman, who attained in the end to such eminence in her
profession, was at the outset a terrified child with shaking knees and
chattering teeth, who never would have gone anywhere of her own choice!


                                  § 20

Now she was ready to try out all these instructions upon Frank. The
scene was set and lighted, the curtain rose—but somehow there was a
hitch in the performance. Frank was moody again. He sat staring before
him, frowning somberly; and she looked at him in a confusion of
anxieties. He did not love her after all—she had simply seized upon him
and compelled his attention, and now he was longing to extricate
himself! Even if this were not true, it would soon come to that, for she
could think of nothing interesting to say, and he would be bored.

She racked her wits. What could she talk about to a man who knew none of
her “set,” who never went to balls or dinners, who could not conceivably
care about polite gossip? Why didn’t _he_ say something—the silent man!
What manners to take into company!

“I must make him look at me,” she resolved. So without saying a word,
she began taking a rose from her corsage and adjusting it in her hair.
The motion distracted him, and she saw that he was watching. She had
him!

“Is that in right?” she asked. Of course a _la France_ rose in perfectly
arranged hair is always “in right,” and Sylvia knew it. Her little
device failed abjectly, for Frank answered simply “Yes,” and began
staring into space again.

She tried once more, contenting herself with the barest necessities of
conversation. “Did you shoot those quail yourself?”

Then he turned. “Miss Sylvia, I have something I must say to you. I’ve
had time to think things over.” He paused.

Ah, now it was coming! He had had time to think things over—and he
called her “_Miss_ Sylvia!” Something cried out in her to make haste and
release him before he asked it. But she could not speak—she was as if
pinned by a lance.

He went on. “Miss Sylvia, I had made up my mind that love was not for
me. I knew that to women of my own class I was a man with a tainted
name—a convict’s son; and I would rather die than marry beneath me. So I
shut up my heart, and when I met a woman, I turned and went away—as I
tried to do with you. But you would not have it, and I could not resist
you. I’ve been amazed at the intensity of my own feelings; it’s
something I could not have dreamed of—and unless I’m mistaken, it’s been
the same with you.”

It was a bold man who could use words such as those to Sylvia. To what
merciless teasing he laid himself open! But she only drew a deep sigh of
relief. He still loved her!

“I forced myself to stay away,” he continued, without waiting for her to
answer. “I said, ‘I must not go near her again. I must run away
somewhere and get over it.’ And then again I said, ‘I can make her
happy—I will marry her.’ I said that, but I’m not going to do it.”

He paused. Oh, what a voice he had! Sylvia felt the blood ebbing and
flowing in her cheeks, pounding in her ears. She could not hear his
words very well—but he loved her!

“Sylvia,” he was saying, earnestly—as if half to convince himself—“we
must both of us wait. You must have time to consider what loving me
would mean. You have all these people—happy people; and I have nothing
like that in my life. You have this beautiful home, expensive
clothes—every luxury. But I am a poor man. I have only a mortgaged
plantation, with a mother and a brother and two sisters to share it. I
have no career—I have not even an education. All your uncles, your
cousins, your suitors, are college men, and I am a plain farmer. So I
face what seems to me the worst temptation a man could have. I see you,
and you are everything in the world that is desirable; and I believe
that I could win you and carry you away from here. My whole being cries
out, ‘Go and take her! She loves you! She wants you to!’ But instead, I
have to come here and say, ‘Think it over. Make sure of your feelings;
that it’s not simply a flush of excitement.’ You being the kind of
tenderhearted thing you are, it might so easily be a romantic imagining
about a man who’s apart from other men—one you feel sorry for and would
like to help! You see what I mean? It isn’t easy for me to say it, but
I’d be a coward if I didn’t say it—and mean it—and stand by it.”

There was a long pause. Sylvia was thinking. How different it was from
other men’s love-making! There was Malcolm McCallum, who had taken her
driving yesterday, and had said what they all said: “Never mind if you
don’t love me—marry me, and let me teach you to love me.” In other
words, “Stake your life’s happiness upon a blind chance, at the command
of my desire.” Of course they would surround her with all the external
things of life, build her a great house and furnish it richly, deck her
with silks and jewels and supply her with servants. All the world would
come to admire her, and then she would be so grateful to her generous
lord that she could not but love him.

Her voice was low as she answered, “A woman does not really care about
the outside things. She wants love most. She wants to be sure of her
heart—but of the man’s heart too.”

“As to that,” he said, “I will not trust myself to speak. You are the
loveliest vision that has ever come to me. You are——”

“I know,” she interrupted. “But that, too, is mostly surface. I am
luxurious, I am artificial and shallow—a kind of butterfly.” This was
what she said to men when she wished to be most deadly. But now she
really meant it; there was a mist of tears in her eyes.

“That is nothing,” he answered. “I am not such a fool that I can’t see
all that. There are two people in you, as in all of us. The question is,
which do you want to be?”

“How can I say?” she murmured. “It would be a question of whether you
loved me——”

“Ah, Sylvia!” he cried, in a voice of pain that startled her. And
suddenly he rose and began to pace the room. “I cannot talk about my
feeling for you,” he said. “I made up my mind before I came here that I
would not woo you—not if I had to bite off my tongue to prevent it. I
said, ‘I will explain to her, and then I will go away and give her
time.’ I want to play fair. I want to _know_ that I have played fair.”

As he stood there, she could see the knotted tendons in his hands, she
could see the agitation of his whole being. And suddenly a great current
took her and bore her to him. She put her hands upon his shoulders,
whispering, “Frank!”

He stood stiff and silent.

“I love you!” she said. “I love you!” She gave a little sob of
happiness; and he caught her in his arms and pressed her to his bosom,
crushing all her roses, and stifling her words with his kisses. And so,
a few minutes later, Sylvia was lying back in her favorite chair, with
the satisfaction of knowing at last that he was looking at her. A couple
of hours later, when he went away, it was as her plighted lover.


                                  § 21

Frank came again two days later; and then Mrs. Castleman made her first
remark. “Sylvia,” she said, “you mustn’t flirt with that man.”

“Why not, Mother?”

“Because he’d probably take it seriously. And he’s had a hard time, you
know. We can’t treat the Shirleys quite as we do other people.”

“All right,” said Sylvia. “I’ll be careful.”

Frank wanted the engagement made known at once—at least to the family.
Such was his direct way. But Sylvia had an instinct against telling; she
wanted a little time to watch and study and plan.

It was hard, however; she was absolutely shining with happiness—there
seemed to be a kind of soul-electricity that came from her and affected
everyone she met. It gathered the men about her thicker than ever—and at
the very time that she wanted to be alone with Frank and the thought of
Frank!

One evening when the Young Matrons’ Club gave its monthly cotillion,
Frank, knowing nothing about this event, called unexpectedly. A visit
meant to him forty miles on horseback; and so, to the general
consternation, Sylvia refused to attend the dance. All evening the
telephone rang and the protests poured in. “We won’t stand for it!” the
men declared; and the women asked, “Who is it?” She had been to a
bridge-party that afternoon, and everyone knew she was not sick. But
what man could it be, when all the men were at the cotillion?

So the gossip began; and a week later another incident gave it wings. It
was a great occasion, the semi-annual ball of the Country Club, and
Frank had been warned that Sylvia would not be at home. But he wanted to
see her in her glory, and he galloped his twenty miles in darkness and
rain, and turned up at the club-house at midnight, and stood in the
doorway to watch. Sylvia, seeing him and realizing what his presence
meant, was seized with a sudden impulse to acknowledge him. She stopped
dancing, and sent her partner away, and stood talking to Frank. Oh, what
a staring, what a wagging of tongues! Frank Shirley! Of all people in
the world, Frank Shirley!

Of course, the news came to the Hall. Early in the morning, Aunt Nannie
called up, announcing a visit, and there followed a family conclave with
Mrs. Castleman, Aunt Varina and Sylvia.

“Sylvia,” said Mrs. Chilton, trying her best to look casual, “I
understand that Frank Shirley was at the ball.”

“Yes, Aunt Nannie.”

There was a pause. “What was he doing there?” asked “Miss Margaret,”
evidently having been coached.

“Why, I’m sure, Mother, I don’t know.”

“Did you invite him?”

“Indeed, I did not.”

“He isn’t a member of the Club, is he?”

“No; but he knows lots of other people who are.”

“Everybody is saying he came to see you,” broke in Aunt Nannie. “They
say you stopped dancing to talk with him.”

“I can’t help what they say, Aunt Nannie.”

“Do you think,” inquired the Bishop’s wife, “that it was altogether wise
to get your name associated with his?”

“Isn’t he a gentleman?” asked Sylvia.

“That’s all right, my dear, but you’ve got to remember that you live in
the world, and must consider other people’s point of view.”

“Do you mean, Aunt Nannie, that Frank Shirley’s to be excluded from
society because of his father’s misfortune?”

“Not excluded, Sylvia. There are shades to such things. The point is
that a young girl—a girl conspicuous, like you——”

“But, Aunt Nannie, I asked mother and father, and they were willing to
receive him. Isn’t that true, Mother?”

“Why, yes, Sylvia,” said “Miss Margaret,” weakly, “but I didn’t mean——”

“It was all right for him to come here, once or twice,” interrupted Aunt
Nannie. “But at a Club ball——”

“The point is, Sylvia dear,” quavered Mrs. Tuis, “you will get yourself
a reputation for singularity.”

And the mother added, “You surely don’t have to do that to attract
attention!”

So there it was. All that fine sentiment about the unhappy Shirleys went
like a film of mist before a single breath of the world’s opinion! They
would not say it brutally—“He’s a convict’s son, and you can’t afford to
know him too well.” It was not the Southern fashion—at least among the
older generation—to be outspoken in worldliness. They had generous
ideals, and made their boast of “chivalry;” but here, when it came to a
test, they were all in accord with Aunt Nannie, who was said to “talk
like a cold-blooded Northern woman.”

Sylvia decided at once that some one must be told; so she went back to
lunch with her aunt, and afterwards sought out the Bishop in his study.
The walls of this room were lined with ancient theological treatises and
sermons in faded greenish-black bindings: an array which never failed to
appal the soul of Sylvia, who realized that she had consigned to the
scrap-heap all this mass of learning—and had not yet apologized for her
temerity.

“Uncle Basil,” she began, “I have something very, very important to tell
you.” The Bishop turned from his desk and gazed at her. “I am engaged to
be married,” she said.

“Why, Sylvia!” he exclaimed.

“And I—I’m very much in love.”

“Who is the man, my dear?”

“It is Frank Shirley.”

Sylvia was used to watching people and reading their thoughts quickly.
She saw that her uncle’s first emotion was one of dismay. “Frank
Shirley!”

“Yes, Uncle Basil.”

Then she saw him gather himself together. He was going to try to be
fair—the dear soul! But she could not forget that his first emotion had
been dismay. “Tell me about it, my child,” he said.

“I met him at the Venable’s,” she replied, “only a couple of weeks ago.
He’s an unusual sort of man, lonely and unhappy, very reserved and hard
to get at. He fell in love with me—very much in love; but he didn’t want
me to know it. He did tell me at last.”

The Bishop was silent. “I love him,” she added.

“Are you sure?”

“As I’ve never loved anybody—as I never dreamed I could love.”

There was a pause. “Uncle Basil—he’s a good man,” she said. “That is why
I love him.”

Again there was a pause. “Have you told your father and mother?” asked
the Bishop.

“Not yet.”

“You must tell them at once, Sylvia.”

“I know they will make objections, and I want you to meet Frank and talk
with him. You see, Uncle Basil, I’m going to marry him—and I want your
help.”

The Bishop was silent again, weighing his next words. “Of course, my
dear,” he said, “from a worldly point of view it is not a good match,
and I fear your parents will regard it as a calamity. But, as you know,
I think of nothing but the happiness of my darling Sylvia. I won’t say
anything at all until I have met the man. Send him to see me, little
girl, and then I will give you the best counsel I can.”


                                  § 22

Frank went to pay his call the next day, and then came back to Sylvia.
“He’s a dear old man,” he said. “And he wants what is best for you.”

“What does he want?” demanded Sylvia.

“He says we should not marry now—that I ought to be better able to take
care of you. And of course he’s right.”

There was a pause; then suddenly Frank exclaimed, “Sylvia, I can’t be
just a farmer if I’m going to marry you.”

“What can you be, Frank?”

“I’m going to go to college.”

“But that would take four years!”

“No, it needn’t. I could dig in and get into the Sophomore class this
winter. I’ve been through a military academy, and I was going to
Harvard, where my father and my grandfather went, but I thought it was
my duty to come home and see to the place. But now my brother has grown
up, and he has a good head for business.”

“What would you do ultimately?”

“I’ve always wanted to study law, and I think now I ought to. Nobody is
going to be willing for us to marry at once; and they’re much less apt
to object to me if I’m seriously going to make something of myself.”

Sylvia went over the next morning to get her uncle’s blessing. The good
Bishop gave it to her—together with some exhortations which he judged
she needed. They were summed up in one sentence which he pronounced:
“There is nothing more unhappy in this world than a serious-minded man
with a worldly-minded wife.” Poor old Uncle Basil, with his snow-white
hair and his patient, saintly face, worn with care—how much of his own
soul he put into that utterance! Sylvia laid her head upon his shoulder,
and let the tears run down upon his coat.

After a while, he remarked, “Sylvia, your aunt saw Frank come here.”

“What!” exclaimed Sylvia. “You don’t mean that she’ll guess!”

“She’s very clever at guessing, my child.” So Sylvia, as she rode home,
realized that she had no more time to lose. When she got to the Hall,
she set to work at once to carry out her plans.

She found her Aunt Varina in her room with a headache. On her
dressing-table was a picture of the late-lamented Mr. Tuis, which Sylvia
picked up. By manifesting a little interest in it, she quickly got her
aunt to talking on the subject of matrimony.

Mrs. Tuis was the youngest of the Major’s sisters. In the face of the
protests of her relatives she had married a comparatively “common” man,
who was poor and had turned out to be a drunkard, and after leading Aunt
Varina a dog’s life, had taken chloral. So Mrs. Tuis had come back to
eat the bread of charity—which, though it was liberally sweetened with
affection, had also a slightly bitter taste of compassion.

Her ill-fated romance was a poor thing, perhaps—but her own. As she told
it her bosom fluttered and the tears trickled down her cheeks; and when
she had got to a state of complete deliquescence, her niece whispered:
“Oh, Aunt Varina, I’m so glad you believe in love! Aunt Varina, will you
keep a solemn secret if I tell it to you?”

And so came the story of the amazing engagement. Mrs. Tuis listened with
wide-open, startled eyes, every now and then whispering, “Sylvia!
Sylvia!” Of course she was thrilled to the deeps of her soul by it; and
of course, in the mood that she had been caught, she could not possibly
refuse her sympathy. “You must help me with the others,” said the girl.
“I’m going to tell mother next.”


                                  § 23

The first thing that struck you about “Miss Margaret” was her appalling
incompetence. But underneath it lay the most exclusively maternal soul
imaginable. She had nursed her children when they were almost two years
old, great healthy calves running about the place and standing up to
suck; she had rocked them to sleep in her arms when they were big enough
to be reading Virgil; she had shed as many tears over a broken finger as
most mothers shed over a funeral. She wanted her daughters to be happy,
and to this end she would give them anything that civilization provided;
she would even be willing that one of them should marry a man whose
father “wore stripes”—so far as she was concerned, and so long as she
remained alone with the daughter. You must picture her, clasping Sylvia
in her arms and weeping from general agitation; moved to pity by the
tale of Frank’s loneliness, moved to awe by the tale of his goodness—but
then suddenly smitten as by a thunderbolt with the thought: “What will
people say! What will your Aunt Nannie say!”

While Sylvia was bent upon having her way, you must not imagine that she
did not feel any of these emotions. Although she was mostly Lady Lysle,
her far-off ancestress, she was also a little of “Miss Margaret,” and
was almost capsized in these gales of emotion. She remembered a hundred
scenes of tenderness and devotion; she clasped the great girl-mother in
her arms, and mingled their tears and vowed that she would never do
anything to make her unhappy. It was a lachrymal lane—this pathway of
Sylvia’s engagement!

With her father she took a different line. She got the Major alone in
his office and talked to him solemnly, not about love and romance, but
about Frank Shirley’s character. She knew that the Major was disturbed
by the wildness of the young men of the world about him; she had heard
him discuss the pace at which Aunt Nannie’s boys were traveling. And
here was a man who had sowed no wild oats, and had learned the lesson of
self-control.

She was surprised at the way the Major took it. He clutched the arms of
his chair and went white when he caught the import of her discourse; but
he heard her to the end, and then sat for a long while in silence.
Finally, he inquired, “Sylvia, did anybody ever tell you why your Uncle
Laurence killed himself?”

“No,” she replied.

“He was engaged to a girl, and her parents made her break off the match.
I never knew why; but it ruined the girl’s life, as well as his, and it
made a terrible impression on me. So I made a vow—and now, I suppose, is
the time I have to keep it. I said I would never interfere in a
love-affair of one of my children!”

Sylvia was deeply affected, not only by his words, but by the intense
agitation which she saw he was repressing. “Papa, does it seem so very
dreadful to you?” she asked.

Again there was a long wait before he answered. “It is something quite
different from what I had expected,” he said. “It will make a difference
in your whole life—to an extent which I fear you cannot realize.”

“But if I really love him, Papa?”

“If you really love him, my dear, then I will not try to oppose you. But
oh, Sylvia, be sure that you love him! You must promise me to wait until
I can be sure you are not mistaken about that.”

“I expect to wait, Papa,” she said. “There will be no mistake.”

They talked for half an hour or so, and then Sylvia went to her room.
Half an hour later “Aunt Sarah,” the cook, came flying to her in great
agitation. “Miss Sylvia, what’s de matter wid yo’ papa?”

“What?” cried Sylvia, springing up.

“He’s sittin’ on a log out beyan’ de garden, cryin’ fo’ to break his
heart!”

Sylvia fled to the spot, and fell upon her knees by him and flung her
arms about him, crying, “Papa, Papa!” He was still sobbing; she had
never seen him exhibit such emotion in her life before, and she was
terrified. “Papa, what is it?”

She felt him shudder and control himself. “Nothing, Sylvia. I can’t tell
you.”

“Papa,” she whispered, “do you object to Frank Shirley as much as that?”

“No, my dear—it isn’t that. It’s that the whole thing has knocked me off
my feet. My little girl is going away from me—and I didn’t know she was
grown up yet. It made me feel so old!”

He looked at her, trying to smile and feeling a little ashamed of his
tears. She looked into the dear face, and it seemed withered and
wrinkled all of a sudden. She realized with a pang how much he really
had aged. He was working so hard—she would see him at his accounts late
at night, when she was leaving for a ball, and would feel ashamed for
her joys that he had to pay for. “Oh, Papa, Papa!” she cried, “I ought
to marry a rich man!”

“My child,” he exclaimed, “don’t let me hear you say a thing like that!”

Poor, poor Major! He said it and he meant it; he was, I think, the most
_naïve_ of all the members of his family. He was a “Southern gentleman,”
not a business man; he hated money with his whole soul—hated it, even
while he spent it and enjoyed what it brought him. He was like a chip of
wood caught in a powerful current; swept through rapids and over
cataracts, to his own boundless bewilderment and dismay.


                                  § 24

“He is without any pride of family.” That had been the verdict upon the
Major pronounced by his mother, who had been a grand lady in her own
day. She would turn to her eldest daughter and say, “Look after him,
Nannie! Make him keep his shoes shined!” And so now, towards the end of
their conference, Sylvia and her father found themselves looking at each
other and saying, “What will Aunt Nannie say?” Sylvia was laughing, but
all the same she had not the nerve to face her aunt, and ’phoned the
Bishop to ask him to break the news.

Half an hour later the energetic lady’s automobile was heard at the
door. And now behold, a grand council, with the Major and his wife, Mrs.
Chilton, Mrs. Tuis, Mr. Mandeville Castleman, Sylvia and Celeste—the
last having learned that something startling had happened, and being
determined to find out about it.

“Now,” began Aunt Nannie, “what is this that Basil has been trying to
tell me?”

There was no reply.

“Mandeville,” she demanded, “have you heard this news?”

“No,” said Uncle Mandeville.

“That Sylvia has engaged herself to Frank Shirley!”

“Good God!” said Uncle Mandeville.

“Sylvia!” exclaimed Celeste, in horror.

“Is it true?” demanded Aunt Nannie—in a tone which said that she
declined to comment until official confirmation had been received.

“It is true,” said Sylvia.

“And what have you to say about it?” inquired Aunt Nannie. She looked
first at the Major, then at his wife, and then at Mrs. Tuis; but no one
had anything to say.

“I can’t quite believe that you’re in your right senses,” continued the
speaker. “Or that I have heard you say the words. What _can_ have got
into you?”

“Nannie,” said the Major, clearing his throat, “Sylvia doesn’t want to
marry him for a long time.”

“But she proposes to be engaged to him, I understand!”

“Yes,” admitted the other.

“And this engagement is to be announced?”

“Why—er—I suppose——”

“Certainly,” put in Sylvia.

“And when, may I ask?”

“At once.”

“And is there nobody here who has thought of the consequences? Possibly
you have overlooked the fact that one of my daughters has planned to
marry Ridgely Peyton next month. That is to be called off?”

“What do you mean, Aunt Nannie?”

“Can you be childish enough to imagine that the Peytons will consent to
marry into a family with a convict’s son in it?”

“Nannie!” protested the Major.

“I know!” replied Mrs. Chilton. “Sylvia doesn’t like the words. But if
she proposes to marry a convict’s son, she may as well get used to them
now as later. It’s the thing that people will be saying about her for
the balance of her days; the thing they’ll be saying about all of us
everywhere. Look at Celeste there—just ready to come out! How much
chance she’ll have—with such a start! Her sister engaged to Frank
Shirley!”

Sylvia turned to Celeste, and the eyes of these two met. Celeste turned
pale, and her look was eloquent of dismay.

“Nannie,” put in the Major, protestingly, “Frank Shirley is a fine,
straight fellow——”

“I’ve nothing to say against Frank Shirley,” exclaimed the other. “I
know nothing about him, and never expect to know anything about him. But
I know the story of his family, and I know that he’s no right in ours.
And what’s more, he knows it too—if he were a man with any conscience or
self-respect, he’d not consent to ruin Sylvia’s life!”

“Aunt Nannie,” broke in the girl, “is one to think of nothing in
marriage but worldly pride?”

“Worldly pride!” ejaculated the other. “You call it worldly
pride—because you, who have been the favorite child of the Castlemans,
who have been given every luxury, every privilege, are asked not to
trample your sisters and cousins! To give way to a blind passion, and
put a stain upon our name that will last for generations! Where do you
suppose you’d have been to-day if your forefathers had acted in such
fashion? Do you imagine that you’d have been the belle of Castleman
Hall, the most sought-after girl in the state?”

That was the argument. For some minutes Mrs. Chilton went on to pour it
forth. And angry as she was, Sylvia could not but feel the force of it,
and realize the effect it was producing on the other members of the
council. It was not the voice of a woman speaking; it was the voice of
something greater than any of them, or than all of them together—a thing
that had come from dim-distant ages, and would continue into an
impenetrable future. It was the voice of the Family! No light thing it
was, in truth, to be the favorite daughter of the Castlemans! Not a
responsibility one could evade, an honor one could decline!

“You are where you are to-day,” proclaimed the speaker, “because other
women thought of you when they chose their husbands. And I have never
observed in you any unwillingness to accept the advantages they have
handed on to you, any contempt for admiration and success. You are only
a girl, of course; you can’t be expected to realize all the meaning of
your marriage to your family; but your mother and father know, and they
ought to have impressed it on you, instead of leaving you to run wild
and be trapped by the first unprincipled man that came along!”

There was a pause. The Major and his wife sat in silence, with a guilty
look upon their faces. “Worldly pride!” exclaimed Aunt Nannie, turning
upon them. “Have you told her about your own marriage?”

“What do you mean?” asked the Major.

“You know very well,” was the reply, “that Margaret, when she married
you, was head over heels in love with a nice, respectable, poor young
preacher. And that she married you, not because she was in love with
you, but because she knew that you were a noble-minded gentleman, the
head of the oldest and best family in the county.” And then Aunt Nannie
turned upon Sylvia. “Suppose,” she demanded, “that your mother had been
sentimental and silly, and had run away with the preacher—have you any
idea where you’d be now?”

Sylvia was hardly to be blamed for having no answer to this question,
which might have been too much for the most learned scientist. There was
silence in the council.

“Or take Mandeville,” pursued the Voice of the Family.

“Nannie!” protested Mandeville.

“You don’t want it talked about, I know,” said the other, “but this is a
time for truth-telling. Your Uncle Mandeville was madly in love with a
girl—a girl who had position, and money too; but he would not marry her
because she had a sister who was ‘fast,’ and he would not bring such
blood into the family.”

There was a pause. Uncle Mandeville’s head was bowed.

“And do you remember,” persisted Aunt Nannie, “that when the question
was being discussed, your brother here asked that his growing daughters
be spared having to hear about a scandal? Do you remember that?”

“Yes,” said Mandeville, “I remember that.”

“And how much nobler was such conduct than that of your Uncle Tom.
Think——”

One could feel a sudden thrill go through the assembly. “Oh!” cried Miss
Margaret, protestingly; and Mrs. Tuis exclaimed, “Nannie!”

“Think of what happened to Tom’s wife!” the other was proceeding; but
here she was stopped by a firm word from the Major. “We will not discuss
that, sister!”

There was a solemn pause, during which Sylvia and Celeste stared at each
other. They knew that Uncle Tom Harley, their mother’s brother, was an
army officer stationed in the far West; but they had never heard before
that he had a wife, and were amazed and a little frightened by the
revelation. It is in moments such as these, when the tempers of men and
women strike sparks, that one gets glimpses of the skeletons that are
hidden far back in the corners of family closets!


                                  § 25

There was a phrase which Sylvia had heard a thousand times in the
discussions of her relatives; it was “bad blood.” “Bad blood” was a
thing which possessed and terrified the Castleman imagination. Sylvia
had but the vaguest ideas of heredity. She had heard it stated that
tuberculosis and insanity were transmissible, and that one must never
marry into a family where these disorders appeared; but apparently,
also, the family considered that poverty and obscurity were
transmissible—besides the general tendency to do things of which your
neighbors disapproved. And you were warned that these evils often
skipped a generation and reappeared. You might pick out a most excellent
young man for a husband, and then see your children return to the
criminal ways of his ancestors.

That was Aunt Nannie’s argument now. When Sylvia cried, “What has Frank
Shirley done?” the reply was, “It’s not what he did, but what his father
did.”

“But,” cried the girl, “his father was innocent! I’ve heard Papa say it
a hundred times!”

“Then his uncle was guilty,” was Aunt Nannie’s response. “Somebody took
the money and gambled it away.”

“But is gambling such a terrible offence? It seems to me I’ve heard of
some Castlemans gambling.”

“If they do,” was the reply, “they gamble with their own money.”

At which Sylvia cried, “Nothing of the kind! They have gambled, and then
come to Uncle Mandeville to get him to pay their debts!”

Now that was a body-blow; for it was Aunt Nannie’s own boys who had
adopted this custom, which Sylvia had heard sternly reprehended in the
family councils. Aunt Nannie flushed, and Uncle Mandeville made haste to
interpose—“Sylvia, you should not speak so to your aunt.”

“I don’t see why not,” declared the girl. “I am saying nothing but what
is true; and I have been attacked in the thing that is most precious in
life to me.”

Here the Major felt it his duty to enter the debate. “Sylvia,” he said,
“I don’t think you quite realize your aunt’s feelings. It is no selfish
motive that leads her to make these objections.”

“Not selfish?” asked the girl. “She’s admitted it’s her fear for her own
daughters, Papa——”

“It’s just exactly as much for your own sister, Sylvia.” It was the
voice of Celeste, entering the discussion for the first time. Sylvia
stared at her, astonished, and saw her eyes alight, her face as set and
hard as Aunt Nannie’s. Sylvia realized all at once that she had an enemy
in her own house.

She was trembling violently as she made reply. “Then, Celeste, I have to
give up everything that means happiness in life to me, because I might
frighten away rich suitors from my sister?”

“Sylvia,” put in the Major, gravely, before Celeste could speak, “you
must not say things like that. It is not because Frank Shirley is poor
that we are objecting. The pride of the Castlemans is not simply a pride
of worldly power.”

“She degrades us and degrades herself when she implies it!” exclaimed
Aunt Nannie.

“It is a high and great pride,” continued the Major. “The pride of a
race of men and women who have scorned ignoble conduct and held
themselves above all dishonor. That is no weak or shallow thing, Sylvia.
It is a thing which sustains and upholds us at every moment of our
lives: that we are living, not merely for our individual selves, but for
all the generations that are to be. It may seem a cruel thing that the
sins of the fathers should be visited upon the children, but it is a law
of God. It was something that Bob Shirley himself said to me, with tears
in his eyes—that his children and his children’s children would have to
pay for what had been done.”

“But, Papa!” cried Sylvia. “They don’t have to pay it, except that we
make them pay it!”

“You are mistaken, my child,” said the Major, quietly. “It’s not we
alone. It was the whole of society that condemned him. We cannot
possibly wipe out the blot on the Shirley escutcheon.”

“We can only drag ourselves down with them!” exclaimed Aunt Nannie.

“Why, it’s just as if we said that going to prison was nothing!” cried
Celeste.

“You must remember how many people there are looking up to us, Sylvia,”
put in Uncle Mandeville, solemnly.

There they were, all in chorus; Sylvia gazed in anguish from one to
another. She gazed at her mother, just at the moment that that good lady
was preparing to express her opinion. For the particular thing which
held the imagination of “Miss Margaret” in thrall was this vision of the
Castlemans living their life as it were upon a stage, with the lower
orders in the pit looking on, imbibing instruction and inspiration from
the action of the lofty drama.

Sylvia had heard it all before, and she could not bear to listen to it
now. The tears, which had long been in her eyes, suddenly began to roll
down her cheeks; she sprang up, exclaiming passionately, “You are all
against me! Everyone of you!”

“Sylvia,” said her father, in distress, “that is not true!”

“We would wade through blood for you!” exclaimed Uncle Mandeville—who
was always looking for a chance to shoot somebody for the honor of the
Castleman name.

“We are thinking of nothing but your own future,” said the Major. “You
are only a child, Sylvia——”

But Sylvia cried, “I can’t bear any more! You promised to stand by me,
Papa—and now you let Aunt Nannie come here and persuade you—Mamma
too—all of you! You will break my heart!” And so saying she fled from
the room, leaving the family council to proceed as best it could without
her.


                                  § 26

Sylvia shut herself in her room and had a good, exhaustive cry. Then,
with her soul atmosphere cleared, she set to work to think out her
problem.

She had to admit that the family had presented a strong case. There was
the matter of heredity, for example. Just how much likelihood might
there be, in the event of her marrying Frank, of her finding herself
with children of evil tendencies? Just what truth might there be in Aunt
Nannie’s point of view, that he was a selfish man, seeking to redeem his
family fortunes by allying himself with the Castlemans? The question
sounded cold-blooded, but then Sylvia always had to face the truth.

Also there was the problem, to what extent a girl ought to sacrifice
herself to her family. There was no denying that they had done much for
her. She had been as their right eye to them; and what did she owe them
in return? There was no one of them whom she did not love, sincerely,
intensely; there was no one over whose sorrows she had not wept, whose
burdens she had not borne. And now she faced the fact that if she
married Frank Shirley, she would cause them unhappiness. She might argue
that they had no right to be unhappy; but that did not alter the
fact—they would be unhappy. Sylvia’s life so far had been a process of
bringing other people joy; and now, suddenly, she found herself in a
dilemma where it was necessary for her to cause pain. Upon whom ought it
to fall—upon her mother and father, her uncles and aunts—or upon Frank
Shirley and herself?

Of all the arguments which produced an effect upon her, the most
powerful was that embodied in Aunt Nannie’s phrase, “a blind passion.”
Sylvia had been taught to think of “passion” as something low and
shameful; she did not like the vision of herself as a weak, infatuated
creature, throwing away all that other people had striven to give her.
Many were the phrases whereby all her life she had heard such conduct
scorned; there was a phrase from the Bible that was often
cited—something about “inordinate affection.” Just what was the
difference between ordinate and inordinate affection? And how was she to
decide in which category to place her love for Frank Shirley?

For the greater part of two days and two nights Sylvia debated these
problems; and then she went to her father. The color was gone from her
cheeks, and she was visibly thinner; but her mind was made up.

She told the Major all the doubts that had beset her and all the
arguments she had considered. She set forth his contention that the
pride of the Castlemans was not a “worldly pride;” and then she
announced her conclusion, which was that he was permitting himself to be
carried along, against his own better judgment, by the vanity of the
women of his family.

Needless to say, the Major was startled by this pronouncement, delivered
with all the solemnity of a pontiff _ex cathedra_. But Sylvia was ready
with her proofs. There was Aunt Nannie, scheming and plotting day and
night to make great marriages for her children. Spending her husband’s
money in ways he disapproved, and getting—what? Was there a single one
of her children that was happy? Was there a single couple—for all the
rich marriages—that wasn’t living beyond its income, and jealous of
other people who were able to spend more? Harley, grumbling because he
couldn’t have a motor of his own—Clive, because he couldn’t afford to
marry the girl he loved! And both of them drinking and gambling, and
forcing Uncle Mandeville to pay their debts.

“Sylvia, you know I have protested to your Aunt Nannie.”

“Yes, Papa—but meantime you’re ruining your own health and fortune to
enable your daughters to run the same race. Here’s Celeste, like a hound
in the leash, eager to have her chance—just Aunt Nannie all over again!
I know, Papa—it’s terrible, and I can’t bear to hurt you with it, but I
have to tell you what my own decision is. I love Frank Shirley; I think
my love for him is a true love, and I can’t for a moment think of giving
it up. I’m sorry to have to break faith with the Family; I can only
plead that I didn’t understand the bargain when I made it, and that I
shall take care not to make my debt any greater.”

“What do you mean, Sylvia?”

“I mean that I want to give up the social game. I want to stop spending
fortunes on clothes and travel and luxuries; I want to stop being
paraded round and exhibited to men I’m not interested in. I want you to
give me a little money—just what I need to live—and let me go to New
York to study music for a year or two more, until I am able to teach and
earn my own living.”

“Earn your own living! _Sylvia!_”

“Precisely, Papa. And meantime, Frank can go through college and law
school, and when we can take care of ourselves, we’ll marry. That’s my
plan, and I’m serious about it—I want you to let me do it this year.”

And there sat the poor Major, staring at her, his face a study of
unutterable emotions, whispering to himself, “My God! My God!”

When Sylvia told me about this scene I reminded her of her experience
with the young clergyman who had come to convert her from heresy. “Don’t
you see now,” I asked, “why he called you the most dangerous woman in
Castleman County?”


                                  § 27

This procedure of Sylvia’s was a beautiful illustration of what the
military strategists call an “offensive defence.” By the simple
suggestion of earning her own living, she got everything else in the
world that she wanted. It was agreed that she might make known her
engagement to Frank Shirley. It was agreed that she need have no more
money spent upon clothes and parties. Most important of all, it was
agreed that Aunt Nannie was to be informed that Sylvia’s course was
approved by her parents, and that Frank Shirley was to be welcomed to
Castleman Hall.

But of course she was not to be allowed to earn money. Her father made
it clear that the bare suggestion of this caused him more unhappiness
than she could endure to inflict. When she protested, “I want to learn
something useful!” the dear old Major was ready with the proposition
that they learn something useful together; and forthwith unlocked the
diamond-paned doors of the old mahogany book-cases, and dragged forth
dust-covered sets of Grote’s “History of Greece,” and Hume’s “History of
England,” and Jefferson Davis’ “Rise and Fall of the Confederate
Government”—out of which ponderous volumes Sylvia read aloud to him for
several hours each day thereafter.

So from now on this is to be the story of a wholly reformed and
chastened huntress of hearts. No more for her the tournaments of
coquetry, no more the trumpets of the ball-room peal. No longer shall we
behold her, clad in armor of chiffon and real lace, with breastplate of
American beauty roses and helmet of gold and pearls. No longer shall we
see the arrows of her red-brown eyes flying over the stricken field,
deep-dyed with the heart’s blood of Masculinity. Instead of this the
dusty tome and the midnight oil and the green eye-shade confront us; we
behold the uncanny spectacle of the loveliest of created mortals clad in
blue stockings and black-rimmed spectacles.—All this scintillating wit,
I make haste to explain, is not mine, but something which Avery
Crittenden, the town wag, dashed off in a moment of illumination, and
which appeared in the Castleman County _Register_ (no names, if you
please!) a couple of weeks after the news of Sylvia’s reformation had
stunned the world.

I wish that space were less limited, so that I could tell you how
Castleman County received the tidings, and some few of the comical
episodes in the long war which it waged to break down her resolution of
withdrawal. It was the light of their eyes going out, and they could not
and would not be reconciled to it. They wrote letters, they sent
telegrams; they would come and literally besiege the house—sit in the
parlor and condole with “Miss Margaret,” no longer because Sylvia
refused to marry them, but merely because she refused to lead the german
with them! They would come with bands of music, with negro singers to
serenade her. One spring night a whole fancy-dress ball adjourned by
unanimous consent, and stormed the terraces of Castleman Hall and held
its revels under the windows; and so of course Sylvia had to stop trying
to read about Walpole’s ministry and invite them in and give them wine
and cake. On the evening of one of the club dances there was an
organized conspiracy; seventeen of her old sweethearts sent her roses,
and when in spite of this she did not come, the next day came seventeen
messengers, bearing seventeen packages, each containing a little cupid
wrapped in cotton-wool—but with his wings broken!

Such was the pressure from outside; and within—there would be a new gown
sent by Uncle Mandeville, who was on another spree in New Orleans; a
gown that was really a dream of beauty and a crime not to wear. Or there
would be talk at the table about Dolly Witherspoon, Sylvia’s chief
rival, and the triumph she had won at the cotillion last night; how
Stanley Pendleton was “rushing” her, and how Cousin Harley had been
snubbed by her. And then some one gave a ball, and Charlie Peyton rang
up to say that he was getting drunk and going to the devil unless Sylvia
would come and dance with him! And when this device succeeded, and the
rumor of it spread—how many of the nicest boys in the county took to
getting drunk and going to the devil, because Sylvia would not come and
dance with them!

I mention these things in order that you may understand that, sincere as
Sylvia was in her effort to withdraw from “society,” she was not
entirely successful. She still met “eligible” men, and she was still an
object of family concern. A few days after the council, she had been
surprised by a visit from Aunt Nannie, who came to apologize and make
peace. “I want you to know, Sylvia dear,” she declared, “that what I
said to you was said with no thought of anything but your own good.”
There was a reconciliation, with tears in the eyes of both of them—and a
renewal of the activities of Aunt Nannie. How often it happened to
Sylvia, when at some dance she fell into the clutches of an undesirable
man, that Aunt Nannie found a pretext for joining them—and presently,
without quite realizing how, Sylvia found that the man was gone, and
that she was settled for a _tête-à-tête_ with a more suitable companion!
Once she stopped to luncheon with the Bishop, and found herself being
shown a new album of photographs. There among English cathedrals and
Rhenish castles she stumbled upon a picture of the “Mansion House,” the
home of the wealthy Peytons. “What a lovely old place!” she exclaimed;
and her aunt remarked, “Charlie will inherit that, lucky boy!”

She remembered also the case of Ned Scott, the young West Pointer who
came home on furlough, setting all the girls’ hearts aflutter with his
gray and gold gorgeousness. “My, what a handsome fellow!” exclaimed Aunt
Nannie. “It makes me happy just to watch him walk!”

“An army man always has a good social position,” remarked “Miss
Margaret,” casually.

“And an assured income,” added Aunt Varina, timidly.

“He has a mole on his nose,” observed Sylvia.


                                  § 28

Frank Shirley had passed the midwinter examinations at Harvard, and was
settled in the dormitory of his fathers; and so for a while the acute
agitation subsided. It began again in the summer, however—when Sylvia
proposed staying at the Hall, instead of going with the family to the
summer-place in the mountains of North Carolina. It was obvious that
this was in order to be near her lover; and so the whole battle had to
be fought over again. Aunt Nannie was unable to understand how Sylvia
could be willing to “publish her infatuation to the world.”

“But I have only the summer when I can see him,” the girl argued.

“But even so, my dear—to give up everything else, to change all your
plans, the plans of your whole family!”

“Nobody need change, Aunt Nannie. Aunt Varina will stay with me gladly.”

“Others have to stay, if it’s only to hide what you are doing. It’s not
decent, Sylvia! Believe me, you will lose the man’s own respect if you
behave so. No man can permanently respect a woman who betrays her
feelings so openly.”

“My dear Aunt Nannie,” said Sylvia, quietly, “I am quite sure that I
know Frank Shirley better than you do.”

“Poor, deluded child,” was Mrs. Chilton’s comment. “You’ll find to your
sorrow some day that men are all alike!”

But the girl was obdurate. The family had to proceed to desperate
measures. First her mother declared that she would stay also—she must
remain to protect her unfortunate child. And then, of course, the Major
decided that it was his duty to remain. There came the question of
Celeste, who had planned a house party, and foresaw the spoiling of her
fun by the selfishness of her sister. There was also the baby—the
precious, ineffable baby, the heir of all the might, majesty and
dominion of the Lysles. The family physician intervened—the child must
positively have the mountain air. Also the Major’s liver trouble was
serious, he was sleeping badly and working too hard, and was in
desperate need of a change. Prompted by Aunt Nannie, the doctor said
this in Sylvia’s hearing—and settled the matter.

It had been Frank’s idea to remain at Cambridge and study during the
summer, so as to make up some “conditions;” but when he learned that
Sylvia intended to remain at the Hall, he decided to stand the expense
of coming home. He arrived there to find that she had suddenly changed
her mind and was going—and offering but slight explanation of her
change. Sylvia was intensely humiliated because of the attitude of her
family, and was trying to spare Frank the pain of knowing about it.

So came the beginning of unhappiness between them. Frank was acutely
conscious of his inferiority to her in all worldly ways. And he knew
that her relatives were trying to break down her resolution. He could
not believe that they would succeed; and yet, there was a bitter and
disillusioned man within him who could not believe that they would fail.
In his soul there were always thorns of doubt, which festered, and now
and then would cause him pangs of agony. But he was as proud as any
savage, and would have died before he would ask for mercy. When he
learned that she was going away from him, for no better reason than her
relatives’ objections, he felt that she did not care enough for him. And
then, when he did not protest, it was Sylvia’s turn to worry. So it
really did not matter to him whether she stayed or not! It might be that
Aunt Nannie was right after all, that a man ceased to love a woman who
gave herself too freely.


                                  § 29

The matter was complicated by the episode of Beauregard Dabney, about
which I have to tell.

You have heard, perhaps, of the Dabneys of Charleston; the names of
three of them—Beauregard’s grandfather and two great-uncles—may be read
upon the memorial tablets in the stately old church which is the city’s
pride. In Charleston they have a real aristocracy—gentlemen so poor that
they wear their cuffs all ragged, yet are received with homage in the
proudest homes in the South. The Dabneys had a city mansion with front
steps crumbling away, and a country house which would not keep out the
rain; and yet when Beauregard, the young scion of the house, fell prey
to the charm and animation of Harriet Atkinson, whose father’s street
railroad was equal to a mint, the family regarded it as the greatest
calamity since Appomattox.

He had followed Harriet to Castleman County; and when the news got out,
a detachment of uncles and aunts came flying, and captured the poor boy,
and were on the point of shipping him home, when Harriet called Sylvia
to the rescue. Sylvia could impress even the Dabneys; and if only she
would have Beauregard and one of the aunts invited to Castleman Hall, it
might yet be possible to save the situation.

Sylvia had met young Dabney once, when visiting in Charleston. She
remembered him as an effeminate-mannered youth, with what would have
been a doll-baby face but for the fact that the nose caved in in the
middle in a disturbing way. “Tell me, Harriet,” she asked, when she met
her friend—“are you in love with him?”

“I don’t know,” said Harriet. “I’m afraid I’m not—at least, not very
much.”

“But why do you want to marry a man you don’t love?”

Harriet was driving, and she grasped the reins tightly and gave the
horse a flick with the whip. “Sunny,” she said, “you might as well face
the fact—I could never fall in love as you have. I don’t believe in it.
I wouldn’t want to. I’d never let myself trust a man that much.”

“But then, why marry?”

“I have to marry. What can I do? I’m tired of being chaperoned, and I
don’t want to be an old maid.”

Sylvia pondered for a moment. “Suppose,” she said, “that you should
marry him, and then meet a man you loved?”

“I’ve already answered that—it won’t happen. I’m too selfish.” She
paused, and then added, “It’s all right, Sunny. I’ve figured over it,
and I’m not making any mistake. He’s a good fellow, and I like him. He’s
a gentleman—he does not offend me. Also, he’s very much in love with me,
which is the best way; I’ll always be the boss in my own home. He’s
respected, and I’ll help out my poor struggling family if I marry him.
You know how it is, Sunny—I vowed I’d never be a climber, but it’s hard
to pull back when your people are eager for the heights. And then, too,
it’s always a temptation to want to go where you’re told you can’t go.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Sylvia. “But that’s a joke, and marrying’s a
serious matter.”

“It’s only that because we make it so,” retorted the other. “I find
myself bored to death, and here’s something that rouses my fighting
blood. They say I sha’n’t have him—and so I want him. I’m going to break
into that family, and then I’m going to shake the rats out of the hair
of some of those old maid aunts of his!”

She laughed savagely and drove on for a while. “Sunny,” she resumed at
last, “you’re all right. You know it, but I tell you so anyway. You
never were a snob that I know—but I’m cynical enough to say that it’s
only because you are too proud. Can you imagine how you’d feel if
anybody tried to patronize you? Can you imagine how you’d feel if
everybody did it? I’m tired of it—don’t you see? And Beauregard is my
way of escape. I’m going to marry him if I possibly can; my mind is made
up to it. I’ve got the whole plan of campaign laid out—your part
included.”

“What’s my part, Harriet?”

“It’s very simple. I want you to let Beauregard fall in love with you.”

“With _me_!”

“Yes. I want you to give him the worst punishment you ever gave a man in
your life.”

“But what’s that for?”

“He’s in love with me—he wants me—and he’s too much of a coward to marry
me. And I want to see him suffer for it—as only you can make him. I want
you to take him and maul him, I want you to bray him and pound him in
your mortar, I want you to roll him and toss him about, to walk on him
and stamp on him, to beat him to a jelly and grind him to a powder! I
want you to keep it up till he’s thoroughly reduced—and then you can
turn him over to me.”

“And then you will heal him?” inquired Sylvia—who had not been alarmed
by this bloodthirsty discourse.

“Perhaps I will and perhaps I won’t,” said the other. “What is there in
the maxims of Lady Dee about a broken heart?”

“The best way to catch a man,” quoted Sylvia, “is on the rebound!”


                                  § 30

I don’t know how this adventure will seem to you. To me it was
atrocious; but Sylvia undertook it with a child’s delight.

“I had on a white hat with pink roses,” she said, when she told me about
it; “and I could always do anything to a man when I had pink roses on.
Beauregard was waiting for Harriet to go driving when I first saw him;
she was upstairs, late on purpose. He said something about my looking
like a rose myself—he was the most obvious of human creatures. And when
he asked me to get in and sit by him, I said, ‘Harriet will be jealous.’
Of course he was charmed at the idea of Harriet’s being jealous. So he
asked me to take a little drive with him, and we stayed out an hour—and
by the time we got back, I had him!”

Two days later he was on his knees begging Sylvia to marry him. At
which, of course, she was horrified. “Why, you’re supposed to be in love
with my best friend!”

He was frank about it, poor soul. “Of course, Miss Sylvia,” he
explained, “I was in love with Harriet; and Harriet’s a fine girl, all
right. It’s bad about her family, but I thought we could go away where
nobody knew her, and people would accept her as my wife, and they’d soon
forget. She’s jolly and interesting, and all that. But you understand,
surely, Miss Sylvia—no man would marry Harriet Atkinson if he could get
you. You—you’re quite different, Miss Sylvia. You’re one of us!”

He made Sylvia furious by his matter-of-fact snobbery; and so she was
lovely to him. She told him that she, too, had been in love, but her
family was opposed to the man, and now she was very unhappy. She told
him that she was not worthy of the love of such a man as he. Poor
Beauregard tried his best to reassure her, and followed her about day
and night for ten days, and was a most dreadful nuisance.

Each day she would report to Harriet the stage of infatuation to which
he had come; until at last Harriet’s thirst for blood was satisfied.
Then, dressed all in snow-white muslin and lace, Sylvia took her devoted
suitor off to a seat in a distant grape-arbor, and there administered
the dose she had prepared for him. “Mr. Dabney,” she said, “this joke
has got to be such a bore that I can’t stand it.”

“What joke?” asked Beauregard, innocently.

“You know that I have called myself a friend of Harriet Atkinson’s. When
you came to me and told me that you loved her, but wanted to marry me
because my family was better than hers—did it never occur to you how it
would strike her friend? Evidently not. Well, let me tell you then—I
could think that it was the stupidest joke I had ever heard, or else
that you were the most arrogant jack that ever walked on two legs. I
said that I would punish you—and I’ve been doing it. You must understand
that I never felt the least particle of interest in you; I never met a
man who’d be less apt to attract me, and I can’t see how you managed to
interest Harriet. I assure you you’ve no reason for holding the
extravagant opinion of yourself which you do.”

The poor youth sat staring at her, unable to believe his ears. And so,
of course, Sylvia began to feel sorry for him. “I can see,” she said,
“that there might be something in you to like—if only you had the
courage to be yourself. But you’re so terrorized by your aunts and
uncles, you’ve let them make you into such a dreadful snob——”

She paused. “You really think I am a snob?” he cried.

“The worst I ever met. I couldn’t bring myself to discuss it with you.
Let me give you this one piece of advice, though; if you think you’re
too good to marry a girl, pray find it out before you tell her that you
love her. Of course, I’m not sorry that it happened this time, for you
won’t break Harriet’s heart, and she’s a thousand times too good for
you. So I’m not sorry that you’ve lost her.”

“You—you think that I’ve lost her, Miss Sylvia?” gasped the other.

“Lost her?” echoed Sylvia. “Why, you don’t mean—” But then she stopped.
She must not make it impossible for him to think of Harriet again.
“You’ve lost her, unless she’s a great deal more generous than I’d ever
be.”

Beauregard took his drubbing very well. He persuaded Sylvia to discuss
his snobbery with him, and confessed the offence, and got up quite a
fire of indignation against his banded relatives. Also he admitted that
Harriet was too good for him, and that he had treated her like a cad.
His speeches grew shorter and his manner more anxious, and Sylvia could
see that his main thought was to get back and find out if he’d really
lost Harriet.

So she called her friend up on the ’phone and announced, “He’s coming.
Get on your prettiest dress without delay!” And then Sylvia went away
and had a cry—first, because she had said such cruel things, and second,
because her mother and father would be unhappy when they learned that
Beauregard had escaped her.

An hour later Harriet called up to say that it was all over. “Did you
accept him?” asked Sylvia.

To which the other answered, “You may trust me now, Sunny! You have made
him into a soft dough, and I’ll knead him.” And sure enough, the new
Beauregard Dabney sent his aunts and uncles flying, and followed Harriet
to her summer home on the Gulf, and was hardly to be induced to wait for
a conventional wedding—so eager was he to prove to himself and to Sylvia
Castleman that he was really not a coward and a snob!


                                  § 31

It was in the midst of these adventures that Frank Shirley made his
unexpected return from the North. On the day when he came to see her
first, she naturally forgot about the existence of Beauregard
Dabney—until Beauregard suddenly appeared and flew into a fit of
jealousy. Then the imp of mischievousness got hold of Sylvia; she found
herself wondering, “Would it be possible for Frank to be jealous of
Beauregard? And if he was, how would he behave?”

“I knew it was dreadful then,” she told me, “but I couldn’t have helped
it if I’d been risking my life. I had to see what Frank would do when he
was jealous. I simply _had_ to! It was a kind of insanity!”

So she tried it, and did not get much fun out of the experience. Frank
was like an Indian in captivity; he could not be made to cry out under
torture. He saw Beauregard’s position, and the unconcealed delight of
the family; but he set his lips together and never gave a sign. Sylvia
was going away for the summer, and Beauregard was talking about
following her. There would be other suitors following her, no doubt—and
new ones on the ground. Frank went home, and Sylvia did not hear from
him for several days.

The Beauregard episode came to its appointed end, and then, in a letter
to Frank, Sylvia mentioned that she had accomplished her purpose—the
youth was engaged to Harriet. She thought this was explaining things.
But how could Frank imagine the complications of the art of
man-catching? Was Sylvia jesting with him, or trying to blind him, or
apologizing to him, or what?

Sylvia kept putting off her start to the mountains—she could not bear to
go while things were in such a state between them. But, while she was
still hesitating, to her consternation she received a note from him
saying that he was starting for Colorado. He had received a telegram
that an aunt was dead; there were business matters to be attended
to—some property which for his sisters’ sake could not be neglected. It
was a cold, business-like note, with not a word of sorrow at parting;
and Sylvia shed tears over it. Such is the irrationality of those in
love, she had forgotten all about young Dabney or any other cause for
doubt and unhappiness she might have given Frank. She thought that he,
and he alone, had been unkind. And meantime, Frank had made up his mind
that she was repenting of her engagement, and that it was his duty to
make it easy for her to withdraw.

So the two spent an unhappy summer. Sylvia let herself be taken about to
parties, but she grew more weary every hour of the social game. “I’ve
smiled until I’ve got the lockjaw,” she would say. She was losing weight
and growing pale, in spite of the mountain air.

September came, and Harriet’s wedding was set for the next month, and
likewise Frank’s return to Harvard. He came back from the West, and
Sylvia wrote asking him to come and visit her for a week. But to her
consternation there came in reply a polite refusal from Frank. There was
so much that needed his attention on the plantation, and some studying
that must be done if he was to make good. For three days Sylvia
struggled with herself, the last stand of that barbarian pride of hers;
then she gave way completely and sent him a telegram: “Please come at
once.”

She would have recalled it an hour afterwards, but it was too late; and
that evening she received an answer, to the effect that he would arrive
in the morning. She spent a sleepless night imagining his coming, and a
score of different ways in which she would meet him. She would throw
herself at his feet and beg him not to torture her; she would array
herself in her newest gown and fascinate him in the good old way; she
would climb once more upon the pinnacle of her pride and compel him to
humble himself before her.

In the morning she drove to meet him, together with a cousin who had
come on the same train. She never stood a worse social ordeal than that
drive and the luncheon with the family. But at last they were alone
together, and sat gazing at each other with eyes full of bewilderment
and pain.

“Sylvia,” said Frank, finally, “you do not look happy.”

“Why should I be happy?” she asked.

There was a pause. “Listen,” he said. “Can we not deal honestly with
each other—openly and sincerely, for once. Surely that is the best way,
Sylvia—no matter how much it hurts.”

“I am ready to do it,” she replied.

“You don’t have to spare my feelings,” he went on. “I know all you have
to contend with, and I sha’n’t blame you. The one thing I can’t bear is
to be played with, to be lured by false hopes, to drag on and on,
tormented by uncertainty.”

She was gazing at him, bewildered. “Why do you say all that, Frank?” she
cried.

“Why should I not say it?” he asked; and again they stared at each
other.

Suddenly she broke out, in a voice full of anguish, “Frank, this is what
I want to know—answer me this! Do you love me?”

“Do I love you?” he echoed.

“Yes,”—and with greater intensity, “I want you to be honest about it!”

“Honey!” he said, his voice trembling, “it’s the question of whether I’m
allowed to love you. It’s so terrible to me—I can’t stand the
uncertainty.”

She cried again, “But do you _want_ to love me?”

She heard his voice break, she saw the emotion that was shaking him, and
with a sudden sob she was in his arms. “Oh, Frank, Frank!” she
exclaimed. “What _have_ we been doing to each other?”

And so at last the fog of misunderstanding was lifted. “Sweetheart,” he
exclaimed, “what could you have been thinking?”

“I thought you had stopped loving me because I had been too bold,
because I had been unwomanly.”

“Why, Sylvia, you must be mad! Have I not been hungry for your love?”

“Oh, tell me that I can love you!” she wailed. “Tell me that you won’t
grow tired of me if I love you!”

He clasped her in his arms and covered her lips with kisses; he soothed
her like a frightened child. She was free now to sob out her grief, to
tell him what she had felt throughout all these months of misery. “Oh,
why didn’t you come to me like this before?” she asked.

“But, Sylvia,” he answered, “how could I know? I saw you letting another
man make love to you——”

“But, Frank, that was only a joke!”

“But how could I know that?”

“How could you imagine anything else? That I could prefer Beauregard
Dabney to you!”

“That’s easy to say,” he replied. “But there was your family—I knew what
they’d prefer, and I saw how they were struggling to keep us apart. And
what was I to think—why should you be giving him your time, unless you
wanted to let me know——”

“Ah, don’t say that! Don’t say that!” she cried, quickly. “It’s wicked
that such a thing should have happened.”

“We must learn to talk things out frankly,” he said. “For one thing you
must not let your family come between us again. You must free me from
this dreadful fear that they are going to take you from me.”

And suddenly Sylvia blazed up. All the misunderstanding had come from
the opposition of her family, and her unwillingness to talk to Frank
about it. “I never saw it so clearly before,” she exclaimed. “Frank, I
can never make them see things my way. And they’ll always have this
dreadful power over me—because I love them so!”

“What can you do then?” he asked.

“I’m going to betray them to you!” she cried. And as he looked puzzled,
she went on, “I’m going to tell you about them! I’m going to tell you
everything they’ve said and done, and everything they may say and do in
the future!”

“And that,” said Frank to me, “was the most loving thing she ever said!”
Such was the power, in Sylvia’s world, of the ideal of the Family!




                                BOOK II
                            _Sylvia Lingers_


                                  § 1

At the railroad station in Boston, on an afternoon in May, Sylvia
Castleman and Mrs. Tuis were arriving from New York. You must picture
Sylvia in a pale grey cloak, with a pale blue blouse; also a grey hat
with broad brim and “bluets” on top. You can imagine, perhaps, how her
colors shone from under it. She was meeting Frank for the first time in
eight months.

The host of the occasion was Cousin Harley Chilton, now also a student
at Harvard. It was mid-afternoon, and he had borrowed a motor-car to
show her something of Cambridge. Their bags were sent to their hotel in
the city, and Frank took his place by Sylvia’s side. They had to talk
about commonplaces, but he could feel her delight and eagerness like an
electric radiance. As they flew over the long bridge, he wrapped a robe
about her. What a thrill went through him as he touched her! “Oh, I’m so
happy! so happy!” she exclaimed, her eyes shining into his. He had given
her a new name in his letters, and he whispered it now into her ear:
“Lady Sunshine! Lady Sunshine!”

They came to a vista of dark stone buildings, buried in the foliage of
enormous elms. “Here are the grounds,” he said; and Sylvia cried, “Oh
Harley, go slowly. I want to see them.” Her cousin complied, and Frank
began pointing out the various buildings by name.

But suddenly the car drew in by the curb and stopped. Harley leaned
forward, remarking, “Spark-plug loose, I think.”

Now the sparking seemed to be all right, so far as Frank could judge,
but he did not know very much about automobiles. In general he was a
guileless nature, and did not understand that this was the beginning of
Sylvia’s social career at Harvard. But Sylvia, who knew about
automobiles, and still more about human nature, saw two men strolling in
her direction, and now about twenty yards away—upper-classmen, clad in
white flannel trousers, blue coats, huge straw hats like baskets, and
ties knotted with that elaborately studied carelessness which means that
the wearer has spent fifteen minutes before the mirror prior to emerging
from his room.

Naturally Sylvia looked at them, for they were interesting figures; and
naturally they looked back, for Sylvia was an interesting figure too.
One could not hear, but could almost see them exclaiming: “By Jove! Who
is she?” They went by—almost, but not quite. They stopped, half turned
and stood hesitating.

Harley looked up from his spark-plugs, a frown of annoyance on his face.
He glanced toward the two men. “Hello, Harmon,” he said.

“Hello, Chilton,” was the reply. “Something wrong?”

“Yes,” said Harley. “Can’t make it out.”

The two approached, lifting their hats, the one who had spoken a trifle
in advance. “Can I help?” he asked, solicitously.

“I think I can manage it,” answered Harley; but the men did not move on.
“Whose car?” asked the one called Harmon.

“Bert Wilson’s,” said Harley. “I don’t know its tricks.”

The other’s eyes swept the car, and of course rested on Sylvia, who was
in the seat nearest the curb. That made an awkward moment—as he intended
it should. “Mr. Harmon,” said Harley, “let me present you to my cousin,
Miss Castleman.”

The man brightened instantly and made a bow. “I am delighted to meet
you, Miss Castleman,” he said, and introduced his companion. “You have
just arrived?” he inquired.

“Yes,” said Sylvia.

“But you’ve been here before?”

“Never befo-ah,” said Sylvia; whereupon he knew from what part of the
world she had come. There began an animated conversation—Harley and his
spark-plugs being forgotten entirely.

All this Frank watched, sitting back in his seat in silence. He knew
these men to be Seniors, high and mighty swells from the “Gold Coast;”
but he had never been introduced to them, and so he was technically as
much a stranger to them as if he had just arrived from the far South
himself. Sylvia, who was new to the social customs of Harvard, never
dreamed of this situation, and so left him to watch the comedy
undisturbed.

There came along a couple of Freshmen; classmates of Harley’s and
members of his set. He was buried in his labors, but they were not to be
put off. “What’s the matter, old man?” they asked; and when he answered,
“Don’t know,” they stood, and waited for him to find out, stealing
meantime fascinated glances at the vision in the car.

Next came two street-boys; and of course street-boys always stop and
stare when there is a car out of order. Then came an old gentleman, who
paused, smiling benevolently, as he might have paused to survey a
florist’s window. So there was Sylvia, quite by accident, and in perfect
innocence, holding a levee on the sidewalk, with two men whose ties
proclaimed them members of an ineffable and awe-inspiring “final” club
doing homage to her.

“My cousin’s a Freshman,” she was saying. “So I’ll have three years more
to come here.”

“Oh, but think of us!” exclaimed the basket-hats together. “We go out
next month!”

“Can’t you manage to fail in your exams?” she inquired. “Or is that
impossible at Harvard?” She looked from one to another, and in the laugh
that followed even the street-boys and the benevolent old gentleman
joined.

By that time the gathering was assuming the proportions of a scandal.
Men were coming from the “Yard” to see what was the matter.

“Hello, Frank Shirley,” called a voice. “Anybody hurt?” And Sylvia
answered in a low voice, “Yes, several.” She looked straight into
Harmon’s eyes, and she got his answer—that she had not spoken too
rashly.

The _séance_ came to a sudden end, because Harley realized that he was
subjecting club-men to an ordeal on the street. He straightened up from
his spark-plug. “I think she’s all right now,” he said—and to one of the
street-boys, “Crank her up, there.”

“Where are you stopping?” asked Harmon.

Harley named the hotel, but did not take the hint—which was presumptuous
in a Freshman.

“Good-bye, Miss Castleman,” said the Senior, wistfully; and the crowd
parted and the car went on.

After which Sylvia sank back in her seat and looked at Frank and
laughed. “Isn’t it wonderful,” she exclaimed, “what a woman can do with
her eyes!”


                                  § 2

They returned to the hotel, where there were engagements—a whole world
waiting to be conquered. But Sylvia delivered an ultimatum; she would
pay no attention to anyone until she had an hour alone with Frank. When
Aunt Varina had meekly left her, she first flew into Frank’s arms and
permitted him to kiss her; and then, seated decorously in a separate
chair, she proceeded to explain to him the mystery of her presence
there.

She had come to New York to buy clothes for herself and the rest of the
family; that much Frank had known. He had begged her to run up to
Cambridge, but the family had refused permission. Celeste was going to
have a house party, the baby had been having more convulsions—these were
only two of a dozen reasons why she must return. Frank had been
intending to go down to New York to see her—when suddenly had come a
telegram, saying that she would arrive the next afternoon.

“It was my scheme,” she said, “and I expect you to be proud of me when
you hear it. If you scold me about it, Frank——!” She said this with the
tone of voice that she used when it was necessary to disarm some one.

It was difficult for Frank to imagine himself objecting to any device
which had brought her there. “Go ahead, honey,” said he.

“It has to do with Harley,” she explained. “Mother sent me one of his
letters, telling about the terrible time he’s been having here. You see,
he’s scared to death for fear he won’t make the ‘Dickey’—or that he
won’t be among the earlier tens. So they were all upset, and they’ve
been scurrying round getting letters of introduction for him, moving
heaven and earth to get him in with the right people. I read his letter,
and then suddenly the thought flashed over me, ‘There’s my chance!’
Don’t you see?”

“No,” said Frank, and shook his head—“I don’t see at all.”

“Sometimes,” said the girl, “when I think about you, I get frightened,
because—if you knew how wicked I really am—! Well, anyhow, I sat down
and wrote to Harley that he was a goose, and that if he had sense enough
to get me to Harvard, he’d make the ‘Dickey,’ and one of the ‘final’
clubs as well. I told him to write Aunt Nannie at once; and sure enough,
just about the time they got Harley’s letter, there came a telegram
saying I might come!”

It was impossible for Frank not to laugh—if it were only because Sylvia
was so happy. “So,” he said, “you’ve come to be a social puller-in for
Harley!”

“Now, Frank, don’t be horrid! I saw it this way—and it’s obvious
arithmetic: If I do this, I’ll see Frank part of every day for a couple
of weeks; if I don’t, I’ll only see him for a day when he comes to New
York. There’s only one trouble—you must promise not to mind.”

“What is it?”

“We must not tell anybody that we’re engaged. If people knew that, I
couldn’t do much with them.”

“But I’ve told some people.”

“Whom?”

“Well, my room-mate.”

“He’s not a club man, so that won’t matter. It doesn’t really matter, if
we simply don’t announce it. You must promise not to mind, Frank—be
good, and let me have my fun in my foolish way, and you sit by and
smile, as you did in the car.”

Frank’s answer was that he expected to sit by and smile all his life; a
statement which led to a discussion between them, for Sylvia made
objection to his desire to shrink from the world, and declared that she
meant to fight for him, and manage him, and make something out of him.
When these discussions arose he would laugh, in his quiet, good-natured
way, and picture himself as a diplomat at St. James’, wearing
knee-breeches and winning new empires by means of the smiles of “Lady
Sunshine.” “But, you forget one thing,” he said—“that I came to Harvard
to learn something.”

“When you go out into the world,” propounded Sylvia, “you’ll realize
that the things one knows aren’t half so important as the people one
knows.”

Frank laughed. “That wouldn’t be such a bad motto for our Alma Mater,”
he said; then, thinking it over, “They might put it up as an
inscription, where Freshmen with social ambitions could learn it. A
motto for all college climbers—‘Not the things one knows, but the people
one knows!’”

Sylvia was looking at him, a trifle worried. “Frank,” she said, “suppose
you go through life finding fault with everything in that fashion?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “But I shall always fight a wrong when I see
one. Wait till you’ve been here a while, and you’ll see about this!”

“I ought to have come before,” she said; “I could have solved so many
problems for you. It’s the same everywhere in life—those who are out
rail at those who are in, but when you hear both sides, you see the
matter differently. I’ve a grudge against you, Frank—you misrepresented
things. You told me they had abolished the Fraternity system here, and I
didn’t know about the clubs, and so I permitted you to be a ‘goat.’”

“They call it a ‘rough-neck’ here,” he corrected.

“Well, a ‘rough-neck.’ Anyway, I let you take a back seat. And just as
if you didn’t have ability——”

“Ability!” Frank exclaimed. Then, checking himself, he went on gently to
explain the social system he had found at Harvard. In the Southern
colleges, ability and good breeding might still get a poor man
recognition. But the clubs here were run by a little group of Boston and
New York society men, who had been kept in a “set” from the day they
were born. They went to kindergarten together, to dancing school
together—their sisters had private sewing circles, instead of those at
church. They had their semi-private dormitories on Auburn Street—one
might come with a string of automobiles and a stud of polo ponies, but
he would find that his money would not rent one of those places unless
the crowd had given its O. K. They roomed apart, they ate and drank
apart, and the men in their own class never even met them.

Sylvia listened in bewilderment. “Surely, Frank,” she exclaimed, “there
must be some friendliness——”

He smiled. “Just as I said, honey—you’re judging by the South. We’ve
snobbery enough there, God knows—but some of us are kind-hearted. You
can’t imagine things up here—how cold and formal people are. They have
their millions of dollars and the social position this gives them; they
are jealous of those who have more and suspicious of those who have
less—and they’ve been that way for so long that every plain human
feeling is dead in them. Take a man like Douglas van Tuiver, for
example. You’ve heard of him, I suppose?”

“I’ve heard of the van Tuivers, of course.”

“Well, Douglas is our bright particular social star just now. He’s
inherited from three estates already—the Lord only knows how many tens
of millions in his own right. He’s gone the ‘Gold Coast’ crowd one
better—has his own private house here in Cambridge, and an apartment in
Boston also, I’m told. He entered society there at the same time that he
entered college; and he doesn’t think much of our social life—except the
little set he’d already met in Boston and New York. He’s stiff and
serious as a chief justice—self-conscious, condescending——”

“Do you know him?” asked Sylvia.

“I never met him, of course; but I see him all the time, because he’s in
some of my sections.”

“In some of your sections!” cried Sylvia. “And you never met him?”

The other laughed. “You see, honey,” he said, “how little you are able
to imagine life at Harvard! Douglas, my dear, has been yachting with
English peers; he has Scotch earls for ancestors, and an accent that he
has acquired in their honor. He sets more store by them, I suppose, than
he does by his old Knickerbocker ancestors, who left him several farms
between Fifth and Madison Avenues.”

“Is he a club man?” asked Sylvia.

“He lives to set the social standards for our clubs; a sort of _arbiter
elegantiarum_. It’s one of the sayings they attribute to him, that he
came to Harvard because American university life was in need of ‘tone.’”

“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed Sylvia; and again, in a lower voice, “Oh, dear
me!” She pondered, and then with sudden interest inquired, “He’d be a
good man for Harley to meet, wouldn’t he?”

“None better,” smiled Frank, “if he wants to make the ‘Dickey.’”

“Then,” said Sylvia, “he’s the man I’d best go after.”

The other laughed. “All right, honey. But you’ll find him hard to
interest, I warn you. His career has all been planned—he’s to marry
Dorothy Cortlandt, who’ll bring him ten or twenty millions more.”

And Sylvia set her lips in a dangerous expression. “He can marry Dorothy
Cortlandt,” she said, “but not until I’ve got through with him!”


                                  § 3

That evening was reserved for a performance of the “Glee Club;” and just
before dinner Harley came in, bubbling over with delight, to say that
Harmon had called up and invited him to bring his cousin and share his
box.

And so behold Sylvia, clad in pale blue silk, with touches of gold
embroidery and a gold band across one shoulder, swimming like a new
planet into the ken of the watchers of these brilliantly lighted skies.
There were few acquaintances of “Bob” Harmon who did not come to the
door of the box to get a closer view of the phenomenon; while the
delighted cousin found himself besieged. Sedate upper-classmen put their
arms across his shoulders, tremendous club-men got him by the coat
sleeve in the lobby. “Let us in on that, Chilton!” “Now don’t be a hog,
old man!”—“You know me, Chilton!” Yes, Harley knew them all, and
calculated to keep knowing them for some time to come.

The next morning he came early, and took Sylvia for a drive, to lay
before her the whole situation, and coach her for the part she was to
play; for this was the enemy’s country, and there were many pitfalls to
be avoided.

It ought perhaps to be explained at the outset how it happened that Aunt
Nannie, whose time was spent in erecting monuments to Southern heroes,
had sent one of her sons to the headquarters of those who had slain
them. It had come about through the seductions of a young lady named
Edith Winthrop, whose father was building a railroad through half a
dozen of the Southern states. He had brought a private-train party upon
an inspection trip, and the Major and Harley, happening to be at the
capital, had met them at a luncheon given by the Governor. Everybody
knows, of course, that the Winthrops live in Boston; and everybody in
Boston knows of Mrs. Isabel Winthrop, that charming matron whose home
has been as the axle of the Hub for the past twenty years. At Cambridge
it was at first a scandal, and later a tradition, how the lovely lady
was strolling in the “Yard” one spring evening, and a group of Seniors
broke into the merry chorus of a popular musical-comedy air—

                     “Isabella, Isabella,
                     Is a queen of good society!
                     Isabella, Isabella,
                     Is the dandy queen of Spain!”

And now Harley had come to Cambridge to lay siege to the princess of
this line. They had invited him to tea, where he had felt himself an
obscure and humiliated Freshman. In his pride he had gone away, vowing
that he would not return until he had made the “Dickey,” and made it
without any social aid from the lady of his adoration. But, alas, Harley
had found this a task of undreamed-of difficulty. There were so many
Edith Winthrops in Boston, New York, Philadelphia and other centers of
good breeding; and there were so many obscure Freshmen trying to make
the “Dickey” in order to shine before them!

“You can’t imagine how it is, Sylvia,” he said. “They don’t know us
here—we’re nobodies. I’ve met all the Southern men who amount to
anything, but it’s Eastern men who run the worth-while clubs. And it’s
almost impossible to meet them—I’d be ashamed to tell you how I’ve had
to toady.”

“Harley!” exclaimed the girl.

“I’ll tell you the facts,” he answered—“you’ll have to face them—just as
I did.”

“But how could you stay?”

He laughed. “I stayed,” he said, “because I wanted Edith.”

He paused, then continued: “First I thought I’d try football; but you
see I haven’t weight enough—I only made the Freshman ‘scrub.’ I joined
the Shooting Club—and I certainly can shoot, you know; but that hasn’t
seemed to help very much. I went in for the Banjo Club, and I’ve worked
my fingers off, and I expect to make the Board, but I don’t think that
will be enough. You see, ability really doesn’t count at all.”

“That’s what Frank said,” remarked Sylvia, sympathetically. “What is it
that counts? Learning?”

“Rot—no!” exclaimed Harley.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s knowing the right people. But you can’t manage that here—it has to
be done before you get to college. The crowd doesn’t need you, they
don’t care what you think about them—and I tell you, they know how to
give you the cold shoulder!”

Sylvia was indignant in spite of herself. “You, a Castleman!” she
exclaimed. “Why, your ancestors were governors of this place while
theirs were tavern-keepers and blacksmiths!”

“I know,” said the other—“but it isn’t ancestors that count here—it’s
being on the ground and holding on to what you’ve got.”

“They’re all rich men, I suppose?”

“Perfectly rotten! You’re simply out of it from the start. I heard of a
man last year who spent fifty thousand dollars trying to make the
‘Dickey,’ and then only got in the seventh ten! You’ve no idea of the
lengths men go to; they pull every sort of wire, social and business and
financial and political—they bring on their fathers and brothers to help
them——”

“And their cousins,” said Sylvia, and brought the discussion to an end
with a laugh. “Now come, Harley,” she said, after a pause. “Let’s get
down to business. You want me to meet the right men, and to make them
aware of the existence of my Freshman cousin. Have you got a list of the
men? Or am I to know by their ties?”

Harley named and described several she would meet. Through them she
would, of course, meet others; she must feel her way step by step, being
guided by circumstances. There was another matter, which was delicate,
but must be broached. “I don’t want to seem like a cad,” said he, “but
you see, Frank Shirley isn’t a club man—he hasn’t tried to be—”

“I understand,” said Sylvia, with a smile.

“Of course, the fact that you come from his home town, that’s excuse
enough for his knowing you. But if you make it too conspicuous—that is—”

Harley stopped. “It’s all right, Harley,” smiled Sylvia; “you may be
sure that Frank Shirley has too much of a sense of humor to want to get
in our way.”

The other hesitated over the remark. It looked like deep water, and he
decided not to venture in. “It’s not only that,” he went on—“there’s
Frank’s crowd. They’re all outsiders, and one or two of them especially
are impossible.”

“In what way?”

“Well, there’s Jack Colton, Frank’s room-mate. He’s gone out of his way
to make himself obnoxious to everybody. He’s done it deliberately, and I
suppose he has his reasons for it. I only hope he has sense enough not
to want to ‘queer’ you.”

“What’s he done?”

“He’s a Western chap—from Wyoming, I think. Seems to have more money
than he knows how to spend decently. He insisted on smoking a pipe in
his Freshman year, and when they tried to haze him, he fought. He’s wild
as anything, they say—goes off on a spree every month or two—”

“How does Frank come to be rooming with such a man?” asked Sylvia, in
surprise.

“Met him traveling, I understand. They were in a train-wreck.”

“Oh, that’s the man! But Frank didn’t tell me he was wild.”

“Well,” said the other, “Frank would naturally stand up for him. I
suppose he’s trying to keep him straight.”

There was a silence. Then suddenly Sylvia asked, “Harley, did you ever
meet Douglas van Tuiver?”

“No!” replied Harley. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing—only I heard of him, and I was thinking perhaps he’d be a good
man to help you.”

“Small doubt of that,” said the boy, with a laugh. “But it might be
difficult to meet him.”

“Why?”

“Well, he picks the people he meets. And he doesn’t come to public
affairs.”

“Stop and think a minute. Is there nobody who might know him?”

“Why—there’s Mrs. Winthrop.”

“He goes there?”

“They’re great chums, I understand. I could get her to invite you.”

But Sylvia, after a moment’s thought, shook her head. “No,” she said, “I
think I’ll let him take me to her.”

“By Jove!” laughed Harley. “That’s cool!” And then he asked, curiously,
“What makes you pick him out?”

“I don’t know,” said Sylvia. “I find myself thinking about him. You see,
I meet men like Mr. Harmon and the others last night—they’re all
obvious. I’ve known them by the dozen before, and I can always tell what
they’ll say. But this man sounds as if he might be different.

“Humph!” said Harley. “I wish you could get a chance! But I fear you’d
find him a difficult proposition. Girls must be forever throwing
themselves at his head—”

“Yes,” said Sylvia. “But I wouldn’t make that mistake.” Then, after a
pause, she added, “I think it might be good for him, too. I might make a
man of him!”


                                  § 4

There was a Senior named Thurlow, whom Sylvia had met at the “Glee Club”
affair, and who, after judicious approach through Harley and Aunt
Varina, had secured her promise to come to tea in his rooms. So she saw
one of the dormitories on Auburn Street, having such modern conveniences
as “buttons,” a squash court, and a white marble swimming pool—with a
lounging room at one end, and easy chairs from which to watch one’s
fellow mermen at play.

Thurlow showed her about his own apartments, equipped with that kind
of simplicity that is so notoriously expensive. He showed her his
tennis cups and rowing trophies, talking most interestingly about the
wonderful modern art, the pulling of an oar—in which there are no less
than seventy errors a man can commit in the “catch,” and a
hundred-and-seventy in the “stroke.” Thurlow, it appeared, must have
committed several in last year’s race, for he had snapped his oar, and
only saved the day by jumping overboard, being picked up in a state of
collapse, and reported as drowned in the first newspaper extras.

There came others of his set: Jackson, the coxswain of the crew, known
as “Little Billee,” a wizened up and drolly cynical personage; also
Bates, his room-mate, who was called “Tubby,” and was hard put to it
when the ladies asked him why, because he could not explain that he was
“a tub of guts.” The vats declared that he weighed two hundred and
twenty when he was in training for the fat man’s race; he had been
elected the official funny man of his class, and whenever he made a joke
he led off with a queer little cackle of high-pitched laughter, which
never failed to carry the company with him. There came Arlow Bynner, the
famous quarter-back, and Tom, his twin brother, so much like him that
when he had first come to college the Sophomores had dyed his hair.
There came Shackleford, millionaire man of fashion, who had been picked
for president of the new Senior Class, and who looked so immaculate that
Sylvia thought of magazine advertisements of leisure-class brands of
tobacco.

There were six men in the room, and only two women—of which one was Aunt
Varina, the chaperone. You can imagine that it was an ordeal for the
other woman! It is easy enough for a girl to make out when she is
looking at memorial inscriptions and historic elm trees, at smoking
outfits and rowing sculls; but it’s another matter to be cornered by six
fastidious upper-classmen, their looks saying plainer than words: “We’ve
been hearing about you, but we’re from Missouri—now bring out your bag
of tricks!”

Poor Sylvia—she began, as usual, by having a fright. She could think of
nothing to say to all these men. She chose this moment to recollect some
warnings which had been given by Harriet, before she left home, as to
the exactingness and blaséness of Northern college men; also some
half-ventured hints of her cousin, that possibly her arrows might be too
light in the shaft for the social heavyweights of this intellectual
center. She gazed from one to another in agony; she bit her tongue until
she tasted blood, scolding and exhorting herself like a football coach
driving a “scrub” team.

It was “Bob” Harmon whose coming saved her. The very sight of him
brought her inspiration. She had managed him, had she not? Where was the
man she had ever failed to manage? She recollected how she had looked at
him, and what she had said to him in the auto; there came suddenly the
trumpet-call in her soul, in the far deeps of her the trampling and
trembling, the fluttering of banners and murmuring of voices—signs of
the arrival of that rescuing host which came to her always in
emergencies, and constituted the miracle of Sylvia. Her friend Harriet
Atkinson, herself no dullard in company, would sit by and watch the
phenomenon in awe. “Sunny,” she would say, “I can see it coming! I can
see it beginning to bubble! The light comes into your eyes, and I
whisper to myself, ‘Now, now! She’s going to make a killing!’”

What is it—who can say? That awakening in the soul of man, that sense of
uplift, of new power arriving, of mastery conscious and exultant! To
some it is known as genius, and to others as God. To have possessed it
in some great crisis is to have made history; and most strange have been
the courses to which men have been lured by the dream of keeping it
continuously—to stand upon a pillar and be devoured by worms, to hide in
desert caves and lash one’s flesh to strips—or to wear tight stays and
high-heeled shoes, and venture into a den of Harvard club-men!


                                  § 5

Half an hour or so later, when they were passing tea and cake, the flame
of her fun burned less brightly for a few minutes, and she had time to
remember a purpose which was stored away in the back of her mind. All
her faculties now became centered upon it; and those who wish may follow
the winding serpent of her cunning.

She had been telling them about the negro boy who had bitten a piece out
of the baby. Thurlow remarked, “Yours must be an interesting part of the
world.”

“We love it,” she said. “But you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“You’d miss too many things you are used to. Our college boys have no
such luxury as this.” She looked about her.

“You think this so very luxurious?”

“I do indeed. I’m not sure that I think it’s good taste for young
fellows.”

“But why not?”

“It gets you out of touch with life,” replied Sylvia, with charming
gravity. (“Don’t play too long on one string!” had been a maxim of Lady
Dee.) “I think it’s demoralizing. This place might be a sanatorium
instead of a dormitory—if only you had elevators to take the invalids
upstairs.”

Somebody remarked, “We have elevators in many of the dormitories.”

“Is that really so?” asked Sylvia. “I don’t see how you can go beyond
that—unless some of you take to having private houses.”

There was a laugh. “We’ve come to that, too,” said Bates.

“What?” cried the girl. “Surely not!”

“Douglas van Tuiver has a house,” replied Bates.

“Surely you are jesting!”

“No! I’ll show it to you, Miss Castleman.”

“Who is Douglas van Tuiver?”

The men glanced at one another. “Haven’t you ever heard of the van
Tuivers?” asked one.

“Who are they?” countered Sylvia, who never lied when she could avoid
it.

“They are one of our oldest families,” said Shackleford—who came from
New York. “Also one of the best known.”

“Well,” said Sylvia, duly rebuked, “you see how very provincial I am.”

“He’s a nephew of Mrs. Harold Cliveden,” ventured Harmon.

“Cliveden?” repeated Sylvia. “I think I’ve heard that name.” She kept a
straight face—though the lady was the reigning queen of Newport, and a
theme of the society gossip of all American newspapers. Then, not to
embarrass her friends by too great ignorance, she hurried on, “But you
surely don’t mean that this man has a house all to himself?”

“He has,” said Thurlow.

“He has more than that,” said Jackson. “He has a castle in Scotland.”

“I don’t mind castles so much. One can inherit them——”

“No, he bought this one.”

“Well, even so—castles are romantic and interesting. One might have a
dream of founding a family. But for a man to come to college and occupy
a whole house—what motive could he have but ostentation?”

No one answered—though she waited for an answer. At last, with a grave
face, she pronounced the judgment, “I would expect to find such a man a
degenerate.”

They were evidently shocked, but covered it by laughing. “Lord!” said
Bates, “I’d like to have van Tuiver hear that!”

“Probably it would be good for him,” replied Sylvia, coldly.

Everybody grinned. “Wish you’d tell him!” said the man.

“I’d be delighted.”

“Would you really?”

“Why certainly.”

“By Jove, I believe you’d do it!” declared Bates.

“But why shouldn’t I do it?”

“I don’t know. When people meet van Tuiver they sometimes lose their
nerve.”

“Is he so very terrible?”

“Well, he’s rather imposing.”

Then Sylvia took a new line. “Of course,” she said, hesitatingly, “I
wouldn’t want to be irreverent——”

“May I go and bring him here?” inquired Bates, eagerly.

To which she replied, “Perhaps one owes more deference to Royalty.
Shouldn’t you take me to him?”

“We’ll keep you on a throne of your own,” said Thurlow—“at least, while
you are here.” (It was quite as if he had been a Southern man.)

But Bates was not to be diverted from his idea. “Won’t you let me go and
get him?” he inquired.

“Does he visit in dormitories?”

“Really, Miss Castleman, I’m not joking. Wouldn’t you like to meet him?”

“Why should I?”

“Because—we’d all like to see what would happen.”

“From what you say about him,” remarked Sylvia, “he sounds to me like a
bore. Or at any rate, a young man who is in need of chastening.”

“Exactly!” cried Bates. “And we’d like to see you attend to it!”

The time had come, Sylvia thought, to play upon a new string. She looked
about her with a slightly _distrait_ air. “Don’t you think,” she
inquired, “that we are giving him too large a portion of this charming
afternoon?”

The men appreciated the compliment; but the other theme still enticed
them. Said Jackson, “We can’t give up the idea of the chastening, Miss
Castleman.”

“Of course, if you are afraid of him—” added Bates, slyly.

There was a momentary flash in Sylvia’s eyes. But then she laughed—“You
can’t play a game like that on me!”

“We would _so_ like,” said Jackson, “to see van Tuiver get a drubbing!”

“Please, Miss Castleman!” added Harmon, “give him a drubbing!”

But the girl only held out her white-gloved hands. “Look at these,” she
said, “how pure and spotless!”

Said “Tubby”: “I hereby register a vow, I will never partake of food
again until you two have met!”

Sylvia rose, looking bored. “I’m going to run away,” she said, “if you
don’t find something interesting to talk about.” And strolling towards a
cabinet, “Mr. Thurlow, come and introduce me to this charming little
Billikin!”


                                  § 6

Sylvia had promised to go with Frank the next day to a luncheon in his
rooms. She found herself looking forward with relief to meeting his
“crowd.” “Oh, Frank,” she said, when they had set out together, “you’ve
no idea how glad I am to see you. I have such a craving for something
home-like. You can’t understand, perhaps——”

“Perhaps I can,” said Frank, smiling. “I can’t say that I’ve been in
Boston society, but I’ve been on the outskirts.”

“Frank,” she exclaimed, “you don’t ever worry about me, do you? Truly,
the more I see of other people, the more I love you. And all I want is
to be alone with you. I’m tired of the game. Everybody expects me to be
pert and saucy; and I can be it, you know——”

She stopped, and he smiled. “Yes, I know.”

“But since I’ve met you, I get sorry, sometimes even ashamed. You see
what you’ve done to me!”

“What in the world have you been doing?” he asked.

“Oh, some day I’ll tell you—don’t ask me now. It’s just that I’m tired
of society—I wasn’t cut out for the life.”

“Why, it was only a few days ago that you were talking about bringing me
out!”

“I know, Frank. I try to play the game, but deep down in my soul I hate
it. I’m successful now, but it’s the truth that in the beginning I never
took a step that I wasn’t driven. When I went into a ball-room, my teeth
would chatter with fright, and I’d want to hide in a corner. Aunt Nannie
would get hold of me, and take me into the dressing-room, and scold me
and stir me up. I can hear her now. ‘You! Sylvia Castleman, my niece, a
wallflower! Have you forgotten who you are?’ So then, of course, I’d
have to think of my ancestors and be worthy of them. She’d pinch my
cheeks until they were red, and wipe the wet corners of my eyes, and put
a fresh dab of powder on my nose, and stick in a strand of hair, and
twist a curl, and shift a bow of ribbon to the other shoulder—and then
out I’d go to be stared at.”

“You’ve got the job pretty well in hand by now,” smiled Frank.

“Yes, I know, but I don’t really like it—not with my real self. I’m
always thinking what fun it would be to be natural! I wonder what I’d
turn into! And whether you’d like me!”

“I’d take my chances.”

“Would you really, Frank? Just suppose I stopped dressing, for instance?
Suppose I never wore high heels and stiff collars? Suppose I dispensed
with my _modiste_, and you discovered that I had no figure.”

“I’d take my chances,” he laughed again.

“You look at me, and you like what you see. But you’ve no idea what a
work of art I am, nor how much I cost—thousands and thousands of
dollars! And so many people to watch me and scold me—so much work to be
done on me, day after day! Suppose my hair wasn’t curled, for instance!
Or suppose my nose were shiny!”

“I don’t mind shiny so much, Sylvia——”

“Ah! But if it was red! That’s what they’re always hammering into
me—whenever I forget my veil. Or look at these lovely soft hands of
mine—such beautiful nails. Do you realize that I have to keep them in
glycerine gloves all night—and ugh! how clammy and nasty they are when
it’s cold! And the time it takes to keep the nails polished!”

“You see,” she went on, after a pause, “you don’t take my wickedness
seriously. But you should ask Harriet Atkinson about some of the things
we’ve done. She’ll come and say, ‘There’s a new man coming to-night.
Teach me a “spiel”!’ She’ll tell me all about him, where he comes from
and what he likes, and I’ll tell her what to say and what to pretend to
be. And I’ve done it myself—hundreds of times.”

“Did you do it for me?” asked Frank, innocently.

Sylvia paused. “I tried to,” she said. “Sometimes I did, but then again
I couldn’t.” She put her hand upon his arm, and he felt a pressure,
thrilling him with a swift delight.

But they had come now to the dormitory, so her outburst had to end. She
took her hand from his arm, saying, “Frank, I don’t want you to kiss me
any more until we’re married. I’m going to stop doing everything that
makes me ashamed!”


                                  § 7

Behold now a new “Lady Sunshine,” in a clean white apron which her hosts
had provided for the occasion, stirring mushrooms in cream and
superintending stewed chicken, while Frank washed salad in the bathroom,
and Jack Colton was half way up to his elbows in mayonnaise. This was
the first time that Sylvia had met Frank’s room-mate, with whom she had
intended to be very stern, because of his “wildness.” Although she was
used to wild boys, and had helped to tame a number of them, she did not
approve of such qualities in a companion of her lover.

Jack, however, was a boy with what the Irish call “a way with him.” He
had curly brown hair and a winning countenance, and such a laugh that it
was not easy to disagree with him. Moreover a halo of romance hung about
him, owing to the fact that Frank had first met him after a railroad
wreck, sitting in the snow and holding in his lap a baby whose mother
had been killed. Jack had engaged a nurse and sent the child all the way
out to his own mother in Wyoming; and how could any girl object to a
friendship begun under such auspices? If his mother was indulgent and
sent him more pocket money than he could decently spend, might not one
regard that as the boy’s misfortune rather than his fault?

There was Dennis Dulanty, a fair-haired young Irishman who wrote poems,
and was Sylvia’s slave from the first moment she entered the room. There
was Tom Firmin, a heavily built man with a huge head made bigger by
thick, black hair. Firmin was working his way through college and had no
time for luncheon parties, but he had come this once to meet Sylvia. The
girl listened to him with some awe, because Frank had said he had the
best mind in the class. Finally there was Jack’s married sister, who
lived in Boston, and was chaperone.

There were four little tables with four chafing dishes, and two study
tables put together and covered with a spread of linen and silver. There
were strawberries which Dulanty had dropped upon the floor; there were
sandwiches which Tom Firmin had tried in vain to cut thin, and wine
about which Jack Colton talked far too wisely, for one so young. Jack
had been round the world, and had tasted the vintage of many countries,
and told such interesting adventures that one forgot one’s disapproval.

Sylvia found herself happy here, and decided that Frank’s crowd was far
more interesting than Thurlow’s. All these men were outsiders, holding
themselves aloof from the social life of the University and resentful of
the conditions they had found there. After awhile it occurred to Sylvia
that it would be entertaining to hear what these men would have to say
upon a subject which had been occupying her mind; so, by a few deft
touches, she brought the conversation to a point where some one else was
moved to mention the name of Douglas van Tuiver.

Immediately she discovered that she had touched a live wire. There was
Tom Firmin, frowning under his thick black eyebrows. “For my part, I
have just one thing to say: a man who has any pretense at self-respect
cannot even know him.”

“Is he as bad as all that?” Sylvia asked.

“It’s not a question of personality—it’s a question of the amount of his
wealth.”

Sylvia would have appreciated this if it had been a jest. But apparently
the speaker was serious, and so she gazed at him in perplexity. “Is a
very rich man to have no friends?” she asked.

“Never fear,” laughed Jack, “there are plenty of tuft-hunters who will
keep him company.”

“But why should you sentence him to the company of tuft-hunters, just
because he happens to be born with a lot of money?”

“It isn’t I that sentence him,” said Firmin—“it’s the nature of things.”

“But,” exclaimed the girl, “I’ve had millionaires for friends—and I hope
I’m not the dreadful thing you say.”

The other smiled for the first time. “Frank Shirley insists that there
are angels upon earth,” he said. “But if you don’t mind, Miss Castleman,
I’d prefer to illustrate this argument by every-day mortals like myself.
I’m willing to admit, as a theoretical proposition, that there might be
a disinterested friendship between a poor man and a multimillionaire;
but only if the poor man is a Diogenes and stays in his tub. I mean, if
he has no business affairs of any sort, and takes no part in social
life; if he never lets the multimillionaire take him automobiling or
invite him to dinner; if he has no marriageable sisters, and the
multimillionaire has none either. But all these, you must admit, make a
difficult collection of circumstances.”

“Miss Castleman,” said Jack, “you can see why we call Tom Firmin our
Anarchist.”

But Sylvia was not to be diverted. She had never heard such ideas as
this, and she wanted to understand them. “You must think hardly of human
nature!” she objected.

“As I said before, it has nothing whatever to do with personality, it’s
the automatic effect of a huge sum of money. Take my own case, for
example—so I can talk brutally and not hurt anyone. I want to be a
lawyer, but meanwhile I have to earn my living. I love a girl, but I’ve
no hope of marrying, because I’m poor and she’s poor. If I struggle
along in the usual way, it’ll be five years—maybe ten years—before we
can marry. But here I am in college, and here’s Douglas van Tuiver; if
by any device of any sort I can manage to penetrate his consciousness—if
I can make him think me a wit or a scholar, a boon companion or a great
soul, the best halfback in college or an amusing old bull in the social
china shop—why, then right away things are easier for me. You’ve heard
what Thackeray said about walking down Piccadilly with a duke on each
arm? If I can walk across the Yard with Douglas van Tuiver, then a lot
of important men suddenly realize that I exist; the first thing you know
I make a club, and so when I come out of college I’m the chum of some of
the men who are running the country, and I have a salary of five
thousand a year at the start, and ten thousand in a year or two, a
hundred thousand before I’m forty, and a go at a rich marriage into the
bargain. Do you think there are many would-be lawyers to whom all that
would be no temptation? Let me tell you, it’s the temptation which has
turned many a man in this college into a boot-licker!”

“But, Mr. Firmin!” cried Sylvia, in dismay. “What is your idea? Would
you forbid rich men coming to college?”

To which the other replied, “I’d go much farther back than that, Miss
Castleman—I’d forbid rich men existing.”

Sylvia was genuinely shocked. She had never heard such words even in
jest, and she thought Tom Firmin a terrifying person. “You see,” laughed
Jack, “he really _is_ an Anarchist!” And Sylvia believed him, and
resolved to remonstrate with Frank about having such friends. But
nevertheless she went out from that breakfast party with something new
to think about in connection with Douglas van Tuiver—and with her mind
made up that Mr. “Tubby” Bates would have to die of starvation!


                                  § 8

That afternoon Sylvia was invited to one of the club teas. These were
very exclusive affairs, and Jackson, who asked her, mentioned that among
those who poured tea would be Mrs. Isabel Winthrop; also that Mrs.
Winthrop had expressed a particular desire to meet her.

This would mark a new stage in Sylvia’s campaign for her cousin; but
quite apart from that, she was curious to meet this _belle ideal_ of
Auburn Street. Sylvia had listened attentively to what the denizens of
the “Gold Coast” had to say about “Queen Isabella,” and had found
herself rather awe-stricken. When one spoke of a favorite hostess in the
South, one gave her credit for tact, for charm, perhaps even for
brilliance. But apparently Mrs. Winthrop was the possessor of a much
more difficult and perplexing attribute—a rare and lofty soul. She was a
woman of real intellect, they said—she had written a book upon theories
of æsthetics, and had taken a degree in philosophy at the older
Cambridge across the seas. Such things were quite unknown in Southern
society, where a girl was rather taught to hide her superfluous
education, for fear of scaring the men away.

So Sylvia found herself in a state of considerable apprehension. If it
had been a man, she would have taken her chances; when she had attended
Commencement at her State University, there were professors who would
call and talk about Assyrian bricks, and the relation between ions and
corpuscles—yet by listening closely, and putting in a deft touch now and
then to make them talk about themselves, Sylvia had managed to impress
them as an intellectual young lady. But now she had to deal with that
natural enemy of a woman—another woman. How was the ordeal to be faced?

Lady Dee had handed down the formula: “When in difficulty, look the
person in the eyes, and remember who you are.” This was the counsel
which came to Sylvia’s rescue at the moment of the dread encounter. She
knew Mrs. Winthrop as soon as she caught sight of her; she looked a
woman of thirty-five—instead of forty-five, which she really was—tall
and slender, undoubtedly beautiful, undoubtedly proud, and yet with a
kind of _naïve_ sincerity. They met in the dressing-room by accident,
and the lady, recognizing Sylvia, took her hand and gazed into her face;
and Sylvia gazed back, with those wide, clear eyes of hers, steadily,
unflinching, without a motion or a sound. At last Mrs. Winthrop, putting
her other hand upon the girl’s, clasped it and whispered intensely, “We
met a thousand years ago!”

Sylvia had no information as to any such event, and she had not expected
at all that kind of welcome. So she continued to gaze—steadily,
steadily. And the spell communicated itself to Mrs. Winthrop. “I heard
that you were lovely,” she murmured, in a strange, low voice, “but I
really had no idea! Sylvia Castleman, you are like a snow-storm of pear
blossoms! You are a Corot symphony of spring time!”

Now Sylvia had seen some of Corot’s paintings, but she had not learned
to mix the metaphors of the arts, and so she had no idea what Mrs.
Winthrop meant. She contented herself with saying something about the
pleasure she felt at this meeting.

But the other was not to be brought down to mundane speech. “Dryad!” she
murmured. She had a manner and voice all her own, sybilline, oracular;
you felt that she was speaking, not to you, but to some disembodied
spirit. It was very disconcerting at first.

“You bring back lost youth to the world,” she said. “I want to talk to
you, Sylvia—to find out more about you. You aren’t vain, I know. You are
proud!”

“Why—I’m not sure,” said Sylvia, at a loss for a moment.

“Oh, don’t be vain!” said the lady. “Remember—I was like you once.”

Which gave Sylvia an opportunity of the sort she understood. “I will
look forward,” she said, “to the prospect of being like you.”

The radiant lady pressed her hand. “Very pretty, my child,” she said.
“Quite Southern, too! But I must take you in and give the others some of
this joy.”

Such was the beginning of the acquaintance so utterly different from all
possible beginnings, as Sylvia had imagined them. She found in Edith
Winthrop, whom she met a few minutes later, a person much nearer to what
she had expected in the mother. Miss Edith had her mother’s beauty and
her mother’s pride, but no trace of her mother’s sybilline qualities. A
badly spoiled young lady, was Sylvia’s first verdict upon this New
England _belle_; a verdict which she delivered promptly to her
infatuated cousin, and which she never found occasion to revise.

The friendship thus begun progressed rapidly. Mrs. Winthrop asked if she
might call, and coming the next day, discovered in Aunt Varina the
perfect type of the Southern gentlewoman. So the three were soon
absorbed in talking genealogy. At Miss Abercrombie’s Sylvia had been
surprised to learn that it was bad form to talk about one’s ancestors;
but apparently it was still permissible in Boston—as it assuredly was in
the South.

Mrs. Winthrop invited Sylvia to a party she was giving; and when Sylvia
spoke of having to leave Boston, “Oh, stay,” said the great lady. “Come
and stay with me—always!” Finally Sylvia said that she would come to the
party.

“I’ll invite your cousin for the extra man,” said the other. “It is to
be a new kind of party—you know how desperately one has to struggle to
keep one’s guests from being bored. I got this idea from a Southern man,
so perhaps it’s an old story to you—a ‘Progressive Love’ party?”

“Oh, yes, we often have them,” replied Sylvia. She had not supposed that
these intellectual people would condescend to such play—having pictured
Boston society as occupied in translating Meredith and Henry James.

“People have to be amused the world over,” said Mrs. Winthrop. And when
Sylvia looked surprised to have her thought read, the other gave her a
long look, and smiled a deep smile. “Sylvia,” she propounded, “you and I
understand each other. We are made of exactly the same material.”


                                  § 9

There followed after this meeting a trying time for the girl. She went
to a theatre in the evening, and when she came back to the hotel she
found her aunt suffering acutely, with symptoms of appendicitis.
Although there was a doctor and a nurse, she spent the entire night and
half the next day by her aunt’s bedside. Sylvia’s love for her family
appeared at a time like this a sort of frenzy; she would have died a
thousand deaths to save them from suffering, and there was no getting
her to spare herself in any way.

Her sympathy for Aunt Varina was the greater, because this poor little
lady was so patient and unselfish. Whenever there was anything the
matter with her, she would make no trouble for anyone, but crawl away
and endure by herself. She was one of those devoted souls, of which
there is one to be found in every big family, who do not have a life of
their own, but are ground up daily, as it were, to make oil to keep the
great machine running smoothly. Sylvia, who had in herself the making of
such a family lubricant, was irresistibly drawn to this gentle soul in
distress.

All night she helped the nurse with hot “stoups;” and even when the
danger was passed she could not be persuaded to rest, but sat by the
bedside, applying various kinds of smelling salts and lavender water,
trying to be so cheerful that the patient would forget her pain. She
smoothed the white forehead, noticing as she did so how thin the gray
hairs were getting. She could look back to childhood days, when Aunt
Varina had been bright and young-looking—there were even pictures of her
as a girlish beauty; but now her neck was scrawny and her cheeks were
wan, and most of her hair lay upon her dressing-table.

The day passed, and then Sylvia was reminded that she had promised to go
to a college entertainment with Harley. She ought to have gone to bed,
but she did not like to disappoint her cousin, so she drank a cup or two
of strong coffee, and was ready for anything that might come along.

I used to say that I never knew a person who could _disappear_ so
rapidly as Sylvia; who could literally eat up the flesh off her bones by
nervous excitement. After a night and a day like this she was another
woman—that strange arresting creature who made men start when they saw
her, and set poets to dreaming about angels and stars. She wore a soft
white muslin dress and a hat with a white plume in it—not intending to
be ethereal, but because an instinct always guided her hand towards the
color that was right.

The entertainment being not very interesting, and the hall being close,
after an hour or so she asked her cousin to take her out. It was a
perfect night, and she drank in the soft breeze and strolled along,
happy to watch the lights through the trees and to hear singing in the
distance. But suddenly she discovered that she had lost a medallion
which she had worn about her neck. “We must find it!” she exclaimed.
“It’s the one with the picture of Aunt Lady!”

“Are you sure you had it?”

“I remember perfectly having it in the hall. We’ll find it if we’re
quick. Hurry! I can’t, with these heels on my shoes.” So Harley started
back, and Sylvia began to walk slowly, looking on the sidewalk.

Five or ten minutes passed thus; when, hearing steps behind her, she
glanced up, and saw a man attired in evening dress. There was a light
near by, shining into her face, and she saw that he looked at her; also,
with her woman’s intuition, she realized that he had been startled.

He stopped. “Have you lost something?” he asked, hesitatingly.

“Yes,” she said.

“Could I be of any help?”

“Thank you,” said Sylvia. “My cousin has gone back to look. He will be
here soon.”

That was all. Sylvia resumed her search. But the man’s way was the same
as hers, and he did not go as fast as before. She was really worried
about her loss, and barely thought of him. His voice was that of a
gentleman, so his nearness did not disturb her.

“Was it something valuable?” he asked, at last.

“It was a medallion with a picture that I prize.”

She stopped at a corner, uncertain of the street by which she and Harley
had come. He stopped also. “I would be very glad to help,” he said, “if
you would permit me.”

“Thank you,” she said, “but I really think that my cousin will find it.
We had not come far.”

Again there was a pause. As she went on, he was near her, looking
diligently. After a while she began to find the silence awkward, but she
did not like to send him away, and she did not like to speak again. So
it was with real relief that, looking down the street, she saw Harley
coming. “There’s my cousin!” she said. “Oh, I _do_ hope he’s found it.”

“He doesn’t act as if he had,” remarked the other; and Sylvia’s heart
sank, for she saw that Harley walked slowly, and with his eyes on the
ground.

When he was near enough she asked, “You haven’t found it?”

“No,” he answered. “It’s gone, I fear.”

“Oh, too bad! too bad! What can we do?”

Harley had come near. Sylvia saw that he looked at the man she was with,
but there was no recognition between them. Evidently they did not know
each other. Then, without offering to stop, Harley passed them, saying,
“I’ll look back this way.”

“I don’t think that’s worth while,” said the girl. “I’ve searched
carefully there.”

“I’d better look,” replied the other, who had quickened his pace and was
already some distance off.

“But wait, Harley!” she called. She wanted to explain to him how
thoroughly she had searched; and, more important yet, she wanted to get
decently rid of the stranger.

But Harley went on, paying no attention to her. She called him again,
with some annoyance, but he did not stop, and in a moment more had
turned a corner. She was perplexed and angered by his conduct—more and
more so as she thought of it. How preposterous for him to brush past in
that fashion, and leave her with a man she did not know! “What in the
world can he mean?” she exclaimed. “There’s no need to search back there
any more!”

She stood, staring into the half-darkness. When after a moment he did
not reappear, she repeated, helplessly, “What did he mean? What did he
mean?”

She looked at her companion, and saw an amused smile upon his face. Her
eyes questioned him, and he said, “I suspect he saw you were with _me_.”

For a moment Sylvia continued to stare at him. Then, realizing that here
was a serious matter, she looked down at the ground—something which the
search for the medallion gave her the pretext for doing.

“He saw you were with _me_.” The more she pondered the words, the more
incredible they seemed to her. Taken as they had come, with the tone and
the accent and the smile, there was only one thing they could mean. A
week ago Sylvia would have been incapable of comprehending that meaning;
but now she had seen so much of social climbing that she had developed a
new sensitiveness. She understood—and yet she could not believe that she
understood. This man did not know Harley, but Harley knew him, and knew
him to be somebody of importance—of such importance that he had
deliberately gone on and left her standing there, so that she might pick
up an acquaintance with him on the street! And the man had watched the
little comedy, and knowing his own importance, was chuckling with
amusement.

As the realization of this forced itself upon Sylvia, the blood mounted
to the very roots of her hair. She was seized by a perfect fury of shame
and indignation; it was all that she could do to keep from turning upon
the man and telling him what a cad and a puppy she thought him. But then
came a second thought—wasn’t it true, what he believed? What other
explanation could there be of Harley’s conduct? It was her cousin who
was the puppy and the cad; she wanted to run after him and tell him in
the man’s hearing. But then again her anger turned upon the stranger. If
he had been a gentleman, would he ever have let her know what he
thought? Would he have stood there now, grinning like a pot-boy?

Sylvia finished her meditations, and lifted her eyes from the ground.
She was clear as to what she would do—she would punish this man, as
never in her life had she punished a man before. She would punish him,
even though to do it she had to walk on the proprieties with the sharp
heels of her white suede slippers.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, gently. “I hope I don’t presume——”

“What is it?” he asked, and she looked him over. He was a tall man, with
a pale, lean face, prominent features, and a large mouth which drooped
at the corners with heavy lines. He was evidently a serious person,
mature looking for a student.

“Are you by any chance an instructor in the University?” she asked.

“No, no,” he said, surprised.

“But then—are you a public official of some sort?”

“No,” he said, still more surprised. “Why should you think that?”

“Well, my cousin seemed to know you, and yet not to know you. He seemed
willing to leave me with you, so I thought you might be—possibly a city
detective——”

She saw him wince, and she feigned quick embarrassment. “I hope you’ll
excuse me!” she said. “You see, my position is difficult.” Then, with
one of her shining smiles, “Or have I perchance met Sir Galahad—or some
other comforter of distressed damsels—St. George, or Don Quixote?”

When an outrage is offered to you by one of the loveliest beings that
you have ever beheld, with the face of a higher order of angels, and a
look straight into your eyes, so eloquent of simplicity and
trustfulness—what more can you do than to look uncomfortable?

And Sylvia, of course, did not help him. She just continued to gaze and
smile. He got his breath and stammered, “Really—I think—if you will
permit me——” He paused, and then drew himself up. “I think that I had
best introduce myself.”

“I am willing to accept the rebuke,” said Sylvia, “without putting you
to that trouble.”

She saw that he did not even understand. He went on—his manner that of a
man laboring with a very serious purpose. “I really think that I should
introduce myself.”

“Are we not having a pleasant time without it?” she countered.

This, of course, was a complete blockade. He stood at a loss; and
meantime Sylvia waited, with every weapon ready and every sense alert.
“I beg pardon,” he said, at last, “but may I ask you something? I’ve a
feeling as if I had met you before.”

“I am sure that you have not,” she said, promptly.

“You are from the South, are you not? I have been in the South several
times.”

But still she would not give an inch; and he became desperate. “Pardon
me,” he said, “if I tell you my name. I am Douglas van Tuiver.”

Now if there was ever a moment in her life when Sylvia needed her social
training, it was then. He was looking into her face, watching for the
effect of his announcement. But he never saw so much as the flicker of
an eyelid. Sylvia said, quietly, “Thank you,” and waited to load her
batteries. She had meant harm to him before. Imagine what she meant now!

“It is an unusual name,” she observed, casually. “German, I presume?”

“Dutch,” said he.

“Ah, Dutch. But then—you speak English perfectly.”

“My ancestors,” he said, “came to this country in sixteen hundred and
forty.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Sylvia. “How curious! Mine came the same year. Perhaps
that was where we met—in a previous incarnation.” Then, after a pause,
“Van Tuivel, did you say?”

She could feel his start, and she waited breathlessly to see what he
would do. But there were the soft, red-brown eyes and the look of utter
innocence—how _could_ he gaze into them and doubt? “Van Tuiver,” he
said, gravely. “Douglas van Tuiver.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Sylvia responded. “Van Tuiver. I have it now.”

She waited, feeling sure that he could not bear to leave it there. And
so it proved. “The name is well known in New York,” he remarked.

“Ah,” she said, “but then—there are so _many_ people in New York!”

Again there was a pause, while he took thought. Sylvia remarked,
helpfully, “In the South, you see, everybody knows everybody else.”

“I am not at all sure,” said he, stiffly, “that I should find that a
desirable state of affairs.”

“Neither should I,” said she—“in New York.”

Now perhaps you think that this kind of thing is no particular strain
upon the nerves of a young girl; but Sylvia was seeking a way of escape.
Where was the villain Harley, and how much longer did he mean to keep
her on the rack? At this moment she saw a taxicab coming down the
street, and she recognized her chance.

“Please call it!” she exclaimed.

Instinctively her companion raised his hand. Equally instinctive was his
exclamation: “Are you going?”

Her answer was her action; as the vehicle drew up by the curb, she
opened the door herself, and stepped in. “To Boston,” she said; and the
cab moved on. “Good-bye, Mr. van Tuiver,” she called to her surprised
companion. “Good-bye, until the next incarnation!”


                                  § 10

News spread rapidly in Cambridge, Sylvia found. The next afternoon she
received a call from Mr. “Tubby” Bates, and one glimpse of his features
told her that he was moved by some compelling impulse.

“May I sit down, Miss Castleman?” he asked. “I’ve something to ask you
about. But I’m not sure, Miss Castleman—that is—whether I’ve a right to
talk about it. You may think that I’m gossiping——”

“Oh, but I adore gossiping,” put in the girl; whereat the other stopped
stammering and beamed with relief. He was more like a Southern man than
anyone Sylvia had met here; she knew just how to deal with him.

“Thank you ever so much!” he exclaimed. “It’s really very good of you.”
He drew his chair an inch or two nearer, and in a confidential voice
began, “It’s about Douglas van Tuiver.”

“Yes, I supposed so,” said Sylvia, with a smile.

“Oh, then something _did_ happen!”

“Now, Mr. Bates,” she laughed, “tell your story.”

“This noon,” he said, “van Tuiver called me on the ’phone—or at least
his secretary did—and asked me if I’d lunch at the club. When we sat
down, there were two other chaps, both wondering what was up. Pretty
soon he got to a subject—” Bates stopped uneasily. “I’m afraid that
perhaps I won’t express myself in the right way, Miss Castleman—that I
may say something you don’t like——”

“Go on,” smiled Sylvia. “I’m possessed by curiosity.”

“Well, it came out that he’d had an adventure. He was walking last
evening, and he met a lady. She was tall and rather pale, he said—a
Southern girl. She was dressed in white and had golden hair. ‘Have any
of you met such a girl?’ he asked. I kept silent and let the rest do the
answering. They hadn’t. ‘It was a lady in distress,’ van Tuiver went on,
‘and I offered my assistance and she accepted’——”

“Oh, I did _not_!” cried Sylvia.

“Oho!” exclaimed Bates, “I knew it! Tell me, what did you do?”

“This is your story,” she laughed.

“Well, he said it was a novel rôle for him—that of Sir Galahad, or St.
George, or Don Quixote. He found it embarrassing. I said, ‘Was it the
novelty of the rôle—or perhaps the novelty of the lady?’ ‘Well,’ said
van Tuiver, ‘that’s just it. She was one of the most bewildering people
I ever met. She talked’—you won’t mind my telling this, Miss Castleman?”

“Not a bit—go on.”

“Some of it isn’t very complimentary——”

“I’m wild with suspense, Mr. Bates!”

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘she looked like a lady, but she talked like an
actress in a comedy. I never heard anybody rattle so—I never knew a girl
so pert. She talked just—_amazingly_.’ That was his word. I asked him
just what he meant, but that was all I could get him to say. Finally he
asked, ‘Do you know the lady?’ and of course I had to answer that I
thought I did; I could be sure if he’d give me a sample of her
conversation. ‘She has a cousin named Harley,’ he said, and I said,
‘Yes—he’s Chilton, a Freshman. Her name is Miss Castleman.’ Then he
wanted to know all about you. I said, ‘I met her at a tea at Thurlow’s,
and about all I know of her is that she talks amazingly.’ I thought that
was paying him back.”

“And then?” laughed Sylvia.

“Well, he wanted to know what I thought of you; and I said I thought you
were the loveliest, and the cleverest, and the sweetest person that I’d
ever met in my life. I really think that, you know. And then van Tuiver
said—” But here Bates stopped himself suddenly. “That’s all,” he said.

“No, surely not, Mr. Bates!”

“But really it is. You see, we were interrupted——”

“But not until Mr. van Tuiver had said that he thought I was horrid, and
he thought I was shallow, and he thought I was vain.”

The other flushed slightly. Sylvia went on, “I don’t mind it, because
the truth is, I’d been thinking it myself. You see, I really _was_ mean
to him, Mr. Bates. I said things to hurt him, without his knowing I
meant them; but after he went off, he must have understood. Why should
we want to hurt people?”

“I don’t know,” said Tubby, bewildered by this unexpected new turn. He
wanted Sylvia to tell him the story of what had happened that evening;
but she refused. Then he went on to a new proposition—he wished to bring
van Tuiver to call. But she refused again and begged him not to think
about the matter any further. He pleaded with her, in semi-comic
distress; he was so anxious to see what would happen—everyone was
anxious to see what would happen! He implored her, in the name of good
society; it was cruel, wicked of her to refuse! But Sylvia was obdurate,
and in the end he took his departure lamenting, but vowing that he would
not give up.

Just as he was leaving, Harley arrived. He came to get his scolding for
his conduct of the previous night. But the scolding was more serious
than he had expected. To his dismay Sylvia declared that she was sincere
in her refusal to meet van Tuiver again.

“The truth is,” she said, “I’ve changed my mind about the whole matter.
I don’t care to have anything to do with the man.”

“But why not?” asked Harley, in amazement.

“Because—I don’t think that poor people like us have any right to. We
can’t meet him and keep our self-respect.”

“Great God, girl! Aren’t we van Tuiver’s social equals.”

“We think we are, but he doesn’t; and his view prevails. When you came
up here and fell in love with a girl in his set, you found that his view
prevailed. And look what you did last night! Don’t you see the
degradation—simply to be near such a man?”

“That’s all very well,” objected Harley, “but can I keep van Tuiver from
coming to Harvard?”

“No, you can’t; but you can help to keep him from having his way after
he has got here. You can stand out against him and all that he
represents.”

There was a pause. Harley had nothing to say to that. Sylvia stood with
her brows knitted in thought. “I’ve made up my mind,” she said, “there’s
something very wrong about it all. The man has too much money. He has no
right to have so much—certainly not unless he’s earned it.”

Whereat her cousin exclaimed, “For God’s sake, Sylvia, you talk like an
Anarchist!”


                                  § 11

A couple of days later came Mrs. Winthrop’s “Progressive Love” party. At
this party there were twenty-four guests, twelve men and twelve women,
appearing in purple silk dominoes and golden silk masks supplied by the
hostess. Twelve short dances were followed by intermissions, during
which the guests retired to cosy corners, and the men made ardent love
to their unknown partners. “Tubby” Bates, of whom there was too much to
be concealed by any domino, was appointed door-keeper, and it was his
business to select the couples, so that each would have a new partner
for every dance. At the end, every person voted for the most successful
“lover” and also the worst, and there were prizes and “booby” prizes.

Love-making, more or less disguised, being the principal occupation of
men and women in the South, Sylvia counted herself an expert at this
game. She had learned to assume a different personality, disguising her
voice, and doing it quite naturally—not by the crude method of putting a
button under her tongue. She took her seat after the first dance,
perfectly mistress of herself and pleasantly thrilled with curiosity.
All of the “younger set” at home had made love to her in earnest, and
their methods were an oft-told tale. But how would these strange men of
Harvard play the game?

The tall domino at her side was in no hurry to begin. He sat very stiff
and straight upon the velvet cushions; and finally it came to Sylvia
that he was suffering from embarrassment. She leaned towards him, so as
to display “a more coming-on disposition.” “Sir,” she whispered, “faint
heart ne’er won fair lady.”

The tall domino considered this in silence. “You’ll have to excuse me,”
he said, “I never played this game before.”

“It is the most wonderful game in the world!” said Sylvia, fervently.

“Perhaps,” was the reply. “To me it seems a very foolish game, and I
think it was poor taste on Mrs. Winthrop’s part.”

“Dear me!” thought the girl, “what kind of a fish have I caught here?”
There was something strangely familiar about the voice, but she could
not place it. She had met so many men in the last week or two.

“Sir,” she said, “I fear me that you lack a little of that holiday glee
which is necessary to such occasion as this. I would that I could sing a
song to cheer your moping spirit—”

                    ‘Nymphs and shepherds come away,
                    For this is Flora’s holiday!’

Then, leaning a little nearer yet, “Come, sir, you must make an effort.”

“What shall I do?”

“You must manage to throw yourself into a state of rapture. You must
tell me that you adore me. You must say that my blue eyes make dim the
vault of heaven——”

“But I can hardly see your eyes.”

“You should not expect to see them. Have you not been told that Love is
blind?”

So she tried to drive this tall domino to play; but it was sorry
frisking that he did. “You must fall down upon your knees before me,”
she said; but he protested that he could really not do that. And when
she insisted, “You must!” he got down, with such deliberation that the
girl was half convulsed with laughter.

“Sir,” she chided, “that will not do. When you stop to ease each
trouser-knee, how can I believe that you are overcome with the ardor of
your feelings? You must get up and try again.” And actually she made him
get up and plump down suddenly upon his knees; and was so mischievous
and so merry about it that she got even him to laughing in the end.

She was sure by this time that she had met the man before, and she found
herself running over the list of her acquaintances, trying to imagine
which one could be capable of making love in such a fashion. But she
could not think of one. She fell to studying the domino and the mask
before her, wondering what feelings could be behind them. Was it
timidity and lack of imagination? Or could it be that the man was sulky
and uncivil as he seemed? When the bell rang and she rose, she breathed
to herself the prayer that she might be spared running into another
“stick” like that.

The next partner was Harmon, as she recognized before he had said a
dozen sentences. Harmon did not know her, but being in love, he knew how
to behave. He poured out to Sylvia all the things which she had known
for the past week he was longing to say to her; and Sylvia said in reply
everything which she had no intention of saying in reality. So the
episode passed pleasantly, and the girl thought somewhat better of Mrs.
Winthrop’s talents as a hostess.

Number Three was again a tall domino. He seated himself, and there was a
long pause. “Well, sir,” said Sylvia, inquiringly.

The domino delayed again. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, at last;
“I never played this game before.”

And Sylvia realized in a flash of dismay that it was the first man
again! The same voice—even the same words! “Sir,” she said, coldly, “you
are mistaken. You played the same game with me not twenty minutes ago.”

The tall domino expressed bewilderment. “I beg your pardon—there has
been some mistake.”

“There has indeed,” said Sylvia. “The door-keeper has evidently got our
numbers mixed.” She pondered for a moment. Should she go and tell Mr.
Bates?

But she realized that it was too late. The couples were all settled and
the game proceeding. It was the kind of blunder that was always being
made at these parties—either because the door-keeper was stupid, or was
bribed by some man who wanted to make love in earnest. It spoiled the
game—but then, as Sylvia had just said, Love is blind.

“What shall we do—wait?” she asked; to which the man replied, “I don’t
mind.”

“Thank you,” she said, graciously. “We’ll have to make the best of it.
Don’t you think you can manage to do a little better than the last
time?”

“I’ll try,” he replied. “It’s beastly stupid, I think.”

Sylvia considered. “No,” she declared, “I believe it’s the game of all
games for you.”

“How so?”

“Go down into the deeps of you. Haven’t you something there that is
real—something primitive and untamed, that chafes against propriety, and
wishes it had not been born in Boston?”

“I was not born in Boston,” said he.

“Perhaps not in your body,” said Sylvia, “but your soul is a Boston
soul. And now think of this opportunity to fling loose, to be just as
bad as you want to be—and quite without danger of detection, of having
your reputation damaged! Surely, sir, there could be no game more
adapted to the New England conscience!”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the man; and actually there was warmth in his tone.
Sylvia’s heart leaped, and she caught him by the hand. “Quick! Quick!”
she cried. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may—old time is still a-flying!”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the man again; and Sylvia, kindling with mischief,
pressed his hand more tightly and brought him upon his knees before her.
“Make haste! You have but one life—one chance to be yourself—to vent
your emotions! I’ve no idea who you are, I can’t possibly tell on
you—and so you may utter those things which you keep hidden even from
yourself!”

“By Jove!” he exclaimed for the third time. “Really, if I had you to
make love to——”

“But you have me! You have me! For several precious minutes—alone and
undisturbed! You are not a Boston Brahmin in a domino—you are a faun in
the forests of Arcady. Come, Mr. Faun!” And Sylvia began to sing in a
low, caressing manner:

                     “Oh, come, my love, to Arcady!
                       A dream path leads us, dear.
                     One hour of love in Arcady
                       Is worth a lifetime here!”

There was a pause. She could feel the man’s hand trembling. “I am
waiting!” she whispered; to which he answered, “I wish _you_ would talk!
You make love so much better than I!”

Sylvia broke into one of her merry laughs. “A leap-year party!” she
cried.

But the other was in earnest. “I like to listen to you,” he said.
“Please go on!”

Sylvia was laughing so that she felt tears in her eyes, and she wanted
to wipe them away under her mask. Her handkerchief was gone, and she
looked for it—in her lap, beside her on the seat, and then on the floor.
This led to a curious and unexpected turn in the adventure—her
recognition of this New England faun. Seeing what she was doing, he
said, “I beg pardon. Have you lost something?”

It was like an explosion in Sylvia’s mind. Not merely the same words—but
the same manner, the same accent, the same personality!

The search for the handkerchief gave her the chance to recover her
breath. The Lord had delivered him into her hands again!

“Sir,” she said. “I resume. You have overwhelmed me with the torrent of
your ardor. I feel myself swept away in a flood which my feeble will
cannot resist. You come to me like a royal wooer—like some god out of
the skies, stunning the senses of a mere mortal maiden! Who can this
be—I ask myself. From what source can such superhuman eloquence and
fervor spring? Can I endure it? I cry—or shall I be burned up and
destroyed, like Danaï in the legend? It is just so that he descends upon
me—like Jupiter, in a shower of gold!”

Sylvia could feel the tall domino stiffen and rear himself. She had
meant to go on, but she stopped, so great was her curiosity. How would
he take it?

At last came the voice from under the mask. “I see,” it said, “that you
have the advantage of me. You _do_ know who I am.”

Sylvia was almost transported—by a combination of amazement and
amusement. “Know who you are?” she cried. “How could I fail to know who
you are? You, my divinity! You, to whom all the world bends the knee!
Sire, receive my homage—I bow in adoration before the Golden Calf!”

And she sunk down upon one knee before the tall domino!

It was putting herself into his hands. She was fully prepared to see him
rise and stalk away—but so possessed was she that she would have enjoyed
even that! Fortunately, however, at this moment the bell rang, saving
her. She sprang to her feet, and caught the hand of her divinity in one
quick clasp of parting. “Good-bye, Mr. van Tuiver!” she exclaimed.
“Good-bye—until the next incarnation!”


                                  § 12

For the next dance Sylvia’s partner was a youth whom she could not
identify. He had evidently been reading the poets, for his declarations
of devotion were lacking in naught but rhyme. Sylvia accepted him
politely, hardly hearing his words—so busy was she with the thought of
van Tuiver. Had it been accident, or a trick? She would soon know.

There came another dance—and again a tall domino. Sylvia suspected, but
was not sure, until they were in their seats, when the domino sat stiff
and straight, and she was certain. “Is that you?” she asked; and the
answer came, “It is.”

“It is evident that some one is amusing himself at our expense,” said
Sylvia, coldly. “I really think we shall have to stop it.”

“Miss Castleman,” broke in the other. “I hope you will believe me that I
have had absolutely nothing to do with this.”

She answered, consolingly, “I assure you, Mr. van Tuiver, your
unpreparedness has been quite evident.”

There was a pause, while he considered that. “What shall we do?” he
asked.

“I think that you had best see Mr. Bates, and make clear to him that we
have had enough.”

He hesitated. “Is—is that really necessary?”

“What else can we do—spend the evening together?”

“I really wish we could, Miss Castleman!”

“What—and you making love as you have been?”

“I can do better now. I really am quite charmed with the game. I’d like
to make love to you—for a long time.”

“Most flattering, Mr. van Tuiver—but how about me? We’ve conversed a lot
already, and you haven’t said one interesting thing.”

“Miss Castleman!”

“Not one—excepting one or two that have been insolent.”

There was a pause. “Really,” he pleaded, “that is a hard thing to say!”

“Do you mean,” she inquired, coldly, “that you have not realized the
meaning of what you said to me when we met on the street?”

“I don’t know just what you refer to,” he replied, “but you must admit
that you had me at a great disadvantage that evening.”

“What disadvantage, Mr. van Tuiver? The fact that I did not know who you
were?”

She could feel him wince. She was prepared for a retort—but not so
severe as the one which came. “The disadvantage,” he said, “that you
_pretended_ not to know who I was.”

“Why,” she exclaimed, “what do you mean?”

He answered. “If we are going to fight, it ought to be upon a fair
field. You pretended that evening that you had never heard my name. But
I learned since that only a day or two before you had had a quite
elaborate conversation about me.”

Sylvia’s first impulse was to inquire sarcastically what right he had to
assume that his illustrious name would stay in her memory. But she
realized that that was a poor retort; and then her sense of fair play
came in. After all, he was right—the joke was on her, and she rather
admired his nerve.

So she began to laugh. “Mr. van Tuiver,” she said, “you have annoyed me
so that I won’t even take the trouble to think up new lies to tell you.
Realize, if you can, the impression you managed to make upon a young
girl—you and your reputation together—that she should be moved to use
such weapons against you!”

He forgot his anger at this. “That’s just it, Miss Castleman! I don’t
understand it at all! What have I done that you should take such an
attitude towards me?”

Sylvia pondered. “I fear,” she said, “that you would not thank me for
telling you.”

“You are mistaken!” he exclaimed. “I really would like to know.”

“I could not bring myself to do it.”

“But why not?”

“I know it could not do any good.”

“But how can you say that—when I assure you I am in earnest? I have a
very sincere admiration for you—truly. You are one of the most—one of
the most amazing young women I ever met. I don’t say that in a bad
sense, you understand——”

“I understand,” said Sylvia, smiling. “I have tried my best to be
amazing.”

“It is evident that you dislike me intensely,” he went on. “I ask you to
tell me why. What have I done?”

“It isn’t so much what you have done—it is what you _are_.”

“And what _am_ I, Miss Castleman?”

“I don’t know just how to put it into words. You are some sort of
monstrosity; something that when I see it, fills me with a blind rage,
so that I want to fly at its throat. And then I realize that even in
attacking it I am putting myself upon a level with it—and so I want to
turn and flee for my life—or rather for my self-respect. I want to flee
from it, Mr. van Tuiver, and never see it, never hear its voice, never
even know of its existence! Do you see?”

“I see,” said the man, in a voice so faint as to be hardly audible; and
then suddenly came the sound of the bell, and Sylvia sprang up.

“I flee!” she said.


                                  § 13

There came a new dance, the sixth, and a new partner, who was short, and
was speedily discovered to be Jackson. Then came the seventh dance, and
Sylvia expected that it would be her Faun again, but was disappointed.
It was a man unknown, and she wondered if Bates had lost his nerve. But
with Number Eight came the inevitable return.

Van Tuiver was so anxious this time that he asked before he began to
dance, “Is that you?” And when Sylvia answered “Yes,” she could hear his
sigh of relief. All through the dance she could feel his excitement.
Once or twice he tried to talk, but she whispered to him to keep the
rules.

The moment they were seated he said, “Miss Castleman, you must explain
to me what you mean.”

“I knew I’d have to explain,” she responded. “I’ve been thinking how I
could make you understand. You see, I’m a comparative stranger to this
world of yours, and things might shock me which would seem to you quite
a matter of course. I suppose I’m what you’d call a country girl, and
have a provincial outlook.”

“Please go on,” he said.

“Well, Mr. van Tuiver, you have an enormous amount of money. Twenty or
thirty million dollars—forty or fifty million dollars—the authorities
don’t seem to agree about it. As well as I can put the matter, you have
so much that it has displaced _you_; it isn’t you who think, it isn’t
you who speak—it’s your money. You seem to be a sort of quivering,
uneasy consciousness of uncounted millions of dollars; and the only
thing that comes back to you from your surroundings is an echo of that
quivering consciousness.”

“Do I really seem like that to you?”

“It’s the impression you’ve made upon everyone who knows you.”

“Oh, surely not!” he cried.

“Quite literally that,” said Sylvia. “I hated you before I ever laid
eyes on you—because of the way you’d impressed your friends.”

There was a pause; when van Tuiver spoke again it was in a low and
uncertain voice. “Miss Castleman,” he said, “has it ever occurred to you
to think what might be the difficulties of my situation?”

“No, I haven’t had time for that.”

“Well, take this one fact. You say that I have made a certain impression
upon everyone who knows me. But you are the first person in my whole
lifetime who’s ever told me.”

Sylvia gave an exclamation of incredulity.

“Don’t you see?” pressed on the other, eagerly. “What is a man to do? I
have a great deal of money. I can’t help that. And I can’t help the fact
that it gives me a great deal of power. I can’t help having a sense of
responsibility.”

“The sense of responsibility has been too much for you,” said Sylvia.

This was too subtle for him. He hurried on: “Maybe it’s right, maybe
it’s wrong—but circumstances have given me a certain position, and I
have to maintain it. I have certain duties which I must fulfill, which I
can’t possibly get away from.”

There was a pause. He seemed to feel that the situation was not
satisfactory, and started again. “It’s all very well for you, who don’t
realize my position, the responsibilities I have—it’s all very well for
you to talk about my consciousness of money. But how can I get away from
it? People know about my money, they think about it—they expect certain
things of me. They put me in a certain position, whether I will or not.”

He stopped again. He was so greatly agitated that Sylvia was beginning
to feel pity. “Do you have to be what people expect you to be?” she
said.

“But,” he argued, “I have the money, and I have to make use of it—to
invest it—to protect it——”

“Ah, but all that is in the business world. What I’m talking about is in
a separate sphere—your social relations.”

“But, Miss Castleman, that’s just it—_is_ it separate? It ought to be,
you’ll say—but _is_ it? I tell you, you simply don’t know, that’s all.
People profess friendship for me, but they want something, and by and by
I find out what it is they want. You say that’s monstrous; I know, I
used to think it was, myself. You say, I ought not to know it; but I
can’t _help_ knowing it; it’s forced upon me by all the circumstances of
my life. Sometimes I think I’ve never had a disinterested friend since I
was born!”

Sylvia perceived the intensity behind his words, and was silent for a
minute. “But surely,” she said, “here—in the democracy of college
life——”

“It’s exactly the same here as anywhere else. Here are clubs, social
cabals, everybody pushing and intriguing, exactly as in New York
society. Take that fact you spoke of—that all the fellows dislike me,
and yet not one of them has dared to tell me so!”

“_Dared?_” repeated Sylvia.

“Oh, well, perhaps they dared—the point is, they didn’t. The ones who
had to make their own way were busy making it; and the others, who had
got in of right—well, they believe in money. They’d all shrug their
shoulders and say, ‘What’s the use of antagonizing such a man?’”

“I see,” said Sylvia, fascinated.

“Whatever the reason is, they never call me down—not a man of them. And
then, as for the women——”

Sylvia had not made any sound, but somehow he felt her sudden interest.
He said, with signs of agitation, “Please, Miss Castleman, don’t be
offended. You asked me to talk about it.”

“Go on,” she said. “I’m really most curious. I suppose all the women
want to marry you?”

“It isn’t only that. They want anything. They just want to be seen with
me. Of course, when they start to make love to me—” He paused.

“You stop them, I hope,” said Sylvia, modestly.

“I do when I know it. But, you see——”

He paused again; it was evidently a difficult topic. “Pray don’t mind,”
said Sylvia, laughing. “They’re subtle creatures, I know. Do many of
them make love to you?”

“I know you’re laughing at me, Miss Castleman. But believe me, it’s no
joke. If you’d see some of the letters I get!”

“Oh, they write you love letters?”

“Not only love letters. I don’t mind them—but the letters from women in
distress, the most terrible stories you can imagine. Once I was foolish
enough—didn’t anybody tell you the scrape I got into?”

“No.”

“That’s curious—they generally like to tell it. I was weak enough to let
one woman get into my house in Cambridge. She had a tragedy to rehearse,
and I listened to her, and finally she wanted ten thousand dollars. I
didn’t know if her story was true, and I said No, and then she began to
scream for help. The servants came running, and she said—well, you can
imagine, how I’d insulted her, and all that. I told my man to throw her
out, but she said she’d scratch his eyes out, she’d scream from the
window, she’d stand on the street outside and denounce me till the
police came, she’d give the newspapers the whole story of the way I’d
abused her. And so finally I had to give her all the money I happened to
have on me.”

“Great Heavens!” exclaimed Sylvia, who had not thought of anything so
serious as that.

“You see how it is. For the most part I’ve escaped that kind of thing,
because I was taught. My Great-uncle Douglas, who died recently—he was
my guardian, and he taught me all about women when I was very young—not
more than ten. He had charge of my upbringing, and he wouldn’t allow a
woman in my household.”

“Dear me,” said Sylvia, “what a cynic he must have been!”

“He died a bachelor,” said the other, “and left me a great deal of
money. So you see—that is——”

“He’d _had_ to be a cynic!” laughed the girl. And van Tuiver laughed
with her—more humanly than she had ever thought possible.

She considered for a moment, and then suddenly asked, “Mr. van Tuiver,
has it never occurred to you that _I_ might be making love to you?”

She could not see his face, but she knew that he was staring at her in
dismay. “Oh, surely not, Miss Castleman!” he exclaimed.

“But how can you be sure?” she asked. “Where is your training?”

“Miss Castleman,” he said, “please take me seriously.”

“I’m quite serious. In fact, I think I ought to tell you, I _have_ been
making love to you.”

“Surely not!” he said.

“I mean it, quite literally. I’ve been doing it from the first moment I
met you—doing it in spite of all my resolutions to the contrary!”

“But why?”

“Well, because I hated you, and also because I pitied you. I said, I’ll
get him in my power and punish him—and at the same time teach him.”

“Oh!” exclaimed van Tuiver; and she thought that she detected a note of
relief in the word.

“You are glad I don’t mean to marry you,” she said; and when he started
to protest, she cut him short with, “You’re not applying the wisdom of
your great-uncle! I say I don’t want to marry you, but most likely
that’s a device to disarm you, to make you want to marry _me_.”

In spite of his evident distress, she was incorrigible. “You ought to be
up and away,” she declared—“scared out of your wits. I tell you I’m the
most dangerous woman you’ve ever met. And I mean it literally. I’ll
wager that if your great-uncle had ever met my great-aunt, he would not
have died a bachelor! Take my advice, and fall ill and leave this party
at once.”

“Why should I be afraid of you?” he demanded. “Why shouldn’t I marry you
if I want to?”

“What! a poor girl like me?”

“Well, I don’t know. I can afford to marry a poor girl if I feel like
it.”

“But—think of the ignominy of being trapped!”

He considered this. “I’m not afraid of that either,” he said. “If you’ve
had the wit to do it—and none of the others had——”

“Oh!” she laughed. “Then you’re willing to be hunted!”

“Miss Castleman,” he protested, “you are unkind. I’ve thought seriously.
You really are a most beautiful woman, and at the same time a most
amazingly clever woman. You would be an ornament in my life—I’d always
be proud of you—”

He paused. “Mr. van Tuiver,” she demanded, “am I to understand that this
is a serious proposal?”

She could feel his quiver of fear. “Why,” he stammered—“really——”

“Don’t you see how dangerous it is!” she exclaimed. “You were almost
caught! Make your escape, Mr. van Tuiver!”

And then came the sound of the bell. She started up. “Go and tell Mr.
Bates!” she cried. “Don’t let him do this again—if you do, you are lost
forever!”


                                  § 14

The next partner was Harley. It was a nuisance having to entertain your
own cousin, but Sylvia amused herself by keeping Harley from recognizing
her. And in the meantime she was wondering what her Victim would do
next.

She knew his very style of dancing by now, and needed to make no
inquiries of Number Ten. “You did not take my advice,” she remarked,
when they were seated.

“No,” he said. “On the contrary, I told Bates to put us together the
rest of the time.”

“Oh, no!” she protested.

“I want to talk to you,” he declared. “I _must_ talk to you.”

“But you had no right! He will tell, and everybody will be talking about
it.”

“I don’t care if they do.”

“But _I_ care, Mr. van Tuiver—you should not have taken such a liberty.”

“Please, Miss Castleman,” he hurried on, “please listen to me. I’ve been
thinking about it, and it interests me keenly. I believe that in you I
might really have a friend—if only you would. A real friend, I
mean—who’d tell me the truth—who’d be absolutely disinterested——”

The fun of it was too much for Sylvia. “Haven’t I explained to you that
I mightn’t be disinterested?”

“I’ll trust you.”

“Of course,” she went on, gravely. “I might give you my word of honor
that I wouldn’t marry you.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “I suppose so——”

The girl was convulsed with laughter. “Mr. van Tuiver,” she remarked, “I
see you are an earnest man; I really ought to stop teasing you. Don’t
you think I ought?”

“Yes,” he replied, dubiously. “At least—I never liked to be teased
before.”

“Well, I will tell you this for your comfort. There’s no remotest
possibility of my ever marrying you, so you can feel quite safe.”

Somehow he did not seem sure whether he was pleased at this pledge.
After a pause he went on: “What I mean is that I think a man in my
position ought to have somebody to tell him the truth.”

“Something like the court-jesters in old days,” said Sylvia.

But he was not interested in mediæval customs. He was interested in his
own need, and she had to promise that she would admit him to the arcanum
of her friendship, and that she would always tell him exactly what she
thought about him—his actions, his ideas, even his manners. In
fulfilment of which promise she spent the rest of that _séance_, and the
two that followed, in listening to him talk about himself and his life.

It was really most curious—an inside glimpse into a kind of life of
which one heard, but with no idea of ever encountering it; just as one
read of train-robbers and safe-blowers, but never expected to sit and
chat with them. Douglas van Tuiver had achieved notoriety before he had
cut a single tooth; his mother and father having been killed in a
railroad accident when he was two months old, the courts had appointed
trustees and guardians, and the newspapers had undertaken a kind of
unofficial supervision. The precious infant had been brought up by a
staff of tutors, with majordomos and lackeys in the background, and two
private detectives and a great-uncle and Mrs. Harold Cliveden to oversee
the whole. It did not need much questioning to get the details of this
life—the lonely palace on Fifth Avenue, the monumental “cottage” at
Newport, the “camp” in the Adirondacks, the yacht in the West Indies;
the costly toys, the “blooded” pets, the gold plate, the tedious,
suffocating solemnity. If Sylvia had been furious with van Tuiver
before, she was ready now to go to the opposite extreme and weep over
him. A child brought up wholly by employees, with no brothers and
sisters to kick and scratch him into decency, no cousins, no playmates
even—unless he was first togged out in an Eton suit and escorted by a
tutor to the birthday party of some other little togged-out aristocrat!

Yes, assuredly this unhappy man needed someone to tell him the truth!
Sylvia resolved that she would fill the rôle. She would be quite unmoved
by his Royalty (the word by which she had come to sum up to herself the
whole phenomenon of van Tuiverness). She would persist in regarding him
as any other human being, saying to him what she felt like, pretending
to him, and even to herself, that he really was not Royalty at all!

But alas, she soon found what a task she had undertaken! The last dance
had been danced, and amid much merriment the guests unmasked—and still
van Tuiver wanted to stay and talk to his one friend. He escorted her to
supper, in spite of the fact that Mrs. Winthrop had other arrangements
for him. And even if he had behaved himself, there was the tale which
“Tubby” Bates had been diligently spreading. The girl realized all at
once that she had achieved a new and startling kind of prominence; all
the guests, men and women, were watching her, whispering about her,
envying her. She felt a wicked thrill of triumph and pleasure. She, a
stranger, an obscure girl from the provinces, who would ordinarily have
been an object of suspicion and investigation—she had leaped at one
moment into supremacy! She had become the favorite of the King!

Pretty soon came Harley, a-tremble with delight. “Gee whiz, old girl,
you sure have scored to-night! For God’s sake, how did you manage it?”
Sylvia felt herself hot with sudden shame.

And then came Bates. She tried to scold him, but he would simply not
have it. “Now, Miss Castleman! Now, Miss Castleman!”—that was all he
would say. What it meant was: “It is all right for you to pretend, of
course; but you can’t persuade me that you are really angry!”

“Please go away,” she said at last; but he wanted to tell her what
different people said, and would not be shaken off. While he was still
teasing, there swept past them a girl to whom Sylvia had not been
introduced—a solid-looking young Amazon with a freckled snub nose. She
gave Sylvia what appeared to be a haughty look, and Bates whispered, “Do
you know who that is? That’s Dorothy Cortlandt!—the girl van Tuiver is
to marry.”

“Really!” exclaimed Sylvia, who was cross with all the world. “How did
her nose get broken?”

And the other answered with a grin, “You ought to know—you did it!” And
so, as Sylvia could not help laughing, Bates counted himself forgiven.

A little later came the encounter with Edith Winthrop. It was after
supper, and the two found themselves face to face. “What a charming
party it has been!” said Sylvia, and the other gave her what was meant
to be a freezing stare. It was so rude that Sylvia thought she must have
been misunderstood. “The party’s been a success,” she ventured. “Don’t
you think so?”

“Ideas of success differ,” remarked the other, coldly, and turned her
back and began an animated conversation with someone else.

“Dear me,” thought Sylvia, as she moved on, “What have I done?” She saw
in another part of the room her hostess talking to van Tuiver, and made
up her mind at once that she would find out if the beautiful
soul-friendship was shattered also. She moved over towards the two,
resisting an effort on the part of Harmon to draw her into a
_tête-à-tête_.

“Mrs. Winthrop,” she said, “I’m so glad I stayed over.”

“Queen Isabella” turned the mystical eyes upon her, one of the deep,
inscrutable gazes. Sylvia waited, knowing that it might mean anything
from reverie to murder. “My dear Sylvia,” she said at last, “you are
pale to-night.”

This, in the presence of van Tuiver, probably meant war. “Am I?” asked
the girl.

“Yes, my dear, don’t dissipate too much! Women of your type fade
quickly.”

“What?” laughed the other, gaily. “With my red eyes and red hair? A
century could not extinguish me!”

She passed on, and discovered that van Tuiver was following her. “You
aren’t going, are you, Miss Castleman?” he asked; and while he was
begging her to stay, Sylvia saw her hostess move across the room to
Dorothy Cortlandt. These two stood conversing earnestly, and one glance
was enough to tell Sylvia what they were conversing about.

All this was a sore temptation, but Sylvia was in a virtuous mood. “Mr.
van Tuiver,” she said, “there is something I want to say to you. I’ve
thought it over, and made up my mind that it is impossible for me to be
the friend you want.”

“Why, Miss Castleman!” he exclaimed, in distress. “What is the matter?”

“I can’t explain——”

“But what have I _done_?”

“It’s nothing that you’ve done. It’s simply that I couldn’t stand the
world you live in. Oh, I’d be a dreadful woman if I stayed very long!”

“Please, listen—” he implored.

But she cut him short. “I am sorry to give you pain, but I have made up
my mind absolutely. There is no possible way I can help you. I am not
willing to see you again, and you must positively not ask it.” After
which speech she went to look for her cousin, leaving van Tuiver such a
picture of agitation that everyone in the room observed it. Could the
King’s nose be broken too?


                                  § 15

The next morning came a note from van Tuiver. He was sure that Miss
Castleman must have reconsidered her cruel decision, and he begged her
to grant him one brief interview. Might he take her riding in his car
that morning? The bearer would wait for an answer. Sylvia replied that
her decision was unchanged and unchangeable—she was sorry to hurt his
feelings, but she must ask him to give up all thought of her.

A couple of hours later came van Tuiver himself, and sent up his card
and with a line scribbled on it, “What have I done to anger you?” She
wrote back, “I am not angry, but I cannot see you.” After which an hour
more elapsed and there came a telephone-call from “Tubby” Bates, who
begged the honor of a few minutes talk.

“I ought to refuse to speak to you again,” said Sylvia. But in the end
she gave way and told him he might call.

He had come as an emissary, of course. The young millionaire was in a
dreadful state, he explained, being convinced that he had committed some
unmentionable offence.

“I don’t care to talk about the matter,” said Sylvia.

“But,” persisted Bates, “he declares that I got him into the
predicament, and now I’m honor-bound to get him out.”

So she had to set to work to explain her point of view. Mr. Bates, who
himself owed no particular allegiance to Royalty, should be able to
understand; he must realize that her annoyance was not personal, but
was, so to speak, an affair of State. This had been her first experience
at Court, she said; and the atmosphere had proven bad for her—had made
her pale, and would soon turn her into a faded old woman.

Evidently “Tubby” had heard that part of the story also; first he
grinned, and then in his rôle of diplomat set to work to smooth away her
objections. “You surely don’t mind a little thing like that,” he
pleaded. “Haven’t you any jealous ladies down South?”

“If we are going to discuss this question, Mr. Bates, I must speak
frankly. Our hostesses are polite to their guests.”

The other began suddenly to laugh. “Even when the guests steal?”

“When they steal?”

“Jewels!” exclaimed the other. “Bright, particular, conspicuous
jewels—crown-jewels, precious beyond replacing! Think, Miss Castleman,
you trust a guest, you admit him to your castle—and suddenly you find
that the great ruby of your diadem is gone!”

“Is it that Mrs. Winthrop hopes to marry van Tuiver to her daughter?”
asked Sylvia, crossly.

“Oh, no,” said Bates. “He is to marry Dorothy Cortlandt—that was
arranged when they were babies, and Mrs. Winthrop wouldn’t dream of
cutting in on it.”

“But then, if I haven’t robbed Edith——”

“My dear Miss Castleman,” said the other, “you’ve robbed Mrs. Winthrop
herself.”

“But I don’t understand,” said the girl.

“Please don’t _mis_understand,” said Bates. “It’s all perfectly proper
and noble, you know—and all that. I’ve nothing to say against Mrs.
Winthrop—she’s a charming woman, and has a right to be admired by
everybody. But being a queen, you see, she has to have a court, with a
lot of distinguished courtiers. She reads poetry to them, and they write
it to her, and they sit at her feet and dream wonderful dreams, and she
gazes at them. I know a dozen fellows who’ve been that way all through
college; and I suppose it does them good—they tell me I haven’t any soul
and can’t understand these things. What I’ve always said is, ‘Maybe
you’re right, and maybe I’m a brute, but it looks to me like the same
old game.’”

“The same old game,” repeated Sylvia, wonderingly. She found herself
thinking suddenly of one of the maxims of Lady Dee—one which she had
been too young to understand, but had been made to learn nevertheless:
“The young girl’s deadliest enemy is the married flirt!” Could it be
that Mrs. Winthrop was anything so desperate as that?

“Mr. van Tuiver is one of these poets?” she asked, finally.

“I don’t think van Tuiver goes in for poetry; but he’s strong on manners
and things like that, and he says that Mrs. Winthrop is the only hostess
in America who has the old-world charm. Of course that ravished her, and
they’ve been great chums.”

“And I came and spoiled it all!” exclaimed the girl.

“You came and spoiled it all!” said Bates.

Sylvia sat for a while in thought. “You know, Mr. Bates,” she remarked,
“it rather puzzles me that people consider Mr. van Tuiver as having
distinguished manners. I really haven’t been impressed that way.”

The other laughed. “My dear Miss Castleman, don’t you know that van
Tuiver’s in love with you!”

“No! Surely not!”

“Perfectly head over heels in love with you. He’s been that way since
the first moment he laid eyes on you. And the way you’ve treated him—you
know you are rather high-handed. Anyhow, it’s rattled him so, he simply
doesn’t know whether he’s on his head or his feet.”

“Did he tell you that, Mr. Bates?”

“Not in words—but by everything about him. I never saw a man so changed.
Honestly, you don’t know him at all, as we’ve known him. You’d not
believe it if I described him.”

“Tell me what you mean?”

“Well, in the first place, he’s always dignified—stately, even. When he
speaks, it’s he speaking, and his Yea is Yea and his Nay is Nay. Then
he’s very precise—he never does anything upon impulse, but always
considers whether it’s the right thing for Douglas van Tuiver to do. You
see, he has an acute consciousness of his social task—I mean, being a
model to all the little people in the world. You wouldn’t understand his
manners unless you realized that they’re imported from England. In
England—have you ever been there?”

“No,” said Sylvia.

“Well, you’re walking along a country road, and you’re lost, and you see
a gentleman coming the other way. You stop and begin, ‘I beg pardon’—and
he goes by you with his eyes to the front, military fashion. You see,
you’re not supposed to exist.”

“How perfectly dreadful!”

“I remember once I was walking in the country, and there came a carriage
with two ladies in it. It stopped as I passed, and so I stopped. ‘Can
you tell me where such and such a house is?’ she asked, and I replied
that it was in such and such a direction. And then, without even a look,
she sank back in her cushions, and the coachman drove on. She was a
lady, and she thought it was a grand carelessness.”

“Oh, but surely she must have belonged to the ‘_nouveaux riches_’!”
exclaimed Sylvia.

“On the contrary, she may have had the best blood in England. You see,
that’s their system. They have a ruling caste, whose rudeness is their
religion.”

“We have our family pride in the South,” said Sylvia, “but it’s supposed
to show itself in a superior courtesy. In fact, if a person’s rude to
his inferiors, we’re sure there must be plebeian blood somewhere.”

“Exactly, Miss Castleman—that’s what I’ve always been taught.” There was
a pause; then suddenly Bates began to laugh. “They tell such a funny
story about van Tuiver,” he went on. “It was a club-tea, and there were
two ladies whom everybody knew to be social rivals. Van Tuiver was
talking to Mrs. A. and suddenly, without any warning, he walked over and
began to talk to Mrs. B. Afterwards somebody said to him, ‘Why did you
leave Mrs. A. and go directly to Mrs. B.? You know they hate each
other—did you want to make it worse?’ ‘No, I never thought of it,’ he
said. ‘The point was, there was a fireplace at my back, and I don’t like
a fireplace at my back.’ ‘But did you tell that to Mrs. A?’ asked the
friend. ‘No,’ said van Tuiver—‘I told it to Mrs. B.’”

“Oh, dear me!” cried Sylvia.

“And you must understand that he saw nothing funny in it. And the
significant thing is that he gets away with that pose!”

“In other words, he has introduced the English system into America,”
said Sylvia.

“That’s what it comes to, Miss Castleman.”

“You have a king at Harvard!”

The man hesitated, and then a smile spread over his face. “Of course you
realize,” he said, “that it’s a game we’re playing.”

“A game?” she repeated.

“Do you know they had a queen in New York, Miss Castleman—until she
died, just recently? You came to the city, you intrigued and pulled
wires, and perhaps she condescended to receive you—seated upon a regular
throne of state, painted and covered with jewels like a Hindoo idol.
Everybody agreed she was the queen, and nobody could go anywhere or do
anything unless she said so. Only, of course, ninety-nine people out of
a hundred paid no attention to her, and went ahead and lived their lives
just as if she weren’t queen. And it’s the same way here.”

“Tubby” paused for encouragement; this was unusual eloquence for him.

“As to our king,” he continued, “one-eighth of the college pays him
homage, and another eighth rebels against him—and the other
three-quarters don’t know that he’s here. They’re busy cramming for
exams, or training for the boat-race, or having a good time spending
papa’s money. In other words, Miss Castleman, van Tuiver is our king
when we are snobs; and some of us are snobs all the time, and others of
us only when we go calling on the ladies. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” said Sylvia, intensely amused. “I suspect that you are
one of the rebellious subjects. You are certainly a frank ambassador,
Mr. Bates!”

It was his turn to laugh. “The truth is, van Tuiver’s been three years
posing in a certain rôle, and he can’t turn round now and play a
different one for you. I thought it over as I was coming here, and I
said to myself, ‘I’ll ask her to see him, but I’ll be damned’—pardon me,
but that’s what I said—‘I’ll be damned if I’ll help him to deceive her.’
You see, Miss Castleman—I hope I don’t presume—but I know van Tuiver’s
in love with you, and I thought—well—I——”

The genial “Tubby” had turned several shades redder, and now he fell
silent. “You may feel quite at ease, Mr. Bates,” smiled Sylvia. “The
danger you fear does not exist at all.”

“Not by any possibility, Miss Castleman?”

“Not by any possibility, Mr. Bates.”

“He—he has an enormous lot of money!”

“After all our conversation! There are surely a few things in America
which are not for sale.”

“Tubby” drew a deep breath of relief. “I was scared,” he said—“honest.”

“How lovely of you!” said Sylvia. She suddenly felt like a mother to
this big fat boy who was said to have no soul.

“I said to myself,” he continued, “‘I’ll tell her the truth about van
Tuiver, even if she never forgives me for it.’ You see, Miss Castleman,
I see the real man—as you’d never be allowed to, not in a thousand
years. And you must take my word and be careful, for van Tuiver’s a man
who has never had to do without anything in his whole lifetime. No
matter what it’s been that he’s wanted, he’s had it—always, _always_!
I’ve seen one or two times when it looked as if he mightn’t get it—and I
can tell you that he’s cunning, and that he persists and persists—he’s a
perfect demon when he’s got his mind fixed on something he wants and
hasn’t got.”

“Dear me!” said Sylvia. “That _is_ a new view of him!”

“Well, I said I’d warn you. I hope you don’t mind.”

Sylvia smiled. “I thought you had set out to persuade me to see him
again!”

Bates watched her. “I don’t know,” he said, “maybe mine was the best way
to persuade you.”

“Why, how charming!” she exclaimed, with a laugh. “You are really
subtle.”

“We want to fight the introduction of the English system, Miss
Castleman! I don’t mind an aristocracy, because I’m one of ’em; but I
don’t want any kings in America! It’s a patriotic duty to pull them off
their thrones and keep them off.”

Sylvia pondered. It was a most entertaining view. “And the queens too?”
she laughed.

“Yes, and the queens too!”

There was a pause, while she thought. Then she said, “Yes, I think
you’re right, Mr. Bates. You may tell His Majesty that I’ll see him—once
more!”


                                  § 16

Sylvia had said that she would go motoring with van Tuiver the following
afternoon. He came in a cab, explaining that he had been to dinner in
Cambridge, and that his car had run out of fuel. “I’ve a chauffeur who
is troubled with absent-mindedness,” he remarked, with what Sylvia soon
realized was enforced good-nature. For the car was longer in coming than
he expected, and when at last it arrived, she was given an exhibition of
his system of manners as applied to servants.

The chauffeur tried to make some explanation. There had been an
accident, which he wanted to tell of; but the other would not give him a
chance. “I’ve not the least desire to listen to you,” he said. “I do not
employ you to make excuses. I told you when you came to me that I
required promptness from my servants. You have had your opportunity, and
you are not equal to it. You may consider yourself under notice.”

“Very good, sir,” said the man; and Sylvia stepped into the car and sat
thinking, not hearing what van Tuiver said to her.

It was not the words he had used; he had a right to give his chauffeur
notice, she told herself. It was his tone which had struck her like a
knife—a tone of insolence, of deliberate provocativeness. Yet he,
apparently, had no idea that she would notice it; doubtless he would
think it meant a lack of breeding in her to notice it.

She wished to do justice to him; and she knew that it was partly her
Southern shrinking from the idea of white servants. She was used to
negroes, about whose feelings one did not bother.

If Aunt Nannie discovered one of the chambermaids trying on her
mistress’ ball-gown, it would be, “Get out of here, you bob-tailed
monkey!” Or if Uncle Mandeville’s boy forgot to feed a favorite horse,
the rascal would be dragged out by one ear and soundly caned—and would
expect it, knowing that if it was never done the horse would never be
fed. But to talk so to a white man—and not in a blaze of anger, but with
cold and concentrated malevolence!

The purpose of this ride was a definite one—that van Tuiver might find
out the meaning of Sylvia’s change of mind at the dance. He propounded
the question very soon; and the girl had to try to explain the state of
mind in which she found herself. She would begin, she said, with the
situation she had found at Harvard. Here were two groups of men, working
for different ends, one desiring democracy in college life, and the
other wishing to preserve the old spirit of caste. The conflict between
them had become intense, and Sylvia’s sympathies were with van Tuiver’s
opponents.

“Tell me,” she said, “what has Harvard meant to you? What has it given
you that you couldn’t have got elsewhere? Here are men from all over
America, but you’ve only met one little set. All the others—whom you’re
probably too refined to call ‘rough-necks’—could none of them have
taught you anything?”

“Perhaps they could,” he answered, “but it’s not easy to know them. If I
met people promiscuously, they’d presume upon the acquaintance. I’d have
no time to myself, no privacy——”

He saw the scorn in Sylvia’s face. “That’s all very well,” he cried,
“but you simply don’t realize! Take your own case—do _you_ meet anybody
who comes along?”

“I am a girl,” said Sylvia. “People seem to think it’s necessary to
protect girls. But even so, I remember experiences that you might profit
by. I went last year to our State University, where one of my cousins
was graduating. At one of the dances I was accidentally introduced to a
man, a decent fellow, whom I liked. ‘I won’t ask you to dance with me,
Miss Castleman,’ he said. I asked, ‘Why not?’ and he said, ‘I’m a
“goat”.’ I said, ‘I’ll dance with a goat, if he’s a good dancer,’ and so
we danced. And then came my cousin. ‘Sylvia, don’t you know who the man
is you were dancing with? He’s a “goat”!’ ‘I like him,’ I said, ‘and he
dances as well as any of you. I shall dance with him.’ ‘But, Miss
Castleman,’ they all said, ‘you’ll break up the fraternity system in the
college.’ ‘What strange fraternity!’ I answered. ‘I think it needs
breaking up. I’ll dance with him, and if anybody doesn’t like it, I
won’t dance with _him_.’ So I had my way.”

“That’s all right,” said the other. “If a pretty girl chooses to have
her whim, everybody can allow for it. But if you set to work to run a
college on that basis, you’d abolish social life there. Men of a certain
class would simply not go where they had undesirable companionship
forced upon them. Is that what you want to bring about?”

Sylvia thought for a moment, and then countered, “Is the only way you
can think of to avoid undesirable companionship to have a private
house?”

“A house?” replied van Tuiver. “Lots of people live in houses. Doesn’t
your father?”

“My father has a family,” said Sylvia. “You have no one but yourself—and
you don’t have the house because you need it, but simply for
ostentation.”

He was very patient. “My dear Miss Castleman,” he said, “it happens that
I was raised in a house, and I’m used to it. And I happen to have the
money—why shouldn’t I spend it?”

“You might spend it for the good of others.”

“You mean in charity? Haven’t you learned that charity never does any
good?”

“Sometimes I wish that I were a man, so that I could understand these
things,” exclaimed Sylvia. “But surely you might find some way of doing
good with your money, instead of only harm, as at present.”

“Only harm, Miss Castleman?”

“You are spending your money setting up false ideals in your college.
You are doing all in your power to make everyone who meets you, or sees
you, or even knows of you, a toady or else an Anarchist. And at the same
time you are killing the best things in the college.”

“What, for instance?”

“There is Memorial Hall—a building that stands for something. I can see
that, even if all my people were on the other side in the war. There you
find the democracy of the college, the spirit of real comradeship. But
did you ever eat a meal in Memorial Hall?”

“No,” said he, “I never did.”

Sylvia thought for a moment. “Do ladies eat there?” she asked; and when
he answered in the negative, she laughed. “Of course, that was only a
‘pretty girl’s whim’—as you call it. But if you, Douglas van Tuiver,
would go there, as a matter of course—right along, I mean——”

“Eat at Memorial Hall!” he exclaimed. “My dear Miss Castleman, I
wouldn’t eat—I’d be eaten!”

“In other words,” said she, coldly, “you admit that you can’t take care
of yourself as a man among men.”

It was amusing to perceive his dismay over her idea. He came back to it,
after a minute. He wanted to know if that was the sort of thing he’d
have to do to win her regard; and he repeated the phrase with a sort of
fascinated horror. “Eat at Memorial Hall!”

Until at last Sylvia declared with asperity, “Mr. van Tuiver, I don’t
care whether you eat at all, until you’ve found something better to do
with your life.”


                                  § 17

He took these rages of hers very humbly. He was becoming extraordinarily
tame. “I suppose you find me exasperating,” he said, “but you must
realize that I’m trying my best to understand you. You want me to make
my life all over, and it isn’t easy for me to see the necessity of it.
What harm do I do here, just by keeping to myself?”

Sylvia was touched by his tone, and she tried again to explain. “It
isn’t that you keep to yourself,” she said. “You cultivate a contempt
for your classmates, and they reply with hatred and envy, and so you
break up college life. It’s true, isn’t it, that there’s a struggle
going on now?”

“The class elections, you mean?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. So much bitterness and intriguing, because you
keep to yourself! Why do you come to college at all? Surely you won’t
say it’s the professors and the studies!”

“No,” said he, smiling in spite of himself.

“You come, and you make yourself into a kind of idol. Excuse me, if it
isn’t polite, but what I said the other night is the truth—the Golden
Calf! And what I say is, try the other plan a while. Stop thinking about
yourself, and what they are thinking about you—above all, what they are
thinking about your money. They won’t all be thinking about your money.”

He did not answer promptly. “Apparently,” she said, “you don’t feel
quite sure. If you can’t, I know several real men that I could introduce
you to—men right in your own class.”

“Who are they?”

She hesitated. She was about to say Frank Shirley, but concluded not to.
“I met one the other day—he doesn’t belong to a club, yet he’s the most
interesting person I’ve encountered here. He talked about you, and he
wasn’t complimentary; but if you sought him out in the right way, and
made it clear you weren’t trying to patronize him, I’m sure he’d be a
friend.”

“What’s his name?”

“Mr. Firmin.”

“Oh!” said van Tuiver, and looked annoyed.

“You know him?”

“By sight. He has a bitter tongue.”

“No more bitter than you need, Mr. van Tuiver—if you are going to hear
the truth about yourself.”

The other hesitated. “I really do want to win your regard—” he began.

“I don’t want you to do anything to win my regard! If you do these
things, it must be because you want to do them. At present you’re just
your money, your position—your Royalty, as I’ve come to call it. But I’m
not the least bit concerned about your Royalty; your houses and your
servants and your automobiles are a bore to me—worse than that, they’re
wicked, for no man has a right to spend so much money on himself, to
have a whole house to himself——.”

“Please,” he pleaded, “stop scolding about my house. I couldn’t change
now, for it’s only a couple of weeks to Commencement.”

“It would have all the more effect,” she declared, “if you moved into a
dormitory now. Here are the class elections, and your class split up——”

“You don’t realize my position,” he interrupted. “It’s not merely a
question of what I want. There’s Ridgely Shackleford, our candidate for
class president; if I deserted him and went over to the ‘Yard,’ they’d
say I was a traitor, a coward—worse than that, they’d say I was a fool!
I wouldn’t have a friend left in the college.”

“You really think it would be so bad?”

“It would be worse. I haven’t told you half. When the story got about,
I’d become a booby in society; I’d have to give up my clubs, I’d be a
complete outcast. I tell you, you simply can’t break down the barriers
of your class.”

Sylvia sat in silence, pondering his words. Suddenly she became aware
that he was gazing at her eagerly. “Miss Castleman,” he began, his voice
trembling slightly, “what I want above all else is your friendship. I’d
do anything to win it—I’d give up anything in the world. I have a regard
for you—a most intense admiration. If I knew it would make me mean
something to you—why then, I’d be willing to go to any extreme, to defy
everybody else. But suppose I do this, and I’m left all alone——”

“If you did this you’d have new friends—real friends.”

“But the friend I want is _you_!”

Sylvia answered, “If you did what was right because it was right, if you
showed yourself willing to dare something for the sake of principle—why
then, right away you’d become worth while. You’d not have to ask for my
friendship.”

He hesitated. “Suppose—suppose that I should find that I wanted _more_
than friendship——”

She had been prepared for that—and she stopped him instantly.
“Friendship comes first,” she said.

“But,” he pleaded, “give me some idea. Could I not expect——”

“You asked me to be a friend to you, to help you by telling you the
truth. That is what we have been discussing. Pray let there be no
mistake about it. Friendship comes first.”

Why did Sylvia take such a course with him? You would have a false idea
of her character if you did not realize that it was the first time she
had ever done such a thing—and that it was a hard thing for her to do.
To refuse to let a man propose to her! To forbear to draw him on, to
investigate him, to see what he would reply to various baffling remarks!

It was not because she was engaged to Frank Shirley. Under the code
which Lady Dee had taught her that made simply no difference whatever.
Under that code it was her duty to secure every man who came into her
reach; she might remain uncertain in her own mind, she might continue to
explore and experiment up to the very moment when the wedding ring was
slipped upon her finger. Sylvia had never forgotten Aunt Lady’s vivid
image: “Stand them up in a line, my child, and when you get ready, walk
down the line and pick the one you want!”

She had set up a barrier before van Tuiver, and he pushed against it.
The more firm she made it, the more he was moved to push. But suppose
she gave way the least little bit, suppose he felt the barrier
breaking—then would he not stop pushing, would he not shrink away? What
fun to try him, to watch him hesitating, advancing and retreating,
trembling with desire and with terror! To analyze the mixture of his
longing and his caution, to add a little to the one or the other, and
then see the result. Sylvia with a new man was like a chemist’s
assistant, mixing strange liquids in a test-tube, possessed with a craze
to know whether the precipitate would be red or green or yellow—and
quite undeterred by the possibility of being blown through the skylight.

But tempting as was the game, she could not play it with Douglas van
Tuiver. It was as if an angel stood between them with a flaming sword.
Douglas van Tuiver was no subject for joke, he was not a man as other
men—he was Royalty. With Royalty one must be stern and unfaltering.
“Friendship comes first,” she had said; and though before that ride was
over he had come again and again to the barrier, he never broke past it,
nor felt any sign of its yielding to his touch.


                                  § 18

Sylvia was making her plans to leave in a couple of days. It was close
to Commencement, and she would have liked to stay, but there had come a
disturbing letter from home—the Major was not well, and there had been
an overflow, entailing serious damage to the crops and still more
serious cares. At such a time the family reached out blindly to
Sylvia—no matter what was going wrong, they were sure it would go right
if she were present.

And besides, her work at Harvard was done. This was duly certified to by
Harley, who came to see her the next morning, in such a state of bliss
as is not often vouchsafed to Freshmen. “It’s all right, old girl,” he
said, “you can go whenever you get ready. You surely are a witch,
Sylvia!”

“What has happened?” she asked.

“I had a call from Douglas van Tuiver last night.”

“You don’t mean it, Harley!”

“Yes. Did you ask him to do it?”

“I should think I did _not_!”

“Well, whatever the reason was, he was as nice as could be. Said he was
interested in me, and that he’d back me for one of the earlier tens.”

“How perfectly contemptible of him!” exclaimed Sylvia.

Needless to say, this was a turn not expected by Harley. “See here,” he
protested, “it seems to me you’re taking a little too high a line with
van Tuiver. There’s really no need to go so far——”

“Now please,” said Sylvia, “don’t concern yourself with that. I came up
here to help you, and I’ve done it, and that’s all you can ask.”

“Oh, very well,” he said, and there was a sulky pause. Finally, however,
the sun of his delight broke through the clouds again. “Say, Sylvia!” he
exclaimed. “Do you know, the whole college is talking about what
happened at that dance. Tell me, honestly—did you know anything about
what they meant to do?”

“I think that’s a question you’d know better than to ask, Harley.”

“I was ready to knock a fellow down because he hinted it. But Bates is
square—he takes it all on himself. They say Mrs. Winthrop will never
forgive him.”

Sylvia pondered. “Won’t it make Edith angry with you?” she asked.

“I’ll keep away from her for a few days,” laughed Harley. “If I get my
social position established, she’ll get over her anger, never fear. By
the way, would you like to know what Edith thinks about you?”

“Why—did she tell you?”

“No, but there’s a chap in my class who knows her. He told me what she
said—only of course one can’t be sure.”

“Tell me what it was,” said Sylvia, “and I’ll know if she said it.”

“That you were shallow; that with the arts you used any woman could
snare a man. But she would scorn to use them.”

“Yes,” laughed the other, “she said it.”

“Are you really as bad as that?” asked Harley. “What arts does she
mean?”

“This is a woman’s affair, Harley. What else did she say?”

“She said her mother was disappointed in you. She thought you had a
beautiful soul, but you’d let it be spoiled by flattery. She said you
had no real understanding of a character like van Tuiver, or the
responsibilities of his position.”

Sylvia said nothing, but sat considering the matter. She had no
philosophy about these affairs; she was following her instincts, and
sometimes she was assailed by doubts and troubled by new points of view.
She was surprised to realize how very revolutionary a standpoint she had
come to take in the matter of Mrs. Winthrop’s favorite. Why should she,
Sylvia Castleman, a descendant of Lady Lysle, be trying to pull down the
pillars of the social temple?

That was still her mood when, after Harley’s departure, the telephone
rang and she found herself voice to voice with “Queen Isabella.” “Won’t
you come and have luncheon with me, Sylvia?” asked the latter. “I’ve
sent Edith away, so that we can be to ourselves. I want to have a long
talk with you.” And Sylvia, in a penitent state, answered that she would
come.


                                  § 19

She chose for this visit one of her simplest costumes—a white muslin,
with pale green sprigs in it, and a pale green toque of a most
alluringly Quakerish effect. A poet had designed it for her—one of her
victims at the State University—and had specified that she must never
wear it without a prayer-book in her hand. In this costume she sat in
Mrs. Winthrop’s sombre paneled dining-room, with generations of sombre
Puritan governors staring down from the walls at her; while the strange
white servants stole noiselessly about on the velvet carpets, she gazed
with wide, innocent eyes, and listened to her hostess’ delicately-worded
sermon.

Mrs. Winthrop appreciated the symbolism of the costume, and used it in
making a cautious approach to her subject. She said that Sylvia had
wonderful gifts of beauty—not merely of the person, but of taste and
understanding. Women so favored owed a great debt to life, and must
needs feel keenly the desire to make recompense for their privileges.
That, said Mrs. Winthrop, was something always present in her own
thoughts. How could she pay for her existence? It was fatally easy to
fall into the point of view of those who rebelled against social
conditions, and justified the discontent of the poor. “You know, we have
such people even in Boston,” she explained, “and they win a good deal of
sympathy. But there is a deeper and saner view, it seems to me. Life
must have its graces, its embellishments; there must be those who embody
a higher ideal than mere animal comfort. I think we should take our
stand there—we should justify ourselves, having the consciousness of a
mission in preserving the allurements and amenities of life. People talk
about the poor shop-girls, and how hard they have to work; they seem to
desire that one should give up one’s ease, one’s culture, and go and
join the shop-girls. But I say, No, I am not to be seduced by such
arguments. I am something in the lives of those shop-girls, something
definite, something vital; I am to them an uplifting vision, an ideal of
grace and dignity. When one goes among the lower classes and sees the
brutality, the sordid animalism of their lives—oh, it is terrifying! One
flies back to the world of refinement and serenity as to a city of
refuge.”

Mrs. Winthrop paused. Her beautiful eyes had talked with her; they had
gazed terrified into social abysses, and now they came back to regions
of brooding calm. Sylvia was under their spell, and was not conscious of
any extravagance in the lady’s next utterance: “Speaking with a deep
conviction, I say that I am something necessary to life, that the world
could not get on without me. I say, I am Beauty, I am Art! Have you ever
felt that, Sylvia?”

“I have thought a good deal about such things, Mrs. Winthrop. But as a
rule, I only manage to bewilder myself and make myself unhappy. There is
so much terrible suffering in the world!”

“Yes,” said the other. “How many times I find myself asking, with tears
in my eyes, ‘How can you be happy, while all around you the world is
dying? Go, bow your head with shame, because you have been happy!’” And
sure enough, Mrs. Winthrop bowed her head, and two glistening, pearly
tears trickled slowly from her eyes. “It is a faith I have had to fight
for,” she continued, “something I feel most earnestly about. For we live
in times when, as it seems to me, civilization is threatened by the
terrible forces of materialism—by the blind greed of the masses
especially. And I think that we who have the task of keeping alive the
flame of beauty ought to be aware of our mission, and to support one
another.”

Sylvia thought that this was the point of approach to the real subject;
but she said nothing, and Mrs. Winthrop veered off again. “I have always
been especially interested in University life,” she said. “My father was
a University professor, and I was brought up in a University town. After
I was married and found that I had leisure and opportunity, I said to
myself that it would be my task in life to do what I could to influence
young men during their student years, by teaching them generous ideals,
and above all by giving them a model of a dignified and gracious social
life. It is in these years, you see, that the tastes of young men are
formed; afterwards they go out to set an example to the rest of the
world. More than any university, I think, Harvard is our source of
culture and idealism; our crude Western colleges look to its graduates
for teachers, and to its standards for their models. So you see it is
really no little thing to feel that you are helping to guide and shape
the social life of Harvard.”

“I can understand that,” said Sylvia, much impressed.

“You come from another part of our country,” continued Mrs. Winthrop—“a
part which has its own lovely culture. Whether you have ever realized it
consciously or not, I am sure that ideas such as these must have been
often impressed upon you by your family.”

“Yes,” said Sylvia, “my mother often talks of such things.”

“I felt that, Sylvia, when I saw you. I said, ‘Here is an ally.’ You
see, I must have help from the young people—especially from the girls,
if I am to do anything with the men.”

There was a solemn pause. “I hope I haven’t disappointed you too much,”
said Sylvia at last.

Mrs. Winthrop fixed upon her one of those intense gazes. “I’ve been
perplexed,” she said. “You must understand, I can’t help hearing what’s
going on. People come to ask me for advice, and I must give it. And I’ve
felt that what I’ve learned made it really necessary for me to talk to
you. I hope that you won’t mind, or think that I’m presuming.”

“My dear Mrs. Winthrop,” said Sylvia, “please don’t apologize. I am glad
to have your advice.”

“I will speak frankly, then. As well as I can read the situation, you
seem to have taken offense at the social system we have at Harvard. Is
that true?”

Sylvia thought. “Yes,” she said—“some parts of it have offended me.”

“Can you explain, Sylvia?”

“I don’t know that I can. It’s a thing that one feels. I have had a
sense of something cruel about it.”

“Something cruel? But can’t one feel that about any social system?
Haven’t you classes at home? Don’t your people hold themselves above
some others?”

“Yes, but I don’t think they are so hard about it—so deliberate, so
matter of fact.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “that is something I have often talked about
with Southern people. The reason is that in the South you have a social
class which is definitely separated by color, and which never thinks of
crossing the line. But in the North, my dear, our servants look like us,
and it’s not quite so simple drawing the line.”

“Oh, but I’m not talking of servants, Mrs. Winthrop. I mean here, within
the boundaries of a college class. Your servants do not go to college.”

The other laughed. “But they do,” she said.

“Oh, surely not!”

“It costs a hundred and fifty dollars a year to go to Harvard. Any man
can come, black or white, who can borrow the money. He may come, and
earn his living while he’s here by tending furnaces. As a matter of
fact, there’s a man in the class with Douglas van Tuiver whose father is
a butler.”

“You don’t mean it!” exclaimed Sylvia.

“A man,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “named Firmin.”

Sylvia was aghast. “Tom Firmin!”

“Yes. Have you heard of him before?”

She answered in a faint voice, “Yes,” and then was silent.

“You see, my dear,” said the other, gently, “why we are conscious of our
class lines in the North!”


                                  § 20

Sylvia judged that it was about time for the cat to come out of the bag.
And now she observed him emerging—with a grave and stately tread, as
became a feline of New England traditions. Said Mrs. Winthrop: “I have
just had a talk with Douglas van Tuiver. Of course, you must know,
Sylvia, that he has conceived an intense admiration for you. And you
must know that when a man so intensely admires a woman, she has a great
influence upon him—an influence which she can use either for good or for
evil.”

“Yes, Mrs. Winthrop,” said Sylvia.

“I gather that his admiration for you is—is not entirely reciprocated,
Sylvia.”

“Er—no,” said the girl, “not entirely.”

“He has come to me in great distress. You have criticized him, and he
has felt your disapproval keenly. I won’t need to repeat what he said—no
doubt you understand. The point is that you have brought Douglas to a
state of distraction; he wants to please you, and he doesn’t know how to
do it. You have put ideas into his head—really, Sylvia, you will ruin
the man—you will utterly destroy him. I cannot but feel that you have
acted without fully realizing the gravity of the situation—the full
import of the demands you have made upon him.”

“Really,” protested Sylvia, “I have made no demands upon him.”

“Not formally, perhaps. But you must understand, the man is beside
himself, and he takes them as demands.”

There was an awkward silence. “I have tried earnestly to avoid Mr. van
Tuiver,” said Sylvia. “I would prefer never to see him again.”

“But that is not what I want. You can’t help seeing him—he is determined
to see _you_. My point is that your advice to him should take another
form—you should realize the peculiar position of a man like Douglas, the
immense responsibilities he carries, and which he cannot lay aside. If
you could sympathize with him——”

There was again a pause. “I hope you won’t think it obstinate of me,”
said the girl, “but I know that I could never change my attitude—that
unless Mr. van Tuiver changed his way of life, he could never be a
friend of mine.”

“But, Sylvia dear,” remonstrated the other, gently, “he has been a
friend of _mine_.”

And so the real battle was on. There have been defences of the Divine
Right of Kings, composed by eminent and learned men; there have been
treatises composed upon the upbringing of statesmen and princes—from
Machiavelli and Castiglione on; Sylvia was ignorant of their very
existence, and so she was in no way a match for a scholarly person like
Mrs. Winthrop. But one thing she knew, and knew it with overwhelming
certainty, and repeated it with immovable obstinacy—she did not like van
Tuiver as he was, she could not tolerate him as he was. Mrs. Winthrop
argued and pleaded, apologized and philosophized, interpreting most
eloquently the privileges and immunities incidental to the possession of
fifty millions of dollars. But Sylvia did not like van Tuiver, she could
not tolerate van Tuiver.

At last Mrs. Winthrop stopped, the edges of her temper somewhat frayed.
She gazed at Sylvia intently. “May I ask you one thing?” she said.

“What is it?” inquired the girl.

“Has Douglas asked you to marry him?”

“No, he has not.”

“Do you think that he will ask you?”

“I really don’t know; but I can assure you that he will not if I can
prevent it.”

There was a long pause, while the other weighed this utterance.
“Sylvia,” she said, at last, “he has a great deal of money.”

“I have heard that fact mentioned,” responded the girl.

“But have you realized, my dear, how _much_ money he has?”

To which Sylvia answered, “We are not taught to think so deliberately
about money in the South.”

Again there was a silence. She divined that Mrs. Winthrop was struggling
desperately to be noble. “Do I understand you to mean, Sylvia, that you
would really refuse to marry him if he asked you?”

“I most certainly mean it,” was her reply—and it was given convincingly.

The other drew a breath of relief. She had found the struggle
exhausting. “My dear child,” she said, “I appreciate your fineness of
character.” She paused. “But tell me this—if you do not intend to marry
Douglas, ought you to permit him to compromise himself for you?”

“Compromise himself, Mrs. Winthrop? I don’t understand you.”

“I mean, Sylvia, that he is exposing himself to the ridicule of his
friends—he is making a spectacle of himself to the whole University. And
then, after he has done this, you propose to cap the climax of his
humiliation by refusing to marry him!”

Sylvia had so far been most decorous; but at this point her sense of fun
was too much for her, and merriment broke out upon her countenance.
“Mrs. Winthrop,” she declared, “there is but one way out—you must keep
Mr. van Tuiver from proposing to me!”

The other’s pose became haughty and full of rebuke; but Sylvia was not
to be frightened. “See the dilemma I am in!” she exclaimed. “If I refuse
him, I humiliate him and compromise him. But if I marry him—what becomes
of my fineness of character?” She paused for a moment, then added, “You
must do this, Mrs. Winthrop; you must take the responsibility of
forbidding me to see him again. You must make it so emphatic that I’ll
simply have to obey you.”

“Queen Isabella’s” feelings were approaching a state of turmoil; but the
girl urged her proposition seriously, finding a quite devilish amusement
in plaguing her hostess with it. The other protested that she would not,
she could not, she _dared_ not take the responsibility of interfering
with Mr. van Tuiver’s love affairs; and all without having the least
idea of the abysses of malice which were hidden within the circumference
of the pale green Quaker bonnet in front of her!


                                  § 21

Frank Shirley came to call that afternoon, and revealed the fact that
the gossip had reached even him. “Sylvia, you witch,” he exclaimed, and
pinched her ear—“what in the world have you been doing to Douglas van
Tuiver?”

She caught his hand and held it in both hers. “What has happened,
Frank?”

“A miracle, my dear—simply a miracle! Van Tuiver has been to call on Tom
Firmin!”

“Oh, how interesting!” cried Sylvia. “How was he received?”

“Tell me first—did you suggest it to him?”

“I’m a woman—my curiosity is much less endurable than yours. Tell me
instantly.”

“Oh, he came—very much subdued and ill at ease. Said he’d realized the
split in the class, and how very unfortunate it was, and he wanted to
help mend matters.”

“What did Mr. Firmin say?”

“He asked why van Tuiver had begun with him. ‘Because I’d heard you
didn’t like me,’ said van Tuiver, ‘and I wanted to try to put matters on
a better footing. I’d like to be a friend of yours if I might.’ Tom—you
know him—said that friendship wasn’t to be had for the asking—he’d have
to look van Tuiver over and see how he panned out. First of all, they
must understand each other on one point—that he, Tom, wouldn’t be
patronized, and that anybody who tried it would be ordered out.” Frank
paused, and laughed his slow, good-natured laugh. “Poor van Tuiver!” he
said. “I feel sorry for him. Imagine him having to say he’d be willing
to take the risk! It’s about the funniest thing I ever heard of. What I
want to know is, is it true that you did it?”

“Would you be very angry if I said ‘Yes’?”

“Why, no,” he answered—“only I suppose you know you’re getting a lot of
publicity?”

Sylvia paused for a while. “I suppose it was a mistake all through,” she
said, “but I was ignorant when I started, and since then I’ve been
dragged along. Mr. van Tuiver has kept at me to tell him why I didn’t
like him—and I’ve told him, that’s about all. I thought that your friend
Mr. Firmin was one who’d do the same.”

“He’s that, all right,” laughed Frank.

There was a pause, then suddenly Sylvia exclaimed, “By the way, there’s
something I meant to ask you. Is it true that Mr. Firmin’s father is a
butler?”

“It is, Sylvia.”

“And did you know that when you introduced him to me?”

It was Frank’s turn to counter. “Would you be very angry if I said I
did?”

“Why—not angry, Frank. But you must realize that it was a new
experience.”

“Did you find him ill-bred?”

“Why, no—not that; but——”

“I thought you might as well see all sides of college life. I knew you’d
meet the club-men. And there’s a particular reason why you’ll have to be
nice to Tom—he wants to make me president of the class just now.”

“President of the class!”

“Yes. Politics, you see!”

“But,” she exclaimed, “why haven’t you told me about it?”

“I didn’t know until yesterday. Things have been shaping themselves. You
see, the feeling in the ‘Yard’ has grown more bitter, and yesterday a
committee came to me and asked if I’d stand against Shackleford, who’s
been picked by the Auburn Street crowd, and was expected to go in
without opposition. I said I’d have to think it over. I might accept the
position if I was elected, but of course, I wouldn’t do any
wire-pulling—wouldn’t seek any man’s vote. They said that was all they
wanted. But I don’t know; it’s a difficult question for me.”

“But why?”

“Well, you see, they’ll rake up the story of my father.”

Sylvia gave a cry of horror. “Frank!”

“If there’s a contest, it’ll be war and no quarter.”

“But would they do such a thing as that?”

“They would do it,” said Frank, grimly. “So my first impulse was to
refuse. But I rather thought you’d want me to run. For you see, I’ll
have that old scandal all my life, whatever I try to do; and I suppose
you won’t let me keep out of everything.”

“But, Frank, how will they know about your father?”

“Lord, Sylvia, don’t you suppose with all the social climbing there is
in this place, they’ve had that morsel long ago? There are fellows here
from the South—your cousin, for one. It doesn’t matter, as long as I’m a
nobody; but if I set out to beat the ‘Gold Coast crowd’—then you’d see!”

It was amusing to Frank to see how her eyes blazed. “Oh, I ought to stay
to help you!” she exclaimed. “If it only weren’t for father!”

“Don’t worry, Sylvia. I wouldn’t let you stay for anything. I don’t want
you mixed up in such affairs.”

“But, Frank, think what it would mean! What a blow to the system you
hate! And I could pull you through—you needn’t laugh, I really could!
There are so many men I could manage!”

But Frank went on laughing. “Honey,” he said, “you’ve done quite
enough—too much—already. How are you going to pay van Tuiver for what
he’s done?”

“Pay him, Frank?”

“Of course. Do you imagine, dear, that van Tuiver’s a man to do anything
without being paid? He’ll hand in his bill for services rendered, and
he’ll put a high value on his services! And what will you do?”

She sat, deep in thought. “Frank,” she exclaimed, “you’ve been so
good—not to worry about me and that man!”

He smiled. “Don’t I know what a proud lady you are?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Honey, if I had been afraid about van Tuiver, do you suppose I’d have
dared let you know it?”

She looked at him, her eyes shining. “How nicely you put it!” she said.
“You’re the dearest fellow in the world, a regular haven of refuge to
fly to!” Then suddenly her mood became grave, and she said, “Let me tell
you the truth; I’m glad I’m going away from the man and his money! It
isn’t that it’s a temptation—I don’t know how to say it, but it’s a
nightmare, a load on my mind. I think, ‘Oh, how much good I could do
with that money!’ I think, ‘So much power, and he hasn’t an idea how to
use it!’ It’s monstrous that a man should have so much, and no ideas to
go with it. It’s all very well to turn your back on it, to say that you
despise it—but still it’s there, it’s working all the time, day and
night—and working for evil! Isn’t that true?”

He was watching her with a quizzical smile. “You’re talking just like
Tom!” he said. “They’ll call _you_ an Anarchist at home!”

She was interested in the idea of being an Anarchist, and would have got
Frank started upon a lecture on economics. But there came an
interruption in the form of a knock on the door and a boy with a card.
Sylvia glanced at it, and then, without a word, passed it to Frank. He
read it and they looked at each other.

“Well?” he asked. “Are you going to see him?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “What do you say?”

“I can stand it if you can,” laughed Frank; and so Sylvia ordered Mr.
van Tuiver shown up.


                                  § 22

He stood in the doorway, clad in his faultless afternoon attire. Somehow
he had recovered the hard brilliance, the look of the man of the world,
which Sylvia had noticed the first evening. He gazed at Frank, not
hiding very well his annoyance at finding a third party.

“Mr. van Tuiver, Mr. Shirley,” said Sylvia. “You do not know each other,
I believe.”

“I know Mr. Shirley by sight,” said van Tuiver, graciously. He seated
himself on a spindle-legged Louis Quinze chair—so stiffly that Sylvia
thought of a purple domino. She beamed from one to the other, and then
remarked, “What a curious commentary on the Harvard system! Two men
studying side by side for three years, and not knowing each other!”

She was aware that this remark was not of the most tactful order. She
made it on purpose, thinking to force the two into a discussion. But van
Tuiver was not minded that way. “Er—yes,” he said, and relapsed into
silence.

“Miss Castleman’s notions of courtesy are derived from a pastoral
civilization,” said Frank, by way of filling in the breach. “You don’t
realize the size of Harvard classes, Sylvia.”

The girl was watching the other man, and she saw that he had instantly
noted Frank’s form of address. He looked sharply, first at his rival,
and then at her. “Mr. Shirley is also from the South?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Sylvia, “we are near neighbors.”

“Oh, I see,” said van Tuiver. “Old friends, then, I presume.”

“Quite,” said Sylvia, and again there was a pause. She was willing to
let the two men worry through without help, finding it fascinating to
watch them and study them. What a curious contrast they made! She found
herself wondering how far van Tuiver would have got in college life if
he had had the handicaps of her lover!

Frank was talking about the prospects of the baseball team. He was
pleasant and friendly, and of course quite unmoved by the presence of
Royalty. He seemed to be wholly unaware of the tension in the air, the
restlessness and impatience of the man he was talking to. But Sylvia
knew and was thrilled.

It was a moment full of possibilities of drama. She asked some question
of Frank, and he answered, casually, “Of course, honey.” He went on,
unconcerned and unperceiving; but Sylvia saw the other man wince as if
he had been touched by something red hot. He looked at her, but found
that she was looking away. She stole a glance at him again, and saw that
he was watching his rival with strained attention, his countenance
several shades paler in hue.

That was the end of conversation, so far as van Tuiver was concerned. He
answered in monosyllables, and his eyes went from Frank to Sylvia like
those of a hunted animal in a corner. The girl got a new and sharp
realization of his condition. She had gone into this affair as a joke,
but now, for a moment, she was frightened. The man was terrible; every
minute, as he watched Frank, his brow grew darker, he was like a
thundercloud in the room. And this the _arbiter_ of Harvard’s best
society!

At last, she took pity on him. It was really preposterous of Frank to go
on gossiping about the prospects of a truce with the Princeton “tiger,”
and the resumption of football contests. So, smiling cheerfully at him,
she remarked, “You’ll be missing the lecture, won’t you?” And Frank,
realizing that he was a third party, made his excuses and withdrew.

Van Tuiver barely waited until Frank had closed the door. Then, with a
poor effort at nonchalance, he remarked, “You know Mr. Shirley quite
intimately.”

“Oh, yes,” said Sylvia.

“You—you like him very much, Miss Castleman?”

“He’s a splendid fellow,” she replied. “He’s one of the men you ought to
have been cultivating.”

But the other would not be diverted for a moment. “I—I wish—pardon me,
Miss Castleman, but I want you to tell me—what is your relation to him?”

“Why, really, Mr. van Tuiver——”

“I know I’ve no right—but I’m desperate!”

“But—suppose I don’t care to discuss the matter?” She was decided in her
tone, for she saw that stern measures were necessary if he was to be
checked.

But nothing could stop him—he was beyond mere convention. “Miss
Castleman,” he rushed on, “I must tell you—I’ve tried my best, but I
can’t help it! I love you—as I’ve never dreamed that a man could love. I
want to marry you!”

He stopped, breathing hard; and Sylvia, off her guard, exclaimed, “No!”

“I mean it!” he declared. “I’m in earnest—I want to marry you!”

She caught herself together. She had not meant this to happen. She
answered, with a tone of _hauteur_, “Mr. van Tuiver, you have no right
to say that to me.”

“But why not? I am making you an offer of marriage. You must understand.
I mean it.”

“I am able to believe that you mean it; but that is not the point. You
have no right to ask me to marry you, when I have refused you my
friendship.”

There was a pause. He sat staring at her in pitiful bewilderment. “I
thought,” he said, “this was more serious.” And then he stopped, reading
in her face that something was wrong. “Isn’t an offer of marriage more
serious than one of friendship?” he inquired.

“More serious?” repeated Sylvia. “More important, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

“More attractive, that is?” she suggested.

“Why—yes.”

“In other words, Mr. van Tuiver, you thought that a man with so much
money might be accepted as a husband when he’d been rejected as a
friend?”

“Why—not exactly that, Miss Castleman——”

But Sylvia hardly heard his denial. A wave of annoyance, of disgust, had
swept over her. She rose to her feet. “You have justified my worst
opinion of you!” she exclaimed.

“What have I done?” he cried, miserably.

“It isn’t what you’ve done, as I’ve told you before—it’s what you are,
Mr. van Tuiver. You are utterly, utterly impossible, and I’m furious
with myself for having heard what you have just said to me.”

“Miss Castleman! I beseech you——”

But she would not hear him further. She could not endure his presence.
“There is no use saying another word,” she declared. “I will not talk to
you. I will not know you!”

The madness of love was upon him; he held out his hands imploringly. But
she repelled him with blazing eyes. “You must go!” she said. “Go at
once! I will not see you again—I positively forbid you to come near me.”

He tried twice to speak, but each time she stopped him, crying, “Go, Mr.
van Tuiver!” And so at last he went, almost crying with humiliation and
distress, in his agitation forgetting his hat and gloves. So furious was
Sylvia that she shut the door, and fell on the sofa weeping.

When she came to look back on it, she was amazed by her vehemence. It
could not have been the manner of the proposal, for he had been
insufferable many times before, and she had managed to take a humorous
view of it. Had it perhaps been seeing him in opposition to Frank which
had fired the powder mine of her rage? Was it that jealousy of his
power, of which she had spoken? Or was it the protective instinct with
which Nature had endowed her maidenhood—that she could jest with him
while he was seeking her friendship, but was convulsed with anger when
he spoke to her of love?


                                  § 23

That evening there was an entertainment of the “Hasty Pudding” Club, and
the next afternoon Sylvia was to take her departure. All the morning she
held an informal levee of those who came to bid her good-bye, and to
make their comments on the amazing events which were transpiring. For
one thing, the candidacy of Frank Shirley for class-president was
formally announced; and for another, Douglas van Tuiver had declared his
intention to move from his house into one of the cheaper dormitories,
and to take his seat at the common dining-tables in Memorial Hall.

Earliest of all came Harley, in a terrible state. “What can have got
into you? You’ve ruined everything—you’ve undone all the good you did
for me!”

“As bad as that, Harley?” she asked. She was gentle with him, realizing
suddenly how completely she had overlooked him and his interests in the
last few crowded days.

“What does it all mean?” he went on. “What has made you want to smash
things like this?”

She knew, of course, that there was no use trying to explain to him. She
contented herself with saying that things could not be as bad as he
thought.

“They couldn’t be worse!” he exclaimed. “Van Tuiver’s gone over to the
‘Yard,’ bag and baggage, and the club-men are simply furious. They’re
denouncing you, because you made him do it, and when they can’t get at
you, they’ll take it out on me. Sooner or later they are bound to learn
that you’re engaged to Frank Shirley; and then they’ll say you did it
all to help him—that you fooled van Tuiver and made a cat’s paw of him
for the sake of Frank.”

That was a new aspect of the matter, and a serious one; but Sylvia
realized that there was no remedying it now. She was glad when other
callers arrived, so that she might send her cousin away.

There came Thurlow, who, as a chum of Shackleford, wished to protest to
Sylvia against the harm she was doing to the latter’s candidacy, and to
all that was best in Harvard’s social life. There came Jackson, who, as
van Tuiver’s best friend, painted a distressful picture of the collapse
of his prestige. There came Harmon, also pledged to plead the cause of
“Auburn Street,” but proving a poor ambassador on account of his selfish
weakness. He spoke of van Tuiver’s pitiful state, but a very little
contriving on Sylvia’s part sufficed to bring him to his knees,
beseeching her to make him the happiest man in the world.

Sylvia rather liked Harmon; she was grateful to him for having been the
first man at Harvard to fall in love with her, thus helping her over a
time of great self-distrust. He made his offer with more eloquence than
one would have expected from a reserved upper-class club man; and Sylvia
gently parried his advances, and wiped away one or two tears of genuine
sympathy, and promised to be a sister to him in the most orthodox old
Southern style.

And then came “Tubby” Bates. “Tubby” did not ask her to marry him, but
he made her several speeches which were even more pleasant to hear. She
had finished her packing, and had on her gray traveling dress when he
called. He stood in the middle of the floor, gazing at her approvingly,
his round face beaming and his eyes twinkling with fun. “Oh, what a stir
in the frog-pond we’ve made!” he exclaimed. “And now you’re running off
and leaving me to face the racket alone!”

“What in the world have _you_ to do with it?” she asked.

“Me? Doesn’t everybody know that it was I who set you on van Tuiver?
Didn’t I bring you together at that fatal dance? And now all the big
guns in the college are aiming murder at me!”

The other laughed. “Surely, Mr. Bates, your social position can stand a
strain!”

He laughed in return, but suddenly became serious. He said: “I wouldn’t
care anyhow. Honest to God, Miss Castleman! There’s something I wanted
to say to you—I have to thank you for teaching me a lesson.”

“A lesson?”

“You know, we don’t live in such a lovely world—and I’m afraid I’ve got
to be cynical. But you’ve made me ashamed of myself, and I want to tell
you. It’s something I shall never forget; it may sound melodramatic—but
I shall always think better of women for what you’ve done.”

She looked at him and grew serious. “Tell me, just what have I done that
seems so extraordinary to you? I haven’t felt a bit heroic.”

“I’ll answer you straight. You turned down van Tuiver and his money!”

“And does that really surprise you so?” she asked.

“I can only tell you that I didn’t believe there was a woman in America
who’d do it. I can tell you also that van Tuiver didn’t believe it!”

Sylvia could not help laughing. “But, really, Mr. Bates, how could you
expect so badly of me—that I’d sell my soul for luxury?”

“It isn’t luxury, Miss Castleman. That’s nothing. You can buy a whole
lot of luxury with no more money than I’ve got. But with van Tuiver it
would be something else—something that not one woman in a million has
offered to her. It’s power, its supremacy—it’s really what you called
Royalty.”

“And you thought that would buy me?”

He sat watching her intently; he did not answer.

“Tell me truly,” she said. “I won’t mind.”

“No,” he said, “there’s something beyond that. I’ve read you, Miss
Castleman, and I thought he’d get you this way—you’d think of all that
could be done with his money. How many people you knew that you could
help! How much good you could do in the world! You’d think of starving
children to be fed, of sick children to be healed. You’d say, ‘I could
make him do good with that money, and nobody else in the world could!’
That’s the way he’d get you, Miss Castleman!”

Sylvia was gazing at him, fascinated. He saw a strange look in her eyes,
and he felt, rather than saw, that she drew a long breath. “You see!” he
said. “You _did_ have to be heroic!”

So, when “Tubby” Bates took his departure, he held her hand longer than
any of her other callers had been permitted to. “Dear Miss Castleman,”
he said, “I’ll never forget you; and if you need a friend, count on me!”

He went away, and Sylvia sat in her chair, gazing before her, deep in
thought. There came a knock, and a note was brought in. She frowned
before she looked at it—she had come to know where these notes came
from.

“My dear Miss Castleman,” it read, “I have just learned that you are
going away. I implore you to give me one word. I stand ready to do all
that you have asked me, and I throw myself on your mercy. I must see you
once again.”

For a moment Sylvia was frightened, wondering if she had a madman to
deal with. Then she crumpled the paper in her hand, and going to the
desk, seized a pen and wrote, with the swiftness of one enraged:

“Mr. van Tuiver, I have asked you to do nothing. I wish you to do
nothing. All you can accomplish is to inflict disagreeable notoriety
upon me. I demand that you give up all thought of me. I am engaged to
marry another man, and I will under no circumstances consent to see you
again.”

This note she sent down by the boy, and when Frank came for her with a
motor-car, she kept him in the room and sent Aunt Varina down into the
lobby to make sure that van Tuiver was not waiting there. Some instinct
made her feel that she must not let the two men meet again.

Also this gave her a little interval with Frank. She put her hands in
his, exclaiming, “I’m so glad I’ve got you, Frank! Hurry up—get through
with this place and come home!”

“You didn’t like it here?” he smiled.

“I’m glad I came,” she answered. “It’ll be good for me—I’ll be happier
at home with you!”

He took her gently in his arms, and she let him kiss her. “You really do
love me!” he whispered. “I can’t understand it, but you really do!”

And she looked at him with her shining eyes. “I love you,” she
said—“even more than I did when I came. The happiest moment of my life
will be when I can walk out of the church with you, and have nothing
more to do with the world!”

“Good-bye, Lady Sunshine!” he said. “Good-bye, Lady Sunshine!”




                                BOOK III
                             _Sylvia Loses_


                                  § 1

Sylvia returned to New York, where she had some shopping to attend to,
and where also Celeste was waiting for her, expecting to be taken to
theatres, and treated to a new hat and some false curls and boxes of
candy. Celeste had heard all about van Tuiver, it appeared, and was
“thrilled to death”—her own phrase. There was no repressing her
questions—“Is he nice, Sylvia?”—“What does he look like?”—and so on. Nor
was there any concealing her surprise at Sylvia’s reticence and lack of
interest in this subject.

The elder sister got a sudden realization of the extent to which she had
changed during this last couple of weeks. “They will call you an
Anarchist at home,” Frank had predicted; and now how worldly and hard
seemed Celeste to her—how shameful and cruel her absorption in all the
snobbery of Miss Abercrombie’s! Could it be that she, Sylvia, had ever
been so “thrilled to death” over millionaire beaux and millionairess’
millinery? Her sister had grown so in the few months that Sylvia hardly
knew her; she had grown, not merely in body but in mind. So serene she
was, so self-possessed, so perfectly certain about herself and her life!
Such energy she had, such determination—how her sharp, black eyes
sparkled with delight in the glories of this world! Sylvia found herself
stealing glances at her during the matinee, and wondering if this could
be “Little Sister”?

Sylvia had dismissed her multimillionaire from her mind; but she was not
to get rid of him as easily as that. (“He persists and persists,” Bates
had said.) One afternoon, feeling tired, she sent her aunt forth to
attend to some of the family commissions; when to her amazement there
was sent up a note, written upon the hotel stationery, in the familiar
square English handwriting.

“My dear Miss Castleman,” it ran. “I know that you will be angry when
you see I have followed you to New York. I can only plead with you to
have pity upon me. You have put upon me a burden of contempt which I can
simply not bear; if I cannot somehow manage to win your respect, I
cannot live. I ask only for your respect, and will promise never to ask
for anything else, nor to think of anything else. However bad I may be,
surely you cannot deny me the hope of becoming better!”

You see, it would have been hard for Sylvia to refuse the request. He
struck the right chord when he asked for her pity, for she pitied all
things that suffered—whether they deserved it or not.

She pitied him when she saw him, for his face was drawn and his look
haunted. He, the man of fashion, the exemplar of good taste, stood
before her like a whipped schoolboy, afraid to lift his eyes to hers.

He began, in a low voice, “It is kind of you to see me. There is
something I wish to try to explain to you. I want you to know that I
have thought over what you have said to me. I have hardly thought of
anything else. I have tried to see things from your point of view, Miss
Castleman. I know I have seemed to you monstrously egotistical—selfish,
and all that. I have felt your scorn of me, like something burning me. I
can’t bear it. I simply must show you that I am really not as bad as I
have seemed. I want you to realize my side of it—I mean, how much I’ve
had against me, how hard it was for me to be anything but what I am.”

He paused. He had his hat in his hands, and Sylvia observed to her
dismay that he was twisting it, for all the world like a nervous
schoolboy.

“I want to be understood,” he said, “but I don’t know if you are
willing—if I bore you——”

“Pray go on, Mr. van Tuiver,” she said, in a gentler tone of voice than
she had ever used to him before.

“This is the point!” he burst out. “You simply can’t know what it’s
meant to be brought up as I was! I’ve come to realize why you hate me;
but you must know that you’re the first who ever showed me any other
viewpoint than that of money. There have been some who seemed to have
other viewpoints, but they were only pretending, they always came round
to the money viewpoint, they gave the money reaction. If you try things
by a certain measure, and they fit it, you come to think that’s the
measure they were made by. And that’s been my experience; since I was a
little child, as far back as I can remember—men and women and even
children, everybody I met was the same—until I met you.”

He stopped, waiting for her to give some sign. Her eyes caught his and
held them. “How was I able to convince you?” she asked.

“You—” he said—and then hesitated. “You’ll be angry with me.”

“No,” she said, “go on. Let us talk frankly.”

“You refused to marry me, Miss Castleman.”

“That was the supreme test?” He shrank, but she pursued him. “You hadn’t
thought that any woman would really refuse to marry you?”

He replied in a low voice: “I hadn’t.”

Sylvia sat, absorbed in thought. “What a world!” she whispered, half to
herself; and then to him: “Tell me—is Mrs. Winthrop like that?”

Again he hesitated. “I—I don’t know,” he replied. “I never thought about
her in that way. She already has her money.”

“If she still had to get it, then you don’t know what she’d be?”

She saw a quick look of fear. “You’re angry with me again?” he
questioned. By things such as this she realized how thoroughly she had
him cowed.

“No” she said, gently, “I’m really interested. I do see your side
better. I have blamed you for being what you are, but you’re really only
part of a world, and it’s this world that I hate.”

“Yes,” he exclaimed, with a sudden light of hope in his eyes. “Yes,
that’s it exactly! And I want you to help me get out of that world—to be
something better, so that you won’t have to despise me. I only ask you
to be interested in me, to help me and advise me. I won’t even ask you
to be my friend—you can decide that for yourself. I know I’m not worthy
of you. Truly, I blush with shame when I think that I asked you to marry
me!”

“You shouldn’t say that,” she smiled. “It was only so that you really
came to trust me!”

But he would not jest. He had come there in one last forlorn effort, and
he poured himself out in self-abasement, so that it hurt Sylvia merely
to listen to him. She made haste to tell him that his boon was
granted—she would think of him in a kindlier way, and would let him
write to her of his struggles and his hopes. Some day, perhaps, she
might even see him again and be his friend.

While they were still talking there came an interruption—a bell-boy with
a telegram addressed to Sylvia. She glanced at it, tore it open and read
it; and then van Tuiver saw her go white. “Oh!” she cried, as if in
sudden pain. “Oh!”

She started to her feet, and the man did the same. “What is it?” he
asked; but she did not seem to hear him. She stood with her hands
clenched, staring before her, whispering, “Papa! Papa!”

She looked about her, distracted. “Aunt Varina’s gone!” she cried. “And
I don’t know where she is! We’ll be delayed for hours!” She began to
wring her hands with grief and distress.

Van Tuiver asked again, more urgently, “What is it?”

She put the telegram into his hands, and he read the message: “Come home
at once. Take first train. Let nothing delay. Father.”

“He’s ill!” she cried. “I know he’s ill—maybe dead, and I’ll never see
him again! Oh, Papa!” So she went on, quite oblivious to the presence of
the man.

“But listen!” he protested. “I don’t understand. This telegram is signed
by your father.”

“I know!” she cried. “But they’d do that—they’d sign his name, even if
he were dead, so that I wouldn’t know. They’d want me home to break the
news to me!”

“But,” he asked, “have you reason to think——”

“He was ill. I didn’t know just how ill, but that’s why I was going
home. He must be dying, or they’d never telegraph me like that.” She
gazed about her, wildly. “And don’t you see? Aunt Varina’s out. I’m
helpless!”

“We’ll have to find her, Miss Castleman.”

“But I’ve no idea where she’s gone—she just said she would be shopping.
So we’ll miss the four o’clock train, and then there’s none till eight,
and that delays us nearly a whole day, because we have to lie over. Oh,
God—I must do something. I can’t wait all that time!”

She sank on a chair by the table and buried her face in her hands,
sobbing like one distracted. The man by her side was frightened, never
having seen such grief.

“Miss Castleman,” he pleaded, “pray control yourself—surely it can’t be
so bad. There are so many reasons why they might have telegraphed you.”

“No!” she exclaimed, “no, you don’t understand them. They’d never send
me such a message unless something terrible had happened! And now I’ll
miss the train.”

“Listen,” he said, quickly, “don’t think anything more about that—let me
solve that problem for you. You can have a special, that will start the
moment you are ready and will take you home directly.”

“A special?” she repeated.

“A private car. I’d put my own at your disposal, but it would have to be
sent around by ferry, and that would take too long. I can order another
in a few minutes, though.”

“But Mr. van Tuiver, I can’t let you——”

“Pray, don’t say that! Surely in an emergency like this one need not
stand on ceremony. The cost will be nothing to speak of, and it will
give me the greatest pleasure.”

He took her bewildered silence for consent, and stepped to the ’phone.
While he was communicating with the railroad and giving the necessary
orders, she sat, choking back her sobs, and trying to think. What could
the message mean? Could it mean anything but death?

She came back to the man; she realized vaguely that he was a great help,
cool, efficient and decisive. He phoned for a messenger, and wrote a
check and an order for the train and sent it off. He had a couple of
maids sent up by the hotel to do the packing. “Now,” he said, “do not
give another thought to these matters—the moment your aunt comes you can
step into a taxi, and the train will take you.”

“Thank you, thank you!” she said. She had a moment of wonder at his
masterfulness; a special train was a luxury of which she would never
have thought. She realized another of the practical aspects of
Royalty—he would of course use a private car.

But then she began to pace the room again, her features working with
distress. “Oh, Papa! Papa!” she kept crying.

“You really ought not to suffer like this, when it may be only a
mistake,” he pleaded. “Give me the address and I will telegraph for
further particulars. You can get the answer on your train, you know. And
meantime I’ll try, and see if we can get your home on the long-distance
’phone.”

“Can we talk at this distance?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but at least we can relay a message.” So again she let
him manage her affairs, grateful for his prompt decisiveness, which set
all the machinery of civilization at work in her behalf.

“Now try to be calm,” he said, “until we can get some more definite
information. People are sometimes ill without dying.”

“I’ve always known that I was going to lose my father suddenly!” she
broke out. “I don’t know why—he has tragedy in his very face. If you
could only see it—his dear, dear face! I love him so, I can’t tell you.
I wake up in the night, sometimes, and the thought comes to me: ‘Papa
has to die! Some day I’ll have to part from him.’ And then the most
dreadful terror seizes me—I don’t know how I can bear it! Papa, oh,
Papa!”

She began to sob again; in his sympathy he came and stood by her.
“Please, please,” he murmured.

“I’ve no right to inflict this upon you,” she exclaimed.

“Don’t think of that. If I could only help you—if I could suggest
anything.”

“It’s one of those cases,” she said, “where nothing can be done.
Whatever it is, I’ll have to endure it, somehow. If he’ll only live
until I get there, so that I can see him, speak with him again, hear his
voice. I’ve never really been able to tell him how much I love him. All
that he’s done for me—you see, I’ve been his favorite child, we’ve been
like two playmates. I’ve tended him when he was ill, I’ve read to
him—everything. So he always thinks about me. He wants me to be happy,
and so he hides his troubles from me. He hides them from everybody; and
you know how it is—that makes people lean on him and take advantage of
him. He’s a kind of family drudge—everybody comes to him, his brothers
and sisters, his nephews and nieces—anybody that needs help or advice or
money. He’s so generous—too generous, and so he gets into difficulties.
I’ve seen his light burning till two or three o’clock in the morning,
when he was working over his accounts; and then he looks pale and
haggard, and still he smiles and won’t let me know. But I always know,
because he stays close to me, like a child. And now there’s been an
overflow, and maybe this year’s whole crop is ruined, and that’s a
terrible misfortune, and he’s been worrying about it——”

Suddenly she stopped. This was Douglas van Tuiver she was talking
to—telling him her family affairs! She had a sudden thrill of fear about
it—she ought not to have let him know that her father was in
difficulties as to money!

It was only for a moment, however; she could not think very long of
anything but her father. What floods of memories came sweeping over her!
“He was always so proud of me,” she continued. “When I came out, two
years ago—dear old Daddy, he wore his wedding-suit, that he’d had put
away in a cedar chest in the attic. He stood beside mother, under the
lilies and the bright lights, and both of them would look at me and
beam.”

She had risen to her feet, and was pacing the room, talking brokenly,
but eagerly, as if it were important to make her listener realize how
very lovable her father was. “Just think!” she said. “He had an old
purse in his hand—one that my mother had given him on their wedding
journey. In it was an orange-blossom from their bridal-bouquet, and some
rose leaves that she had bitten off and let fall at his feet, once when
he was courting her. He had treasured them for twenty years; and now
some one brushed against his hand and knocked the dead leaves to the
floor, and they broke and went all to dust, and he got down on his knees
and searched for them with tears in his eyes. I remember how mother
scolded him for making a spectacle of himself, and he got up and went
off by himself, to grieve because his bridal-flowers had turned to
dust.”

Van Tuiver had listened in silence. When he spoke, his voice held a
strange note. “Never mind,” he said, “you will make it up to him. You
will give him flowers from your bridal wreath.”

Again Sylvia found herself uncomfortable. But they were interrupted by
the telephone—the connections with her home had been established. She
flew to the booth downstairs, but she could hear nothing but a buzzing
noise, and so there were some torturing minutes while her questions were
relayed—she talking with “Washington,” and “Washington” with “Atlanta,”
and so on. What she finally got was this: No one was ill or dead, but
she must come at once—nothing must delay her. They could not explain
until she arrived. And of course that availed her simply nothing. She
was convinced that they were hiding the truth until she was home.

When she went back to her room, she found that Aunt Varina had come.
Their trunks were ready, and so they set off for the station, van Tuiver
with them. He saw them settled in their car, and the girl perceived that
at so much as a word from her he would have taken the long journey with
her. She shook hands with him and thanked him—so gratefully that he was
quite transported. As the car started and he hurried to the door and
leaped off, he was a happier-looking van Tuiver than Sylvia had ever
expected to see.


                                  § 2

By the time that Sylvia’s train reached home, she had gotten herself
together. Although still anxious, she no longer showed it. Whatever the
tragedy might be, she was ready to face it, not asking for help, but
giving help to others. It was surely for that that they had summoned
her.

She was on the car platform as the train slowed up; and there before her
eyes stood her father. He was haggard, and gray, and old-looking—but
alive, thank God!

She flew to his arms. “Papa! What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, my child,” he answered.

“But who is ill?”

“Nobody is ill, Sylvia.”

“Tell me the truth!”

“No one,” he insisted.

“But then, why did you send for me?”

“We wanted you home.”

“But, Papa! In this fashion—surely you wouldn’t—” She stopped, and the
Major turned to greet his sister.

Sylvia got into the motor, and they started. “Is Mamma well?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

“And the baby?”

“Everybody is well.”

“And you, Papa?”

“I have not been so very fine, but I am better now.” Sylvia suspected he
had got up from his sick-bed to come and meet her, and so her sense of
dread increased. But she put no more questions—she knew she would have
to wait. The Major had begun to talk about the state of the crops.

The car reached home; and there on the steps were her mother, and the
baby shouting a lusty welcome, and Peggy and Maria dancing with glee—to
say nothing of troops of servants, inside the house and out, grinning
and waiting to be noticed. There was noise and excitement, so much that
for several minutes Sylvia forgot her anxiety. Then everybody wanted to
know if she had brought them presents; she had to stop and think what
she had purchased, and what she had delayed to purchase, and what she
had left behind in the rush of departure. Aunt Varina said something
about the special train, and there were questions about that, and about
Douglas van Tuiver, who had provided it. And still not a word about the
mystery.

“But, Mamma,” cried Sylvia, at last, “why did you bring me home like
this?”

“Hush, dear,” said “Miss Margaret.” “Not now.”

And so more delay. Aunt Nannie was expected shortly—she had said she
would run over to greet the returning voyagers. Sylvia scented trouble
in this, and would no longer be put off, but took her mother aside.
“Mamma,” she pleaded, “please tell me what’s the matter!”

The other colored. “It isn’t time now, my child.”

“But why _not_, Mamma?”

“Wait, Sylvia, please. It is nothing——”

“But, Mamma, did you send me such a telegram for nothing? Don’t you
realize that I have been almost beside myself? I was sure that somebody
was dead.”

“Sylvia, dear,” pleaded “Miss Margaret,” “please wait—I will tell you by
and by. There are people here now——”

“But there’ll always be people here. Come into the library with me.”

“I beg you to calm yourself——”

“But, Mamma, I want to _know_! Why should I be tormented with delay?
Can’t I see by the manner of all of you that something is wrong? What is
it?” She dragged her mother off to the library, and shut the door. “Now,
Mamma, tell me!”

The other looked towards the door, as if she wished to make her escape.
Something about her attitude reminded Sylvia of that “talk” she had had
before her departure for school. “My dear Sylvia,” began the mother, “it
is something—it is very difficult——”

“For heaven’s sake, go on!”

“My child, you are going to be dreadfully distressed, I fear. I wish
that I could help you—oh, Sylvia, dear, I’d rather die than have to tell
you this!”

Sylvia clutched her hands to her bosom in sudden fear. Her mother
stretched out her arms to her. “Oh, my child,” she exclaimed, “you must
believe that we love you, and you must let our love help! We tried to
save you from this—from this——”

“Tell me!” cried the girl. “Tell me!”

“Oh, my poor child!” wailed “Miss Margaret” again, “Why did you have to
love him? We were sure he would turn out to be bad! We——”

Sylvia sprang towards her and shook her by the arm.

“Mamma, answer me! What is it?”

“Miss Margaret” began searching in the bosom of her dress. She drew out
a crumpled piece of paper—a telegram. Sylvia took it with trembling
fingers, and spreading it out, read these words:

“Frank Shirley arrested in disorderly house in Boston, held to await
result of assault on another student. Possibly fatal. Get Sylvia home at
once. Harley.”

She stood perfectly rigid, staring at her mother. She could not realize
the words, they swam before her in a maze. The paper fluttered from her
fingers. “It’s false!” she cried. “Do you expect me to believe that?
It’s a plot! It’s some trick they’ve played on Frank!”

Her mother, frightened by the pallor of her face, put her arms around
her. “My daughter—” she began.

“What have you done about this? I mean—to find out if it is true?”

“We telegraphed Harley to write us full particulars.”

“Oh, why did you send for me?” the girl exclaimed, passionately. “If
Frank is arrested, I ought to be there!”

“Sylvia!” cried her mother, aghast. “Have you read the message? Don’t
you see _where_ he was arrested?”

Yes, Sylvia had read, but what could she make of it? In her mind was a
medley of emotions: horror at what Frank had done, disbelief that he had
done it, shame of a subject of which she had been taught not to think,
anxiety for her lover in trouble—all these contended within her.

“The wretch!” exclaimed “Miss Margaret.” “To drag my child’s name in the
mire!”

“Hush!” cried Sylvia, between her teeth. “It is not true! It’s somebody
trying to ruin him! It’s a horrible, horrible lie!”

“But, Sylvia! The telegram came from your cousin!”

“I don’t care! It’s some tale they’ve told to Harley!”

“But—he says Frank is arrested!”

“Oh, I ought to go to him! I ought to find out the truth! Frank is not
that kind of man!”

“My child,” ventured “Miss Margaret,” “how much do you know about men?”

Sylvia stared at her mother. Vague questions trembled on her lips; but
she saw there was no help in that quarter. “I have always kept my
daughter innocent!” the other was saying. “He ought to be killed for
coming into our home and dragging you into such shame!”

Sylvia stood silent, utterly bewildered. She knew that there were
dreadful things in the world, of which she had gathered only the vaguest
hints. “A disorderly house!” She had heard the name—she had heard other
such names; she knew that these were unmentionable places, where wicked
women lived and vile things were done; also she knew that men went
there—but surely not the men she knew, surely not gentlemen, not those
who ventured to ask for her love!

But why should she torment herself with such thoughts now? This charge
against Frank could not be true! “How long will it be,” she demanded,
“before we can have the letter from Harley?”

“At least another day, your father says.”

“And there is nothing else we can do?” She tried to think. “We might
telephone to Harley.”

“Your Aunt Nannie suggested that, but your father would not have such a
matter talked about over the ’phone.”

Sylvia racked her brains, but there was no other plan she could suggest.
She saw that she had at least one day of torment and suspense before
her. “Very well, Mamma,” she said. “Let me go to my room now. I’ll try
to be calm. But don’t let anybody come, please—I want to be alone.”

She could hardly endure to go out into the hall, because of her shame,
and the fear of meeting some member of the family. But there was no need
of that—they all knew what was happening, and went about on tiptoe, as
in a house of mourning. Everyone kept out of her way, and she went up to
her room and shut herself in and locked the door. There passed
twenty-four hours of agony, during which she by turns paced the floor,
or lay upon the bed and wept, or sat in a chair, staring into space with
unseeing eyes. They brought her food, but she would not touch it; they
tempted her with wine, with coffee, but for nothing would she open the
door. “Bring me Harley’s letter when it comes,” was all she would say.


                                  § 3

On the morning of the next day her mother came to her. “Has the letter
come?” asked Sylvia.

The mother hesitated, and so Sylvia knew that it had come. “Give it to
me!” she cried.

“It was addressed to your father, Sylvia——”

“Where is Papa?”

She started to the door. But “Miss Margaret” stood in her way. “Your
father, my child, has asked your Uncle Basil to come over.” And then, as
Sylvia persisted, “Sylvia, you can’t talk of such things to your father.
He thinks it is a matter which your Uncle Basil ought to attend to.
Please spare your father, Sylvia—he has been ill, and this has been such
a dreadful blow to him!”

“But for God’s sake, Mamma, what is in the letter?”

“It justifies our worst fears, my child. But you must be patient—it is
not a thing that a young girl can deal with. Where is your modesty,
Sylvia? Your father will lose respect for you if you do not calm
yourself. You ought to be hating the man who has so disgraced you—who
cares no more for you—”

“Hush!” cried Sylvia. “You must not say it! You don’t know that it is
true!”

“But it is true! You will see that it is true. And you ought to be
ashamed of yourself, to cling to a man who has been willing to—to—oh,
what a shameful thing it is! Sylvia, get yourself together, I implore
you—do not let your father and your uncle see you in such a state about
a man—an unworthy man!”

So there was another hour of distracted waiting, until the Bishop came
up, his gentle face a picture of grief. “Miss Margaret” fled, and Sylvia
shut and locked the door, and turned upon her uncle. “Now, Uncle Basil,
let me see the letter.”

He put it into her hands without a word. There was also a
newspaper-clipping, and she glanced first at that, and went sick with
horror. There was Frank’s picture, and that of another man, with the
label: “Harvard student who may die as a result of injuries received in
a brawl.” Sylvia’s eyes sped over the reading matter which went with the
pictures; it was from one of the sensational papers, the kind which
revel in personal details, and so she had the whole story. Frank had got
into a fight with a man in a “resort,” and had knocked him down; in
falling, the man had struck his head against a piece of furniture, and
the doctors had not yet determined whether his skull was fractured. In
the meantime, Frank was held in three thousand dollars bail. The account
went on to say that the arrested man had been prominently mentioned as
candidate for class-president, on behalf of the “Yard” against the “Gold
Coast;” also that he was the son of Robert Shirley, who had died in
State’s prison under sentence for embezzlement.

It seemed hardly necessary to read any more; but Sylvia turned to
Harley’s letter, which gave various additional details, and some
comments. There was one point in particular which etched itself upon her
mind: “There need be no doubt as to the character of the place. It is
one of the two or three high-class houses of prostitution in Boston
which are especially patronized by college men. This is not mentioned in
the newspaper accounts, of course, but I know a man who was present and
saw the row, so there can be no question as to that part of the matter.”

Sylvia let the letter fall, and sinking down upon the bed, buried her
face in her arms. The Bishop could see her form racked and shuddering.
He came and sat by her, and put his hand upon her shoulder, waiting in
silence. “My poor child!” he began in a whisper, at last. “My poor, poor
child!”

He dared not let her suffer too long without trying to help her. “My
dear,” he pleaded, “let me talk to you. Make an effort, hear me. Sylvia,
you have to bear it. My heart bleeds for you, but there’s no help—it has
to be borne. Won’t you listen to the advice of an old man, who’s had to
endure terrible grief, and shame—agony almost as great as yours?”

“Well?” she demanded, suddenly. Her voice sounded strange and hard to
him.

“Sylvia, dear, I tried to prove God’s words to you by logic, and I could
not. God was never proved by logic, my child—men don’t believe in Him
for that reason. They believe because at some awful moment they could
not face life alone—because suffering and grief had broken their hearts,
and they were forced to pray. Sylvia, there is only one way of help for
you—and that is through prayer.”

He waited to know what effect his words were having. Suddenly he heard
the strange, hard voice again. “Uncle Basil.”

“Well, my child.”

“I want you to tell me one thing. I have to understand this, but I
can’t—I can’t ask anybody.”

“What is it, Sylvia?”

“I want to know—do men do such things?”

The Bishop answered, in a low tone, “Yes, my child, I am sorry to
say—many of them do.”

“Oh, I hate them!” she cried, with sudden fierceness. “I hate them! I
hate life! It’s a shameful, hideous world, and I wish that I could die!”

“Ah, don’t say that, my child!” he pleaded. “I beg you not to take it
that way. If we let affliction harden us, instead of chastening and
humbling us, then we miss all the purpose for which it is sent. Who
knows, Sylvia—perhaps this is a punishment which God in His wisdom has
adjudged you?”

“Punishment, Uncle Basil? What have _I_ done?”

“You have denied His word, my child. You have presumed to set your own
feeble mind against His will and doctrine. And now——”

“Oh, Uncle Basil, stop!” she exclaimed. “Your words have no meaning to
me whatever!” She buried her face in the pillow, and terrible sobbing
shook her, burst after burst of it, as a tempest shakes a tree. “Oh, I
loved him so! I loved him so!”

The old man had tried speaking as a Bishop; now he thought that the time
had come for him to speak as a Castleman. His voice became suddenly
stern. “Sylvia,” he said, “the man was not worthy of your affection, and
you must manage to put him from your thoughts. You are the child of a
proud race, Sylvia—the daughter of pure women! You must bear this
trouble with character, and with the consciousness of your purity.”

“Uncle Basil,” she answered, “please go. I can’t bear to talk to anyone
now. I must be alone for a while.”

He rose and stood hesitating. “There’s no way I can help you?” he asked.

“Nobody can help me,” she answered. “Thank you, Uncle Basil, but please
go.”


                                  § 4

And so began the second stage of Sylvia’s ordeal. For days she roamed
the house like a guilt-haunted ghost. She could hardly be got to speak
to any one—she avoided even people’s eyes, so great was her shame. She
would not eat, and she could not sleep—at least, not until she had
managed to bring herself to the point of utter exhaustion. Knowing this,
she would pace the room until she sank upon the bed almost fainting. In
their terror they sent for the doctors, but these could do nothing for
her. The Major came several times a day, and made timid efforts to talk
to her about her roses and the new plants he had got for her. But she
could think about nothing but Frank, and sent him away. Once after
midnight he crept to her room and found that she was gone, and
discovered her in the rose-garden, pacing back and forth distractedly,
bare-footed and clad only in her nightgown. He led her in, and found
that her feet were cut and full of gravel and thorns; but she did not
mind this, she said—the pain was good, it was the only way to distract
her mind.

What made the thing so cruel to her was that element of obscenity in it,
which was like an extinguisher clapped down upon her mind, making it
impossible for her to talk of it, even to think of it. Sylvia had never
discussed such things, and now she hated Frank for having forced them
upon her. She felt herself degraded—made vile to the whole world, and to
her own soul. She knew that everybody she met was thinking one dreadful
thing; she felt that she could never face the world again, could never
lift up her head again. She had given her heart to a man to keep, and he
had taken it to a “high-class house of prostitution!”

On the third day the Major came to her room and knocked. He had a
painful duty to perform, he explained. (He did not add that there had
been a family council for nearly an hour past, and that he had been
assigned to execute the collective decision.) There had come a letter—a
letter addressed to Sylvia from Frank Shirley.

The girl sprang to her feet. “Give it to me!”

“My daughter!” exclaimed the Major, with a shocked face.

She waited, looking at him with wondering eyes. “What do you mean,
Papa?”

He took the missive from his pocket, and held it in his hand as he
spoke. “Do you think,” he asked, “that it would be consistent with my
daughter’s dignity to read such a letter? My child, this man has dragged
your name in the mire; do you think that you ought to continue in any
sort of relationship with him? Is he to be able to boast that he had you
so under his thumb, that even after such an outrage as he had inflicted
upon you——”

The Major stopped, words failing him. “Papa,” pleaded Sylvia, “might
there not be some explanation?”

“Explanation!” cried the other. “What explanation—that my daughter could
read?” His voice fell low. “That is the point—I do not wish my
daughter’s mind to be soiled with explanations of this subject. Sylvia,
you cannot know about it!”

There was a silence. “What do you want me to do, Papa?”

“There is but one thing a proud woman can do, Sylvia. Send back this
letter, with a note saying that you cannot receive communications from
Mr. Shirley.”

There was a long silence. Sylvia sank down upon the bed, and he heard
her sobbing softly to herself. “Sylvia!” he exclaimed, “this man had
your affection—he kissed your pure young lips!” He saw her wince, and
followed up his advantage—“He kissed you when you were in Boston, did he
not?”

She could hardly bring herself to answer. “Yes, Papa.”

“And do you realize that two or three days later he had gone to
this—this place?” He paused, while the words sank into her soul. “My
daughter,” he cried, “where is your pride?”

There was something commanding in his voice. She looked up at him; his
face was white, his eyes blazing. “Sylvia,” he exclaimed, “you are a
Castleman! You have wept enough! Rise up, my daughter!”

She rose, like one under a spell. Yes, it was something to be a
Castleman. It meant to be capable of bearing any torture for the sake of
pride, of facing any danger for the sake of honor. How many tales she
had heard of that Castleman honor! Had not the man who stood before her,
the captain of a regiment when only a half-grown youth, marched and
fought with a broken shoulder-blade, and slept in mud and rain without
shelter or even a blanket, living for weeks upon an allowance of six
grains of corn a day?

She drew herself up, and her face became cold and set. “Very well,
Papa,” she said, “he deserves my scorn.”

“Then write as I say.” And he stood by her desk and dictated:

“Mr. Shirley: I have received the enclosed letter, but do not care to
read it. All relationship between us is at an end. Sylvia Castleman.”

And to such a height of resolution had she been lifted by her Castleman
pride, that she addressed an envelope, and took Frank’s letter, and
folded it and put it inside, and sealed and stamped the envelope, and
gave it to her father. Nor did she give a sign of pain or grief until
after she had dismissed him, and closed and locked the door.


                                  § 5

In the days that followed, Sylvia’s longing for her sweetheart overcame
her pride many times; she paced her room, tearing at the neck of her
gown like one suffocating, flinging out her arms in abandonment of
grief, crying under her breath (for she must not let others know that
she was suffering), “Oh, Frank, Frank! How _could_ you?” Anger would
come; she hated him—she hated all men! But again the memory of his slow
smile, his straight-forward gaze, his voice of sincerity. She would find
herself whispering, incoherently, “My love! My love!”

For the sake of her family, she labored to repress her feelings. But she
would have nightmares, and would toss and moan in her sleep, sometimes
screaming aloud. Once she awakened, bathed in tears, and hearing faint
sobbing, put out her hand, and found her mother, crouching in the
darkness, watching, weeping.

They besought her to let her mind be diverted by others. For many days
there was a regular watch kept, with family consultations daily, and
some one always deputed to be with her—or at least to be near her door.
Little by little, as she yielded to their persuasions, Sylvia got the
views of the various members of her family upon what had occurred.

Aunt Varina put her arms about her and wept with her. “Oh, it is
horrible, Sylvia,” she said—“but think how much better that you should
find it out before it’s too late! Oh, dear girl, it is so awful to find
it out when it’s too late.” Thus the voice of Aunt Varina’s wasted life!

Aunt Nannie came later, as tactful as could have been expected. She did
not say, “I told you so,” but she managed to leave with Sylvia the idea
that the outcome was within the limits of human understanding. It was a
matter of “bad blood;” and “bad blood” was like murder—it would always
out. Also Aunt Nannie ventured to hint that it might be that Sylvia had
allowed Frank Shirley to “take liberties” with her; and this, of course,
made its impression upon the girl, who persuaded herself that she must
be partly to blame for her own disgrace.

She became bitter against men; she did not see how she could ever
tolerate the presence of one. Her mother, discussing the subject,
remarked, “The reason I married your father was that he was the one good
man I knew.”

“How did you know that he was good?” demanded the girl.

“Sylvia!” exclaimed her mother, in horror.

“But how? Because he told you so?”

“Miss Margaret” answered hesitatingly, choosing her words for a
difficult subject. “I had heard things. Your Aunt Lady told me—how the
young men in your father’s set had tried to get him to—to live the
wicked life they lived. They made fun of him—called him ‘Miss Nancy’—.”
She broke off suddenly. “I cannot talk about such things to my
daughter!”

Even from “Aunt Mandy,” the old “black mammy” who had been the first
person to hold Sylvia in her arms, the girl now received counsel. “Aunt
Mandy” served the coffee in the early morning, and stood in the bedrooms
and grinned while the ladies of the family gossiped; she often took part
in the conversation, having gathered stores of family wisdom in her
sixty-odd years. “Honey, I’se had my cross to bear,” she said to Sylvia,
and went on to discuss the depravity of the male animal. “I’se had to
beat my old man wid a flatiron, when I ketched him lookin’ roun’ too
much—an’ even dat didn’t help much, honey. Now I got dem boys o’ mine,
what’s allus up in cou’t, makin’ de Major come to pay jail-fines. But
how kin I be cross wid ’em, when I knows it’s my own fault?”

“Your fault, Mammy?” said Sylvia. “Why, you are as good a mother——”

“I know, honey, I’se tried to be good; I’se prayed to de Lord—yes, I’se
took dem boys to de foot o’ de cross. But de Lord done tole me it’s my
fault. ‘Mandy,’ he says, ‘Mandy—look at de daddy you give dem niggers!’
Oh, honey, take dis from yo’ ole mammy, ef you’se gwine ter bring any
chillun into de worl’—be careful what kind of a daddy you gives ’em!”

The family had gathered in a solid phalanx about Sylvia. Uncle Barry,
whose plantation was a hundred miles away, and who was a most
hard-working and domestic giant, left his overseers and his family and
came to beg her to let him give her a hunting party. Uncle Mandeville
came from New Orleans to urge her to go to a house party he would give
her. Uncle Mandeville it was who had assured Sylvia as a little girl
that he would protect her honor with his life; and now he caused it to
be known throughout Castleman County that if ever Frank Shirley returned
and attempted to see his niece, he, Frank Shirley, would be “shot like a
dog.” And this was not merely because Uncle Mandeville was drunk, but
was something that he soberly meant, and that everybody who heard him
understood and approved.

Just how tight was the cordon around her, Sylvia learned when Harriet
Atkinson arrived, fresh from a honeymoon-voyage to the Mediterranean and
the Nile.

“Why, Sunny, what’s this?” she demanded. “Why wouldn’t you see me?”

“See you?” echoed Sylvia. “What do you mean. I haven’t refused to see
you.” It transpired that Harriet had been writing and ’phoning and
calling for a week, being put off in a fashion which would have
discouraged anyone but the daughter of a self-made Yankee. “I suppose,”
she said, “they thought maybe I’d come from Frank Shirley.”

Sylvia’s face clouded, but Harriet went on—“My dear, you look like a
perfect ghost! Really, this is horrible!” So she set to work to console
her friend and drag her out of her depression. “You take it too
seriously, Sunny. Beauregard says you make a lot more fuss about the
thing than it deserves. If you knew men better——”

“Oh don’t, Harriet!” cried the other. “I can’t listen to such things!”

“I know,” said Harriet, “there you are—the thing I’ve always scolded you
for! You’ll never be happy, Sunny, while you persist in demanding more
than life will give. You say what you want men to be—and paying no
attention at all to what they really are.”

“Are you happy?” asked Sylvia, trying to change the subject.

“About as I expected to be,” said the other. “I knew what I was
marrying. The only trouble is that I haven’t been very well. I suppose
it’s too much rambling about. I’ll be glad to settle down in my home.”
She was going to Charleston to live in the old Dabney Mansion, she
explained; at present she was paying a flying visit to her people.

“Well, Sunny,” she remarked, “you are going to give him up?”

“How can I do otherwise, Harriet?”

“I suppose you couldn’t—with that adamantine pride of yours. And of
course it _was_ awkward that he had to get into the papers. But Beau
says these things blow over sooner than one would expect. Nobody thinks
it’s half as bad as they all pretend to think it.” (Harriet, you must
understand, felt rather sorry for Frank, and thought that she was
pleading his cause. She did not understand that her few words would do
more to damn him than all that the family had been able to say.)

But she perceived that Sylvia did not want to talk about the subject.
“Well, Sunny,” she said, after a pause, “I see you’ve got a substitute
ready.”

“How do you mean?” asked Sylvia, dully.

“I mean your Dutch friend.”

“My Dutch friend? Oh—you are talking about Mr. van Tuiver?”

“You are most penetrating, Sylvia!”

“You’ve heard about him?” said the other, without heeding her friend’s
humor.

“Heard about him! For heaven’s sake, what else can one hear about in
Castleman County just now?”

Sylvia said nothing for a while. “I suppose,” she remarked, at last,
“it’s because I came in a special train.”

“My dear,” said the other, “it’s because _he_ came in a special train.”

“_He_ came?” repeated Sylvia, puzzled.

And her friend stared at her. “Good Lord,” she said, “I believe you
really don’t know that Mr. van Tuiver’s in town!”

Sylvia started as if she had been struck. “Mr. van Tuiver _in town_!”
she gasped.

“Why, surely, honey—he’s been here three or four days. How they must be
taking care of you!”

Sylvia sprang to her feet. “How perfectly outrageous!” she cried.

“What, Sunny? That you haven’t seen him?”

“Harriet, stop joking with me!”

“But I’m not joking with you,” said Harriet, bewildered. “What in the
world is the matter?”

Sylvia’s face was pale with anger. “I won’t see him! I won’t see him! He
has no right to come here!”

“But Sunny—what’s the matter? What’s the man done?”

“He wants to marry me, Harriet, and he’s come here—oh, how shameful! how
insulting! At such a time as this!”

“But I should think this was just the time for him to come!” said
Harriet, laughing in spite of herself. “Surely, Sylvia, if you haven’t
gone formally into mourning——”

“I won’t see him!” cried the other, passionately. “He must be made to
understand it at once—he’ll gain nothing by coming here!”

“But, Sunny,” suggested her friend, “hadn’t you better wait until he
_tries_ to see you?”

“Where is he, Harriet?”

“He’s staying with Mrs. Chilton.”

“With Aunt Nannie!” Sylvia stood, staring at Harriet with sudden fear in
her face. She saw now why van Tuiver had made no attempt to see her, why
nothing had been said to her as yet! She clenched her hands tightly and
exclaimed, “I won’t marry him! They sha’n’t sell me to him—they sha’n’t,
they sha’n’t!”

Her friend was gazing at her in wonder, not unmixed with alarm. “Good
God, Sunny,” she exclaimed, “can he be so bad that you’d refuse to marry
him?”


                                  § 6

All this while, you must understand, there was Sylvia’s “world” outside,
looking on at the drama—pitying, wondering, gossiping, speculating.
Frank arrested, Frank out on bail! Frank let off with a fine, because
the man did not die! Frank leaving college and coming back to his
plantation! Would he try to see Sylvia, and what would Sylvia do about
it? Would Mandeville Castleman carry out his threat to shoot him? How
was Sylvia taking it, anyway? Would she be seen at the next club-dance?
And then—interest piled upon interest—Douglas van Tuiver had come! Was
it true that the Yankee Crœsus wanted to marry Sylvia? Was it true that
he had already asked her? Could it be that she had actually refused to
see him? And what would the family do about that?—All this, you
understand, most decorously, most discreetly—and yet with such thrills,
such sensations!

When the audience is stirred, the actors know it; and people so
sensitive and proud as the Castlemans could not fail to be aware that
the world’s attention was focussed upon them. So Sylvia was not left for
long to indulge her grief. As soon as her relatives had made sure of her
breach with Frank, they turned their energies to persuading her to
present a smiling front to “society.” “You must not let people see that
you are eating your heart out over a man!”—such was their cry. There
were few things worse that could happen to a woman than to have it known
that she was grieving about a man. Just as a savage laughs at his
enemies while they are torturing him, so must a woman wear a smile upon
her face while her heart was breaking.

From the first moment, of course, her old suitors rallied to protect
her—a kind of outer phalanx, auxiliary to the family. They wrote to her,
they sent flowers, they called and lingered in the hope that she might
see them. When the time for the club-dance came, the siege of the
suitors became a general assault. A dozen times a day came her mother or
Aunt Varina to plead with her, to scold her. “I don’t want to dance—I
couldn’t dance!” she wailed; but it would be, “Here’s Charlie Peyton on
the ’phone—he begs you to speak to him just a moment. Go, Sylvia,
please—_don’t_ let people think you are so weak!”

At last she told one man that he might call. Malcolm McCallum it was—the
same who had crawled upon his knees to prove his devotion to her. She
had long ago convinced him that his suit was hopeless, so now he was
able to plead with her without offense. Her friends wanted so to help
her—would she not give them a chance? They were indignant because of the
way a scoundrel had treated her; they wanted somehow to show her their
loyalty, their devotion. If only she would come—such a tribute as she
would receive! And surely she was not going to give up her whole life,
because of one such fellow! She had so many true friends—would she
punish them all for the act of one? No, they would not have it! No, not
if they had to raid the house and carry her away! The belle of Castleman
Hall should not wither up and be an old maid!

Sylvia promised to think it over; and then came Aunt Nannie, to protest
in the name of all her cousins against her inflicting further notoriety
upon the family. For Sylvia to be exhibiting such unseemly grief over
Frank Shirley was almost as bad as to be engaged to him. She must
positively take up her normal life again; she must go to this dance!

Sylvia, perceiving that it would be necessary to have the matter out
sooner or later, inquired, “Is Mr. van Tuiver to be there?”

She was surprised at the answer, “He is not.”

“Where is he?” she asked; and learned that the visitor had gone with two
of the boys on a fishing-trip. Sylvia and her aunt exchanged looks—as
two swordsmen might, while their weapons are being measured and the
ground laid out for their duel. The girl could imagine what had
happened, almost as well as if she had been present. Van Tuiver, with
his usual crude egotism, had come post-haste to Castleman Hall; it was
Aunt Nannie who had persuaded him to wait, and let her handle the affair
with tact. Sylvia must first be drawn out into social life, and then it
would be less easy for her to avoid van Tuiver. But although Sylvia felt
sure of this, she could not say so. When she hinted the charge, her aunt
had a shrewd retort ready: “I have daughters of my own—and may I not
have plans of my own for so eligible a young man as Douglas van Tuiver?”


                                  § 7

Sylvia said that she would go to the dance; and great was the
excitement, both at home and abroad. All day long, between fits of
weeping, she labored to steel herself to the ordeal. When night came,
she let herself be arrayed in rosy chiffon, and then went all to pieces,
and fell upon the bed in a paroxysm, declaring that she could not, could
not go. One by one came “Miss Margaret,” Aunt Varina, and Celeste,
scolding her, beseeching her—but all in vain; until at last they sent
for the Major, who, wiser than all of them, arrayed himself in his own
evening finery, and put a white rosebud in his button-hole, and then
went with cheerful face and breaking heart to Sylvia’s room.

“Come, little girl,” he said. “Daddy’s all ready.”

Sylvia sat up and stared at him through her tears. “You!” she exclaimed.

“Why, of course, honey,” he smiled. “Didn’t you know your old Papa was
going with you?”

Sylvia had not known it, nor had anybody else known it up to a few
minutes before. Her surprise (for the Major almost never went to dances)
was sufficiently great to check her tears; and then came “Miss Margaret”
with a glassful of steaming “hot toddy.” “My child,” she said, “drink
this. You’ve had no nourishment—that’s why you go to pieces.”

So they washed her face again, and powdered it up; they straightened her
hair and smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress, and got her bows and
ribbons in order, and took her down stairs to where Aunt Nannie was
waiting, grim and resolute—a double force of chaperones for this
emergency!

You can imagine, perhaps, the excitement when they reached the
club-house; how the whisper went round, and the swains crowded in the
doorway to wait for her. The younger ones cheered when she entered—“Hi,
yi! Whoop la! Miss Sylvia.” They came jumping and capering across the
ball-room floor—one of them tearing a great palmetto-leaf from the
decorations on the wall, and performing a wonderful, sprawling salaam
before her. “I’m the King of the Cannibal Islands!” he proclaimed. “Will
you be my Queen, Miss Sylvia?” Several others locked arms and executed a
cake-walk, by way of manifesting their delight. The dance of the
country-club was turned into a reception in her honor. They worshipped
her for having come—it took nerve, by George, and nerve was the thing
they admired. And then how lovely she was—how perfectly, unutterably
lovely! Just a little more suffering like this, and she would be ready
to be carried up in a chariot of fire and set among the seraphim!

Of course, in the face of such a welcome, it was unthinkable that she
should not carry the thing through triumphantly. In the refreshment-room
were egg-nog and champagne-punch, and she drank enough to keep her in a
glow, to carry her along upon wings of excitement. One by one her old
sweethearts came to claim a dance with her, and one by one they caused
her to understand that hope was springing eternal in their breasts. She
found herself so busy keeping them in order that life seemed quite as it
had always been in Castleman County.

Save for one important circumstance. There had come a new element into
its atmosphere—something marvellously stimulating, transcending and
overshadowing all that had been before. Sylvia found out about it little
by little; the first hint coming from old Mrs. Tagliaferro—the General’s
wife, you may remember. She had come to Sylvia’s _début_ party, hobbling
with a gold-headed cane; but now, the General having died, she had
thrown away her cane, and chaperoned her great-grandchildren at dances,
because otherwise people would think she was getting old. She shook a
sprightly finger at the belle of the evening, and demanded, “What’s this
I hear, my child, about your latest conquest? I always knew you’d be
satisfied with nothing less than a duke!” Sylvia’s face clouded, and the
other went on her way with a knowing cackle. “Oh, you can’t fool me with
your haughty looks!”

And then came Mabel Taylor, a girl who had been a hopeless wallflower in
her early days, and had been saved because Sylvia took pity upon her,
and compelled men to ask her to dance. Now she was Sylvia’s jealous
rival; and greeting her in the dressing-room she whispered, “Sylvia, is
he really in love with you?”

“When Sylvia asked, “Who?” the other replied, “Oh, it’s a secret, is
it!”

The girl perceived that she must take some line at once. “Are you really
going to marry him?” asked Charlie Peyton, with despair in his voice.
“We can’t stand that sort of competition!” protested Harvey Richards.
“We shall have to have a protective tariff, Miss Sylvia!” (Harvey, as
you may recall, was a steel manufacturer.)

The thing had got upon Sylvia’s nerves. “Are you so completely awed by
that man?” she demanded, in a voice of intense irritation.

“Awed by him?” echoed Harvey.

“Why don’t you at least mention his name? You are the fourth person
who’s talked to me about him to-night and hasn’t dared to utter his
name. I believe it’s not customary for Kings to use their family names,
but they have Christian names, at least.”

“Why, Miss Sylvia!” exclaimed the other.

“Let us give him a title,” she pursued, savagely. “King Douglas the
First, let us say!” And imagine the seven pairs of swift wings which
that saying took unto itself! She called him a King! King Douglas the
First! She referred to him as Royalty—she made fun of him as openly and
recklessly as that! “What sublimity!” exclaimed her admirers. “What a
pose!” retorted her rivals.

But even so, they could not but envy her the pose, and the consistency
with which she adhered to it. She could not be brought to discuss the
King—whether he was in love with her, whether he had asked her to marry
him, whether he had come South on her account; nor did she show any
particular signs of being impressed by him—as if she really did not
consider him imposing, or especially elegant, or in any way unusual. Oh,
but they were a haughty lot, those Castlemans—and Sylvia was the
haughtiest of them all! The country-club began to revise its estimates
of Knickerbocker culture, and to remember that, after all, the only real
blood in America was in the South.


                                  § 8

The next afternoon came Harriet Atkinson, to bid Sylvia farewell, and
incidentally to congratulate her upon her triumph. After they had
chatted for a while, she put her hand upon her friend’s, and remarked in
a serious tone, “Sunny, I’ve had a letter from Frank Shirley.”

She felt the hand quiver in hers, and she pressed it more firmly. “He
wanted to explain things to me,” she said.

“What did he say?” asked Sylvia, in a faint voice.

But Harriet did not answer. “I wrote to him,” she continued, “that I
declined to have anything to do with the matter.” Seeing her friend’s
lip beginning to tremble, she added, “Sunny, I did it for your own
good—believe me. I don’t want you to open up things with that man
again.”

“Why not, Harriet?”

“After what’s happened, you ought to know that your people would never
stand for it—there’d surely be some kind of a shooting-scrape. And even
supposing that you got away with him—what sort of an existence would you
have? Frank Shirley is no money-maker, and somehow I don’t seem to feel
that you were cut out for cottage-life.”

She stopped and fixed her gaze upon her friend. “Sunny,” she said, “I
want you to marry the other man.” Then, as Sylvia started—“Don’t ask me
what other man. I’m no Mabel Taylor.”

Sylvia perceived that her words were being cherished these days.
“Harriet,” she exclaimed in an agitated voice, “I can’t endure Douglas
van Tuiver.”

“Now, Sunny, I want you to listen to me. This may be the last chance
I’ll have to talk to you—I’m going off to-morrow, to settle down to
domestic virtue. I want to give it to you straight—to take the place of
your Aunt Lady in this crisis. You fall in love at first sight, and it
brings you wonderful thrills, and you marry on the strength of it—and
then in a year or two the thrills are gone, and where are you? Take my
advice, Sunny, there’s a whole lot more in life than this young-love
business. Try to look ahead a little and realize the truth about
yourself. If ever there was a creature born to be a sky-lark, it’s you;
and here’s a man who could take you out and give you a chance to spread
your wings. For God’s sake, Sunny, don’t throw the chance away, and
settle down to be a barnyard fowl here in Castleman County.”

“Harriet!” cried Sylvia, frantically, “I tell you I can’t endure the
man!”

“I know, Sunny—but that’s just nonsense. You’re in love with one man,
and of course it sets you wild to think of another. But women can get
used to things; and one doesn’t have to be too intimate with one’s
husband. The man is dead in love with you, and so you’d always be able
to manage him. I told you that about Beau—and I can assure you I’ve
found it a convenient arrangement. From what I can make out, Mr. van
Tuiver isn’t a bad sort at all—he seems to have charmed everybody down
here. He’s not bad-looking, and he certainly has wonderful manners. He
can go anywhere in the world, and if he had you to manage him and do
things with him—really, Sunny, I can’t see what more you could want!
Certainly it’s what your family wants—and after all, you’ll find it’s
nice to be able to please your people when you marry. I know how you
despise money, and all that—but, Sylvia, there aren’t many fortunes made
out of cotton planting these days, and if you could hear poor Beau tell
about what his folks have been through, you’d understand that family
pride without cash is like mustard without meat!”

So Harriet went on. She was a sprightly young lady, and generally able
to hold her audience; but after several minutes of this exhortation, she
stopped and asked, “Sunny, what are you thinking about?”

And Sylvia, her face grown suddenly old with grief, caught her by the
hand. “Oh, Harriet,” she whispered, “tell me the truth—do you think I
ought to hear his explanation?”


                                  § 9

There were more dances and entertainments; and each time, of course, it
was harder for Sylvia to escape. She had been to one, and so people
would expect her at the next. There was always somebody who would be
hurt if she refused, and there was always that dreadful phenomenon
called “people”—it would say that the task had been too much for her,
that she was still under the spell of the man who had flaunted her. So
evening after evening Sylvia would choke back her tears, and drink more
coffee, and go forth and pretend to be happy.

It was at the third of these entertainments that she met Douglas van
Tuiver. No one had told her of his return—she had no warning until she
saw him enter the room. She had to get herself together and choose her
course of action, with the eyes of the whole company upon her. For this
was the meeting about which Castleman County had been gossiping and
speculating for weeks—the rising of the curtain upon the second act of
the thrilling drama!

He was his usual precise and formal self; unimpeachably correct, and yet
set apart by a something—a reserve, a dignity. This extended even to his
costume, which tolerated no casual wrinkle, no presumptuous speck. There
was always just a slight difference between van Tuiver’s attire and that
of other men—and somehow you knew that this was the difference between
the best and the average.

It seemed strange to Sylvia to see him here, in her old environment;
strange to compare him with her own people. She realized that she would
have to treat him differently now, for he was a stranger, a guest. She
discovered also a difference in him. He may have been touched by the
change he saw in her; at any rate he was very gentle, and very cautious.
He asked for a dance, and promised that he would not ask for more. To
her great surprise he kept the promise.

“Miss Sylvia,” he said, when they strolled out after the dance, “may I
call you Miss Sylvia, as they all seem to here? I want to explain
something, if you will let me. I’m afraid that my being here will seem
to you an impertinence. I hope you will accept my apology. When I got
back to Cambridge I learned from your cousin what—what the news would
mean to you; and I came because I thought perhaps I might help. It was
absurd, I suppose—but I didn’t know. Then, when I got here, I did not
dare to ask to see you. I don’t know now if you will send me away——”

He stopped. “I am sure, Mr. van Tuiver,” she said, quietly, “you have a
perfect right to stay here if you wish.”

“No right, Miss Sylvia, but the right you give me!” he exclaimed. “I
won’t take refuge in quibbles. I thought that if I promised not to
bother you, and really kept the promise—if I never asked to see you
unless you desired it——”

It was not easy to send him away upon those terms. She did not see what
good it would do him to stay, but she refrained from asking the
question. He paused—perhaps to make sure that she would not ask. “Miss
Sylvia,” he continued, finally, “I am afraid you will laugh at me—but I
want to be near you, I don’t want to be anywhere else. I want to see the
world you belong in; I want to know your relatives and your friends—your
home, the places you go to—everything. I want to hear people talk about
you. And at the same time I’m uncomfortable, because I know you dislike
me, and I’m afraid I’ll anger you, just by being here. But if you send
me away—you see, I don’t know where to go——”

He stopped, and there was a long silence. “You are missing your
examinations,” she said, at last.

“I don’t care anything about Harvard,” he replied. “I’ve lost all
interest—I shall never go back.”

“But how about the reforms you were going to work for? Have you lost
interest in them?”

He hesitated. “They’ve all—don’t you see?” He stopped, embarrassed. “The
movement’s gone to pieces.”

“Oh!” said Sylvia, and felt a slow fire of shame mounting in her cheeks.
It had not occurred to her to think of the plight of the would-be
revolutionists of the “Yard” after their candidate had landed himself in
jail.

They turned to go in, and van Tuiver asked, timidly, “You won’t send me
away, Miss Sylvia?”

“I wish,” she answered, “that you would not put the burden of any such
decision upon me.” And so the matter rested, van Tuiver apparently
content with what he had gained. Sylvia’s next partner claimed her, and
she did not see “King Douglas the First” again; a circumstance which,
needless to say, was duly noted by Castleman County, to its great
mystification. Could it be that rumor was mistaken—that he was not
really after Sylvia at all? Could it be that her flouting of “Royalty”
was a common case of “sour grapes”?


                                  § 10

Sylvia would not be content to drift and suffer indefinitely. It was not
her nature to give up and acknowledge failure, but to make the best of
things. Her thoughts turned to those in her own home, and how she could
help them.

All through the tragedy she had been aware of her father, moving about
the house like a ghost, silent, wrung with grief; her heart bled for the
suffering she had caused him. Her chief thought was to make it up to
him, to be cheerful and busy for his sake—to put him into the place in
her heart which Frank Shirley had left empty. After all, he was the one
man she could really trust—the one who was good and true and generous.

She sought him out one night, while the light was burning in his office.
She drew up a chair and sat close to him, so that she could look into
his eyes. “Papa,” she said, “I’ve been thinking hard—and I want to tell
you, I’m going to try to be good.”

“You are always good, my child,” he declared.

“I have been selfish and heedless. But now I’m going to think about
other people—about you most of all. I want to do the things I used to be
happy doing with you. Let us begin to-morrow and take care of our roses,
and have beautiful flowers again. Won’t that be nice, Daddy?”

There were tears in his eyes. “Yes, dear,” he said.

“And then I must begin and read to you. I know you are using your eyes
too much, and mine are young. And Papa—this is the principal thing—I
want you to let me help you with the accounts, to learn to be of some
use to you in business ways. No, you must not put me off, because I
know—truly I know.”

“What do you know, dear?” he asked, smiling.

“I know you work too hard, and that you have things to worry you, and
that you try to hide them from me. I know how many bills there are, and
how everybody wastes money, and never thinks of you. I’ve done it
myself, and now it’s Celeste’s turn—she must have everything, and be
spared every care, and write checks whenever she pleases. Papa, if it’s
true that this year’s crop is ruined, you’ll have to borrow money—”

“My child!” he began, protestingly.

“I know—you don’t want me to ask. But see, Papa—if I married, I’d have
to know about my husband’s affairs, and help him, wouldn’t I? And now
that I shall never marry—yes, I mean that, Papa. I want you not to try
to marry me off any more, but to let me stay at home and be a help to
you and Mamma.”

The other was shrewd enough to humor her. They would get to work at the
roses in the morning, and they would take up Alexander H. Stephens’
Confederate History without delay; also Sylvia might take the bills as
they came in each month, and find out who had ordered what, and prevent
the tradesmen from charging for the same thing twice over. But of
course, he did not tell her any of his real worries, nor let her see his
bank-books and accounts; nor could he quite see his way to promise that
Aunt Nannie should let her alone while she settled into old-maidenhood.

Aunt Nannie came round the next morning, as it happened. Sylvia did not
see her, being up to the wrists in black loam in the rose-garden; but
she learned the purpose of the visit at lunchtime. “Sylvia,” said her
mother, “do you think it’s decent for us to go much longer without
inviting Mr. van Tuiver over here?”

“Do you think he wants to come?” asked Sylvia, with a touch of her old
mischief.

“Your Aunt Nannie seems to think so,” was the reply—given quite naïvely.
“I wrote to ask him to dinner. I hope you won’t mind.”

Sylvia said that she would find some way to make the occasion tolerable.
And she found a quite unique way. It was one of her times for
bitterness, when she hated the world, and especially the male animals
upon it, and herself for a fool for not having known about them. It
chanced to be the same day of the week that she had prepared for Frank’s
coming, and had introduced him to the family with so many tremblings and
agonies of soul. So now, when she came to dress, she picked out the gown
she had worn that evening, and had them bring her a bunch of the same
kind of roses: which seemed to her a perfectly diabolical piece of
cynicism—like to the celebrating of a “black mass”!

She descended, radiant and lovely, in a mood of somewhat terrible
gaiety. She laughed and all but sang at the dinner-table; she joked with
van Tuiver, and flouted him outrageously—and in the next breath charmed
and delighted him, to the bewilderment of the family, who knew nothing
about her adventures with Royalty, and the various strange moods to
which its presence drove her.

In the course of that meal she told him a story—one of the wildest and
most wonderful of her stories. So at least it seemed to me, who for
years have been longing for a poet to take it up and make a ballad of
it—a real American ballad! It is curious, but I can hear the very rhyme
and rhythm of that ballad, which I cannot write. I wonder if I may not
awaken in some grey dawn, and find it all complete, singing itself in my
mind!

The story of the burning of “Rose Briar,” it was. “Rose Briar” was the
old home of one of the Peytons, which had stood for three generations on
a high bluff on the river-bank a mile or so from Sylvia’s home. It had
the largest and most beautiful ball-room in the county, and was a centre
of continuous hospitality. One night had come a telephone-message to the
effect that it was on fire, and the neighbors gathered from miles
around; on a wild night, with a gale blowing and the whole roof and
upper part of the house in flames, they saw that the place was doomed.

And there was the splendid ball-room, in which they and their fathers
and their grandfathers had celebrated so many festivities! “One last
dance!” cried the young folks, and in they trooped. The servants were
trying to get the piano out, but the master of the house himself stopped
them—what was a piano in comparison to a romantic thrill? So one played,
and the rest danced—danced while the fire roared deafeningly in the
stories above them, and creeping veils of smoke gathered about their
heads. They danced like mad creatures, laughing, singing in chorus.
Eddying gusts of flame poured in at the windows, and still they sang—

          “When you hear dem bells go ting-a-ling-a-ling,
          All join hands and sweetly we will sing—
            There’ll be a hot time in the old town to-night!”

And so on, until there came a crashing of rafters above them, and
showers of cinders and burning wood through the windows. Then they fled,
and gathered in a group upon the lawn, and watched the roof of their
pleasure-house fall in, sending a burst of flame and sparks to the sky.

And here, thought Sylvia, was the roof of her pleasure-house falling in!
There was something terrifying in the symbol; the house of civilization
was falling in, and people were dancing, dancing! “Don’t you feel that,
Mr. van Tuiver?” she asked. “It seems to me sometimes that I can see the
world going to destruction before my eyes, and people don’t know about
it, they don’t care about it. They are dancing, drunk with dancing! On
with the dance!”

She laughed, a trifle hysterically, for her nerves were near the
breaking point. Then she happened to look towards her sister Celeste,
and caught a strange look in her eyes. She took in the meaning of it in
an instant—Celeste was conscious of the presence of Royalty, and shocked
by this display of levity upon a solemn occasion! “Sister, how _dare_
you?” the look seemed to say; and the message gave a new fillip to the
mad steeds of Sylvia’s fancy. “Never mind, Chicken!” she laughed.
(“Chicken” was a childhood nickname, which, needless to say, was
infuriating to a young lady soon to make her _début_.) “Never mind,
Chicken! The roof will last till you’ve had your dance!”

And then, the meal at an end, Sylvia took her guest into the library.
She put him in the same chair that Frank had occupied, and turned on the
same lights upon her loveliness; she took her seat, and looked at him
once, and smiled alluringly—and then suddenly looked away, and bit her
lip until it bled, and sprang up and fled from the room, and rushed
upstairs and flung herself upon her bed, sobbing, choking with her
grief.


                                  § 11

There were ups and downs like this. The next day, of course, Sylvia was
ashamed of her behavior; she had promised to be happy, and not to
distress her people—and this was the way she kept her promise. She began
to make new resolutions, and to think of ways of atoning. She took her
father out into the garden, and pretended deep interest in the new
cinnamon-roses. She spent a couple of hours going over his old
check-stubs and receipted bills, and with evidence thus discovered went
into town and made a row with a tradesman, and saved her father a couple
of hundred dollars.

Then, after lunch, she took him for a drive behind the new pony which
Uncle Mandeville had given her. She got him out into the country, and
then opened up on him in unexpected fashion. “Papa, it isn’t possible
for people like us to economize, is it?”

“Not very much, my child,” he answered smiling. “Why?”

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “It’s all wrong—but I don’t know what to
do about it. You spent so much money on me; I didn’t want it, but I
didn’t realize it till it was too late. And now comes Celeste’s turn,
and you have to spend as much on her, or she’ll be jealous and angry.
And Peggy and Maria will see what Celeste gets, and they will demand
their turn. And the Baby—he’s smashing his toys now, and in a few years
he’ll be smashing windows, and in a few more he’ll be gambling like
Clive and Harley. And you can’t do anything about any of it!”

“My child,” he said, “I don’t want you to worry about such things——”

“No, you want to do all the worrying yourself. But, Papa, I have to make
my life of some use. Since I can’t earn money, I’ve been thinking that
perhaps the most sensible thing would be for me to marry some rich man,
and then help all my family and friends.”

“Sylvia,” protested the Major, “I don’t like one of my daughters to have
such thoughts in her mind. I don’t want a child of mine to marry for
money—there is no need of it, there never will be!”

“Not while you can sit up all night and worry over accounts. But some
day you won’t be able to, Papa. I can see that you’re under a strain,
and yet I can’t get you to let me help you. If you make sacrifices for
me, why shouldn’t I make them for you?”

“Not that kind of a sacrifice, my child. It’s a terrible thing for a
woman to marry for money.”

“Do you really think so, Papa? So many women do it. Are they all bad,
and are they all unhappy?”

Thus Sylvia—trying to do her duty, and keep her mind occupied. They got
back home, and she found new diversions—Castleman Lysle had been feeding
himself in the kitchen, and had been picked up black in the face with
convulsions. This, you understand, was one of the features of life at
Castleman Hall; one baby had been lost that way, since which time “Miss
Margaret” always fainted when it occurred. As poor Aunt Varina had not
the physical strength for such emergencies, Sylvia had to get a tub of
hot water, and hold the child in it—while some one else held a spoon in
his mouth, in order that he might not chew his tongue to pieces!

Thus the afternoon passed busily, and in the evening was the spring
dance of the Young Matrons’ Cotillion Club. Sylvia absolutely had to go
to that, in order to dance with Douglas van Tuiver and atone for her
rudeness. She had promised it by way of pacifying Aunt Nannie; and also
her father had made plans to accompany her again.

So she put on a new “cloth of silver” gown which she had bought in New
York, and drank a “toddy” of the Major’s mixing, and sallied forth upon
his arm. There were lights and music, happy faces, cheery greetings—so
she was uplifted, dreaming of happiness again. And then came the most
dreadful collapse of all.

She had strolled out upon the veranda with Stanley Pendleton. Feeling
chilly, she sent her partner in for a wrap; and then suddenly came a
voice—_his_ voice!

If it had been his ghost, Sylvia could not have been more startled. She
whirled about and stared, and saw him—standing in the semidarkness of
the garden, close to the railing of the veranda. It had rained that day,
and the roads were deep in mire, and he had ridden far. His clothing was
splashed and his hair in disarray; as for his face—never had Sylvia seen
such grief on a human countenance.

“Sylvia!” he whispered. “Sylvia!” She could only gaze at him, dumb.
“Sylvia, give me one minute! I have come here to tell you——”

He stopped, his voice breaking with intensity of feeling. “Oh!” she
gasped. “You ought not to be here!”

“I had to see you!” he exclaimed. “There was no other way——”

But he got no farther. There was a step behind Sylvia, and she turned,
and at the same moment heard the terrible voice of her father—“What does
this mean?”

She sprang to him with a quick cry. “Papa!” She caught his arm with her
hands, trying to stop what she feared he might do. “No, Papa, _no_!” For
one moment the Major stood staring at the apparition in the darkness.

She could feel him trembling with fury. “Sir, how dare you approach my
daughter?”

“Papa, _no_!” exclaimed Sylvia, again.

“Sir, do you wish to make it necessary for me to shoot you?”

Then Frank answered, his voice low and vibrant with pain. “Major
Castleman, I would be grateful to you.”

The other glared at him for a moment; then he said, “If you wish to die,
sir, choose some way that will not drag my daughter to disgrace.”

Frank’s gaze had turned to the girl. “Sylvia,” he exclaimed, “I tell you
that I went to that place——”

“Stop!” almost shouted the Major.

“Major Castleman,” said Frank, “Allow me to speak to your daughter. It
has been——”

Sylvia was clutching her father in terror. She knew that he had a
weapon, and was on the point of using it; she knew also that she had not
the physical force to prevent him. She cried hysterically, “Go! Go
away!”

And Frank looked at her—a last look, that she never forgot all the days
of her life. “You mean it, Sylvia?” he asked, his voice breaking.

“I mean it!” she answered.

“Forever?”

For the smallest part of a second she hesitated. “Forever!” commanded
her father; and she echoed, “Forever!” Frank turned, without another
word, and was gone in the darkness; and Sylvia fell into her father’s
arms, convulsed with an agony that shook her frame.


                                  § 12

They got her home, where her first action, in spite of her exhaustion,
was to insist upon seeing her Uncle Mandeville. So determined, so
vehement she was, that it was necessary to rout the worthy gentleman out
from a poker-game at two o’clock in the morning. There had been other
witnesses of what Frank had done, and Sylvia knew that her uncle must
hear; so she told him herself, with her arms about him, clinging to him
in frenzy, and beseeching him to give her his word of honor that he
would not carry out his threat against Frank Shirley.

It was not an easy word to get; she would probably have failed, had it
not been for the Major. He could see the force in her argument that a
shooting-affair would only serve to publish the matter to the world, and
make it seem more serious. After all, from the family’s point of view,
the one thing to be desired was to make certain that there would be no
further communication between the two. And Sylvia was willing to assure
them of that, she declared. She rushed to her desk, and with trembling
fingers wrote a note to “Mr. Frank Shirley,” informing him that the
scene which had just occurred had been intolerable to her, and
requesting him to perform her one last service—to write a note to her
father to the effect that he would make no further attempt to
communicate with her. The Major, after some discussion, decided that he
would accept this as a settlement; and he being the elder brother, his
word was law with Mandeville—at least so long as Mandeville was sober.

I remember Sylvia’s account of the state of exhaustion in which she
found herself after this ordeal; how for two days she had the sensation
that her mind was breaking up. Yet—a circumstance worth noting—at no
time did she blame those who had put her through this ordeal. She could
not blame the men of her family; if any one were at fault, it was
herself, for being at the mercy of her emotions, and capable of a secret
longing to have parleyings with a man who had dragged her name in the
mire. You see, Sylvia believed in her heritage. She was proud of the
Castlemans—and apparently you could not have rare, aristocratic virtues
without also having terrifying vices. If one’s men-folk got drunk and
shot people, one’s consolation was that at least they did it in a bold
and striking and “high-spirited” way.

You will perhaps find yourself impatient with the girl at this stage of
her story. I recall my own frantic protests while I listened. What a
cruel, needless tragedy! I cried out for the evidence of some gleam of
sense on the part of any one person concerned. Surely Sylvia, knowing
Frank, must have come to doubt that he could have been unfaithful to
her! Surely, with the hints she got at that meeting, she must have
realized that there was something more to be said! Surely he, on his
part, would have found some way of getting an interview with her, or at
least of sending an explanation by some friend! Surely he would never
have given up until he had done that!

I have claimed for Sylvia the possession of clear-sightedness. She
displayed it when it was a question of revising her religion, she
displayed it when it was a question of managing her family, and
obtaining permission to be engaged to a convict’s son. But, if you look
to see her display anything of that sort in the present emergency, you
will look in vain. Sylvia could be bold in a matter of theology, she
could be bold in a matter of love, but she could not possibly be bold in
a matter of a house of prostitution. If I were to give you illustrations
of the completeness of her ignorance upon the subject of sex, you would
simply not be able to believe what I told; and not only was she
ignorant, she could not conceive that it was possible for her to be
other than ignorant. She could not conceive that it was possible for a
pure-minded girl to talk about such a subject with any human being, man
or woman.

I doubt very much, if it had come to an actual test, whether Sylvia
would have been capable of marrying against her family’s will. She had
opposed them vehemently, but this was because she knew that she was
right, and that they, in their inmost hearts, knew it also. The Major
and “Miss Margaret” were good and generous-hearted people, and they
could not sincerely condemn Frank Shirley for his father’s offense. But
how different it was now! In the present matter she faced the phalanx of
the family, not on an open field where she could manœuvre and outwit
them—but in a place of darkness and terror, where she dared not stir a
foot alone.

And let me tell you also that you mistake Frank Shirley if you count
upon the mere physical fact that he could have got an explanation to
Sylvia. It was not easy for him to explain about such matters to the
woman he loved; and if you think it was easy, you are a modern,
matter-of-fact person, not understanding the notions of an old-fashioned
Southerner. The simple fact was that when Frank wrote to Harriet
Atkinson, to ask her to hear his plea, he felt that he was doing
something desperate and unprecedented; and when Harriet wrote, coldly
refusing to have anything to do with the matter, he felt that she had
rebuked him for his boldness. As for the last effort he had made to see
Sylvia, it was the act of a man driven frantic by love—a man willing to
sacrifice his life, and even his self-respect. I have portrayed Frank
poorly if I have not made you realize that from the first hour he
approached Sylvia with a sense of inferiority and of guilt; that he had
remained her lover against the incessant protests of his pride. People
are making money rapidly these days in the South, and so becoming like
us “Yankees”; yet it will be a long time, I think, before a Southerner
without money will make love to a rich woman without feeling in his
heart that he is acting the knave.


                                  § 13

There came another long struggle for Sylvia, another climb out of the
pit. For the sake of her father, she could not delay; as soon as she was
able to move about, she was out among her roses again, and reading
Alexander Stephens in the evenings. Within a week she had been to a
card-party and a picnic, and also had received a call from Douglas van
Tuiver.

Never before had Sylvia worn such an ethereal aspect; he was gentle,
even reverent, in his manner to her. He had a particular reason for
calling to see her, he said. He owned a yacht, considered quite a
beautiful vessel; it was now in commission, but idle, and he had taken
the liberty of ordering it to the Southern coast, and wished to beg her
to use it to bring the color back into her cheeks. She might take her
Aunt Varina, her sister—a whole party, if she chose—and cruise up the
coast, to Maine and the St. Lawrence, or over in the North Sea—wherever
her fancy suggested. He would go with her and take charge, if she would
permit—or he would stay behind, and be happy in the knowledge that she
was recovering her health.

Of course, Sylvia could not accept such a favor; she insisted that it
was impossible, in spite of all his arguments and urgings. She thanked
him so cordially, however, that he went away quite happy.

Then came Mrs. Chilton, and there was a conclave of the ladies. Why
should she not accept the offer? It was the very thing she needed to
divert her mind, and get her out of this disgraceful state.

“Aunt Nannie,” cried the girl, “how can you think of wanting me to
accept such a gift from a comparative stranger? It must cost hundreds of
dollars a month to run such a yacht!”

“About five thousand dollars a month, my dear,” said the other, quietly.

Sylvia was aghast; once in a while even a fiery revolutionist like
herself was awe-stricken by the actuality of Royalty. “I don’t want
things like that,” she said, at last. “I want to stay quietly at home
and help Papa.”

“You need a change,” declared the other. “So long as you are here you
are never safe from that evil man; and anyway you are surrounded by
reminders of him. A yachting-trip would force you to put your mind on
other things. The sea-air would do you good; and if you took Celeste
with you—think what a treat for her!”

“Oh, Sylvia, please do!” cried Celeste.

Sylvia looked at her sister. “You’d like to go?”

“Oh, how can you ask?” she replied. “It would be heaven!”

Sylvia said that she would think it over. But in reality she wanted to
think about something else. She waited until they left her alone with
her sister, and then she said, “You like Mr. van Tuiver, don’t you?”

“How could I fail to like him?” asked Celeste.

The other tried to draw her out. Why did she like him? He had such
beautiful manners, such dignity—there were no loose ends about him. He
had been everywhere, met everybody of consequence; compared with him the
men at home seemed like country-fellows. It was that indescribable thing
called elegance, said Celeste, gravely. She could not understand her
sister’s attitude at all; she thought Sylvia treated van Tuiver
outrageously, and her eyes flashed a danger-signal as she said it. It
was a woman’s right to reject a man’s advances if she chose to; but she
ought not to humiliate him, when his only offense was admiring her to
excess.

“I only wish it was you he admired,” said Sylvia, who was in a gentle
mood.

“No chance of that,” remarked the other, with a touch of bitterness in
her voice. “He has no eyes or ears for anybody else when you are about.”

“I’m going to try to lend him eyes and ears,” responded Sylvia. For that
was the idea that had occurred to her—van Tuiver must be persuaded to
transfer his interest to Celeste! Celeste would marry him; she would
marry him without the least hesitation or distress; and then the elder
sister might settle down with her family and her rose-gardens and her
Confederate History!


                                  § 14

Sylvia became quite excited over this scheme. When van Tuiver asked
permission to call again, she was glad to say yes; but she kept Celeste
with her, guiding the conversation so as to show off her best qualities.
But alas, “Little Sister” had no qualities to be shown off when van
Tuiver was about! She was so much impressed by him that she trembled
with stage fright. Usually a bright and vivacious girl, although
somewhat hard and shallow, she was now dumb, abject, a booby! Sylvia
raged at her inwardly, and when van Tuiver had taken his departure, she
said, “Celeste, how can you expect to impress a man if you let him see
you are afraid to breathe in his presence?”

Tears of humiliation came into her sister’s eyes. “What’s the use of
talking about my impressing him? Can’t you see that he pays no more
attention to me than if I were a doll?”

“_Make_ him pay attention to you!” cried the other. “Shock him, hurt
him, make him angry—do anything but put yourself under his feet!” She
went on to give a lecture on that awe-inspiring phenomenon, the Harvard
manner; trying to prove to her sister that it was an idol with feet of
clay, which would topple if one attacked it resolutely. She told the
story of her own meeting with King Douglas the First, and how she had
been able to subdue him with cheap effrontery. But she soon discovered
that her arguments were thrown away upon Celeste, who was simply shocked
by her story, and had no more the desire than she had the power to
subdue van Tuiver. At first Sylvia had thought it was mere awe of his
millions, but gradually she realized that it was something far more
serious—something quite tragic. Celeste had fallen in love with Royalty!

But still Sylvia could not give up the struggle. It would have been such
a marvelous solution of her problem! She let van Tuiver call as often as
he wanted to; but she became, all at once, a phenomenon of sisterly
affection. She took Celeste horseback riding with them—and Celeste rode
well. If van Tuiver asked to go automobiling, she found shrewd excuses
for having Celeste go also. But in the end she had to give up—because of
the “English system.” Van Tuiver did not want Celeste, and was so
brutally unaware of her existence that Celeste came home with tears of
humiliation in her eyes. Sylvia went off by herself and shed tears also;
she hated van Tuiver and his damnable manners!

She realized suddenly to what extent he was boring her. He came the next
day, and spent the better part of an hour talking to her about his
experiences among the elect in various parts of the world. He had been
shooting last fall upon the estates of the Duke of Something in
Scotland. You went out in an automobile, and took a seat in an
arm-chair, and had several score “beaters” drive tame pheasants towards
you; you had two men to load your guns, and you shot the birds as they
rose; but you could not shoot more than so many hundred of a morning,
because the recoil of the gun gave you a headache. The Duke had a couple
of guns which were something special—he valued them at a thousand
guineas the pair.

“Mr. van Tuiver,” said the girl, suddenly, “there is something I want to
say to you. I have been meaning to say it for some time. I think you
ought not to stay here any longer.”

His face lost suddenly its expression of complacency. “Why, Miss
Sylvia!” he exclaimed.

“I want to deal with you frankly. If you are here for any reason not
connected with me, why all right; but if you are here on my account, I
ought not to leave you under any misapprehension.”

He tried hard to recover his poise. “I had begun to hope”—he began.
“You—are you sure it is true?”

“I am sure. You realize of course—it’s been obvious from the outset that
my Aunt Nannie has entered into a sort of partnership with you, to help
you persuade me to marry you. And of course there are others of my
friends—even members of my family, perhaps—who would be glad to have me
do it. Also, you must know that I’ve been trying to persuade myself.”
Sylvia lowered her eyes; she could not look at him as she said this. “I
thought perhaps it was my duty—the only useful thing I could do with my
life—to marry a rich man, and use his money to help the people I love.
So I tried to persuade myself. But it’s impossible—I could not, _could_
not do it!”

She paused. “Miss Sylvia,” he ventured, “can you be sure—perhaps if you
married me, you might——”

“No!” she cried. “Please don’t say any more. I know you ought not to
stay! I could never marry you, and you are throwing away your time here.
You ought to go!”

There was a silence. “Miss Sylvia,” he began, finally, “this is like a
death-sentence to me.”

“I know,” she said, “and I’m sorry. But there’s no help for it. Putting
off only makes it worse for you.”

“Don’t think about me,” he said. “I’ve no place to go, and nothing
better I can be doing. If you’ll let me stay, and try to be of some
service”—

“No,” she declared, “you can be of no service. I want to be alone, with
my father and the people I love; and it is only distressing to me to see
you.”

He rose, and stood looking at her, crestfallen. “That is all you have to
say to me, Miss Sylvia?”

“That is all. If you wish to show your regard for me, you will go away
and never think of me again.”


                                  § 15

Van Tuiver went away; but within a week he was back, writing Sylvia
notes to say that he must see her, that he only sought her friendship.
And then came Aunt Nannie, and there was a family conference—ending not
altogether to Sylvia’s advantage. Aunt Nannie took the same view as Mrs.
Winthrop, that one had no right to humiliate a man who carried such vast
responsibilities upon his shoulders. Sylvia recurred to her old phrase
“Royalty”—and was taken aback when her aunt wanted to know just what
were her objections to Royalty. Had she not often heard her Uncle
Mandeville say that there ought to be a king in America to counteract
the influence of Yankee demagogs? That rather took the wind out of
Sylvia’s sails; for she had a great respect for the political wisdom of
her uncles, and really could give no reason why a king might not be a
beneficent phenomenon. All she could reply was that she did not like
this particular king, and would not see him. When Aunt Nannie insisted
that van Tuiver had been a guest under her roof, and that Sylvia’s
action had been an unheard of discourtesy, the girl said that she was
willing to apologize, either to her aunt or to van Tuiver—but that
nothing could induce her to let him call again.

King Douglas went off to Newport, where the family of Dorothy Cortlandt
had its granite cottage; and so for two months Sylvia enjoyed peace. She
read to her father, and played cards with him, and took him driving,
exercising her social graces to keep him from drinking too many toddies.
I could wish there were space to recite some of the comical little
dramas that were played round the good Major’s efforts to cheat himself
and his daughter, and exceed the number of toddies which his physician
allowed to him!

Aunt Nannie being away at the coast, it was easier for the girl to avoid
social engagements, especially with the excuse that her father’s health
was poor, and his plantation duties engrossing. There had been an
overflow in the early spring, just at planting-time, and so there was no
cotton that year. Fences had been swept away, cattle drowned, and
negro-cabins borne off to parts unknown. The Major had three large
plantations, whose negroes must be kept over the year, just as if they
were working. Also there were small farms, rented to negro tenants who
had lost everything; they had to be taken care of—one must “hold on to
one’s niggers.” “Why don’t you let them raise corn?” van Tuiver had
inquired; to which the Major answered, “My negroes could no more raise
corn than they could raise ostriches.”

So there was much money to be borrowed, and money was “tight.” Everybody
wanted it from the local banks, and as this was the second bad year, the
local banks were in an ungenerous mood. Worse than that, there were
troubles vaguely rumored from “Wall Street.” What this meant to Sylvia
was that her father sat up at night and worried over his books, and
could not be got to talk of his affairs.

But what distressed her most was that there was no sign of any effort to
curtail the family’s expenditure. Aunt Varina and the children were at
the summer home in the mountains, and so there were two establishments
to be kept going. Also Celeste was giving house parties, and ordering
new things from New York, in spite of the fact that she had come home
from school with several trunkloads of splendor. The Major’s family all
signed his name to checks, and all these checks were like chickens which
came home to roost in the pigeon-holes in the office-desk.

In the fall the Major’s health weakened under the strain, and the doctor
insisted that he must go away at all hazards. Uncle Mandeville had taken
a place at one of the Gulf Coast resorts, and Sylvia and her father were
urged to come there—just in time for the yachting regatta, wrote the
host. They came; and about two weeks later a great ocean-going yacht
steamed majestically into the harbor, and the dismayed Sylvia read in
the next morning’s paper that Mr. Douglas van Tuiver, who had been
cruising in the Gulf with a party of friends, had come to attend the
races!

“I won’t see him!” she declared; and Uncle Mandeville, who was in
command here, backed her up, and offered to shoot the fellow if he
molested her. This, of course, was in fun, but Uncle Mandeville was
serious in his support of his niece, maintaining that the Castlemans
needed no Yankee princeling to buttress their fortunes.

She fully meant not to see him. But he had brought allies to make sure
of her. That afternoon an automobile drew up at the door, and Sylvia,
who was on the gallery, saw a lady descending, waving a hand to her. She
stared, dumb-founded. It was Mrs. Winthrop!

Mrs. Winthrop—clad in spotless white from hat to shoetips, looking
sunburned and picturesque, and surprisingly festive. No one was in sight
but Sylvia, and so she had a free field for her wizardry. She came
slowly up the gallery-steps, and took the outstretched hands in hers,
and gazed. How much she read in the pale, thin face—and what deeps of
feeling welled up in her!

“Oh, let me help you!” she murmured. And nothing more.

“Thank you!” said Sylvia at last.

“My dryad!” Quick tears of sympathy started in the great lady’s eyes,
and came running down her sunburned cheeks, and had to be brushed away
with a tiny Irish lace handkerchief.

“Believe me, Sylvia, I too have known grief!” she began, after a minute.
Sylvia was deeply touched; for what grief could be more fascinating than
that which lurked in the dream-laden eyes before her? She found herself
suddenly recalling an irreverent phrase of “Tubby” Bates’: “The
beautiful unhappy wife of a railroad-builder!”

They sat down. “Sylvia,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “you need diversion. Come
out on the yacht!”

“No,” she replied, “I don’t want to meet Mr. van Tuiver again.”

“I appreciate your motives,” said the other. “But you may surely trust
to my discretion, Sylvia. Mr. van Tuiver has recovered himself, and
there is no longer any need for you to avoid him.”

He was a much changed man, went on “Queen Isabella”; so chastened that
his best friends hardly knew him. He had become a most fascinating
figure, a sort of superior Werther; his melancholy became him. He had
been really admirable in his behavior, and Sylvia owed it to him to give
him a chance to show her that he could control himself, to show his
friends that she had not dismissed him with contempt. There was a
charming party on board the yacht; it included van Tuiver’s aunt, Mrs.
Harold Cliveden, of whom Sylvia had surely heard; also her niece, Miss
Vaillant, and Lord Howard Annersley, who was engaged to her. Sylvia had
probably not seen the accounts of this affair, but it was most romantic.
The girl pleaded that her father was ill and needed her. But he might
come too, said Mrs. Winthrop; the diversion would benefit him. So at
last Sylvia consented to go to lunch.


                                  § 16

Van Tuiver came to fetch them on the following day. He looked his new
rôle of a leisure-class Werther, and acted up to it quite touchingly. He
was perfect in his attitude toward his guests, carefully omitting all
reference to personal matters, and confining his conversation to the
yachting-trip and the party on board—especially to Lord Howard. Sylvia
said that she had never met a Lord before, and it would seem like a
fairy-story to her. The other was careful to explain that Lord Howard
was not a fortune-hunter, but a friend of his. So Sylvia furbished up
her weapons—but put most of them away when she got on board, and found
out what a very commonplace young man his lordship was.

It was necessary to extend a return invitation, so Uncle Mandeville took
the party automobiling along the coast, and spread a sumptuous
picnic-luncheon. Then the next day Sylvia let herself be inveigled on a
moonlight sailing-trip; and so it came about that she was cornered in
the bow of the boat, with van Tuiver at her side, declaring in trembling
accents that he had tried to forget her, that he could not live without
her, that if she did not give him some hope he would take his life.

She was intensely annoyed, and answered him in monosyllables, and took
refuge with Lord Howard, who showed signs of forgetting that he was
already in the midst of a romance. She vowed that she would accept no
more invitations, and that van Tuiver would never deceive her in that
way again. This last with angry emphasis to Mrs. Winthrop, who,
perceiving that something had gone wrong, took her aside as the party
was breaking up.

“Queen Isabella’s” lovely face showed intense distress. “Oh, these men!”
she cried. “Sylvia, what can we do with them?” And when Sylvia, taken
aback by this appeal, was silent, the other continued, pleadingly, “You
must be loyal to your sex, and help me! We all have to manage men!”

“But what do you want me to do?” asked the girl. “Marry him?”

She meant this for the extreme of sarcasm; and great was her surprise
when Mrs. Winthrop caught her hand and exclaimed, “My dear, I want you
to do just that!”

“But then—what becomes of my fineness of spirit?” cried Sylvia, with
still more withering sarcasm.

Said “Queen Isabella,” “The man loves you.”

“I know—but I don’t love him.”

“He loves you deeply, Sylvia. I think you will really have to marry
him.”

“In spite of the fact that I don’t love him in the least?”

The other smiled her gentlest smile. “I want you to let me come and talk
to you about these matters.”

“But, Mrs. Winthrop, I don’t want to be talked to about marrying Mr. van
Tuiver!”

“I want to explain things to you, Sylvia. You must grant me that
favor—please!” In the hurry of departure, Sylvia gave no reply, and the
other took silence for consent.

By what device van Tuiver could have reconciled Mrs. Winthrop, Sylvia
could not imagine; but when the great lady called, the next afternoon,
she was as ardent on the one side as she had formerly been on the other.
She painted glowing pictures of the splendors which awaited the future
Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver. The courts of Europe would be open to her, her
life would be one triumphal pageant. Also, taking a leaf out of “Tubby”
Bates’ note-book, “Queen Isabella” discoursed upon the good that Sylvia
would be able to do with her husband’s wealth.

This interview with Mrs. Winthrop was important for another reason; it
was the means of setting at rest what doubts were lurking in Sylvia’s
mind as to her treatment of Frank Shirley. The other evidently had the
matter in mind, for Sylvia needed only to allude to it, whereupon Mrs.
Winthrop proceeded, with the utmost tact and understanding, to give her
exactly the information she was craving. The dreadful story was surely
true—everybody at Harvard knew it. All that one heard in defense was
that it was a shame the story had been spread abroad; for there were
men, said Mrs. Winthrop, who did these shameful things in secret, and
had no remorse save when they were found out. Without saying it in plain
words, she caused Sylvia to have the impression that such evils were to
be found among men of low origin and ignominious destinies: a suggestion
which started in Sylvia a brand-new train of thought. Could it be that
_this_ was the basis of social discrimination—the secret reason why her
parents were so careful what men she met? It threw quite a new light
upon the question of college snobbery, if one pictured the club-men as
selected and set apart because of their chaste lives. It made quite a
difference in one’s attitude towards the “exclusiveness” of van
Tuiver—if one might think of him, as Mrs. Winthrop apparently did think
of him, as having been guarded from contamination, from the kind of
commonness to which Frank Shirley had permitted himself to stoop.


                                  § 17

Van Tuiver of course wrote letters of apology; but Sylvia would not
answer them nor see him. As the yacht still lingered in the harbor, she
became restless, and was glad when the Major decided to return home to
the rose-gardens and Alexander Stephens. Soon afterwards she learned
that the yachting-party had returned to New York; but in a couple of
weeks “King Douglas” was at Aunt Nannie’s again, annoying her with his
letters and his importunities.

By this time everybody in Castleman County knew the situation; it had
become a sort of State romance—or perhaps it would be better to say a
State scandal. Sylvia became aware of a new force, vaguer, but more
compelling even than that of the family—the power of public opinion. It
was all very well for a girl to have whims and to indulge them; to be
coquettish and wayward—naturally. But to keep it up for so long a time,
to carry the joke so far—well, it was unusual, and in somewhat
questionable taste. It was a fact that every person in Castleman County
shone by the reflected glory of Sylvia’s great opportunity; and
everybody felt himself—or more especially herself—cheated of this glory
by the girl’s eccentricity. You may take this for a joke, but let me
tell you that public opinion is a terrible agent, which has driven
mighty princes to madness, and captains of predatory finance to suicide.

All this time Sylvia was thinking—thinking. Wherever she went, whatever
she did, she was debating one problem in her soul. As I don’t want
anyone to misunderstand her or despise her, I must try to tell, briefly
and simply, what were her thoughts.

She had come to hate life. Everything that had ever been sweet to her
seemed to have turned to ashes in her mouth. The social game, for which
she had been trained with so much care and at so great expense, upon
which she had entered with such zest three years before—the game had
become a sordid mockery to her. It was a chase after men, an elaboration
of devices to gain and hold their attention. To be decked out and sent
forth to perform tricks—no, it was an utterly intolerable thing.

Her whole being was one cry to stay at home with the people she loved.
Here were her true friends, who would always stand by her, who would be
a bulwark against the ugliness of life. A wonderful thing it was, after
all, the family; a kind of army of mutual defense against a hostile,
predatory world. “Life is a case of dog eat dog,” had been the words of
Uncle Mandeville. “You have to eat or be eaten.” And Uncle Mandeville
had seen so much of life!

So the one high duty that Sylvia could see was to stand by and maintain
the family. And there were increasing signs that this family was in
peril. More and more plainly was worry to be read in the face of the
Major; there were even signs that his worry had infected others.
Curious, incredible as it might seem, “Miss Margaret” was trying to
economize! She wandered over her exquisite velvet carpets in a faded
last year’s gown, and a pair of rusty last year’s slippers; nor could
she be persuaded to purchase new—until the Major himself sent off an
order to her costumer in New Orleans!

Also Aunt Varina had taken to fretting over the housekeeping
extravagances. So many idle negroes eating their heads off in the
kitchen! Such grocery and laundry bills, beyond all reason and sense!
The echoes of her protest reached even to the tradesmen in the town, who
heard with dismay that at Castleman Hall they were counting the
supplies, and going over the bills, and refusing to pay for goods which
had not been sent, or had been stolen by the negroes employed to deliver
them!

“Aunt Mandy,” the black cook, had once been heard to declare that
Castleman Hall was not a home, but “a free hotel.” A hotel with great
airy rooms, huge four-poster beds, and quaint old “dressers” and
“armours” of hand-carved mahogany! No wonder the guests came trooping!
“We ought to move into one of the smaller houses on the plantation!”
declared Aunt Varina; and what a horror to have such an idea mentioned
in the family. Fear assailed “Miss Margaret”—what if the neighbors were
to hear of it? Everybody knew that there had been droughts and floods,
and somebody might suspect that these had touched the Castlemans! Mrs.
Castleman decided forthwith that it would be necessary to give a big
reception; and the moment this was announced came a cry from
Celeste—why, if her mother could give a reception, could she not have
the little “electric” for which she had begged all summer?

Celeste was going back to Miss Abercrombie’s in a week or two. Going
back to Fifth Avenue and its shops—to open accounts at any of them she
chose, and sign her father’s name to checks, just as Sylvia had done. It
would have been a painful matter to curtail this privilege, for Sylvia
was the favorite daughter, and Celeste knew it, and was bitterly
resentful of every sign of favoritism. And yet the privilege was more
dangerous in the case of Celeste, who was careless to the point of
wickedness. You might see her step out of an expensive ball-gown at
night, and leave it a crumpled ring upon the floor until the maid hung
it up in the morning; you might see her kick off her tight, high-heeled
slippers, and walk about the room for hours in her stockinged feet—thus
wearing out a pair of new silk hose that had cost five dollars, and
kicking them to one side to be carried off by the negroes. Celeste would
permit nothing but silk upon her exquisite person, and was given to
lounging about in oriental luxuriance, while Peggy and Maria gazed at
her awe-stricken, as at some princess in a fairy-story book. Sylvia saw
with bewilderment that everywhere about her it was the evil example
which seemed to be prevailing.


                                  § 18

Sylvia could not plan to stay at home and share in this plundering of
her father. She must marry; yet when it came to the question of
marrying, the one positive fact in her consciousness was that she could
never love any man. No matter how long she might wait, no matter how
much energy she might expend in hesitating and agonizing, sooner or
later she would give herself in marriage to some man whom she did not
love. And after all, there was very little choice among them, so far as
she could see. Some were more entertaining than others; but it was true
of everyone that if he touched her hand in token of desire, she shrunk
from him with repugnance.

The time came when to her cool reason this shrinking wore the aspect of
a weakness. When so much happiness for all those she loved depended upon
the conquering of it, what folly not to conquer it! Here was the obverse
of that distrust of “blind passion” which they had taught her. Whether
it was an emotion towards or away from a man, was it a thing which
should dominate a woman’s life? Was it not rather a thing for her to
beat into whatever shape her good sense directed?

Seated one day in her mother’s room, Sylvia asked, quite casually,
“Mamma, how often do women marry the men they love?”

“Why, what makes you ask that?” inquired the other.

“I don’t know, Mamma. I was just thinking.”

“Miss Margaret” considered. “Not often, my child; certainly not, if you
mean their first love.” Then, after a pause, she added, “I think perhaps
it’s well they don’t. Most all those I know who married their first love
are unhappy now.”

“Why is that, Mamma?”

“They don’t seem able to judge wisely when they’re young and blinded by
passion.” “Miss Margaret” drifted into reminiscences—beginning with the
case of Aunt Varina, who was in the next room.

“It seems such a terrible thing,” said Sylvia. “Love is—well, it makes
you want to trust it.”

“Something generally happens,” replied the other. “A woman has to wait,
and in the end she marries for quite other reasons.”

“And yet they manage to make out!” said the girl, half to herself.

“Children come, dear. Children take their time, and they forget. I
remember so well your Uncle Barry’s wife—she visited us in her courtship
days, and she used to wake up in the middle of the night, and whisper to
me in a trembling voice, ‘Margaret, tell me—_shall_ I marry him?’ I
think she went to the altar without really having her mind made up; and
yet, you see, she’s one of the happiest women I know—they are perfectly
devoted to each other.”

Sylvia went away to ponder these things. The next day Aunt Varina
happened to talk about her life-tragedy, and told Sylvia of the death of
her young love; and later on came Uncle Barry’s wife, traveling a
hundred miles for the sake of a casual conversation upon the state of
happiness vouchsafed to those who chose their husbands in accordance
with reason. All of which was managed with such delicacy and tact that
no one but an utterly depraved person like Sylvia would ever have
suspected that it was planned.

There was one person from whom the girl hoped for an unworldly opinion;
that was the Bishop. She went to see him one day, and casually brought
up the subject of van Tuiver—a thing which was easy enough to do, since
the man was a guest in the house.

“Sylvia,” said her uncle, at once, “why don’t you marry him?”

The girl was astounded. “Why, Uncle Basil!” she exclaimed. “Would you
advise me to?”

“Nothing would make me happier than the news that you had so decided.”

Sylvia was at a loss for words. She had thought that here was one person
who would surely not be influenced by Royalty. “Tell me why,” she said.

“Because, my child,” the Bishop answered, “he’s a Christian gentleman.”

“Oh! So it’s that!”

“Yes, Sylvia. You don’t know how often I have prayed that you might have
a religious man for a husband.”

Sylvia said no more. Her thoughts flew back to Boston, to an incident
which had caused her amusement at the time. She had told “Tubby” Bates
that she would go motoring with van Tuiver on a Sunday morning; and the
answer was that on Sunday mornings van Tuiver passed the
collection-plate in a Very High Church. Bates went on to explain—in his
irreverent fashion—that van Tuiver’s great-uncle had been of the opinion
that the only hope for a young man with so much money was to turn him
over to the Lord; so for his grand-nephew’s head-tutor he had engaged a
clergyman recommended by an English bishop. And now here was another
bishop recommending van Tuiver as an instrument for the converting of
his wayward niece!

Sylvia went away, and spent more time in doubting and fearing. But there
was a limit to the time she could take, because the man was practically
in her home, moving heaven and earth to get a chance to see her, to urge
his suit, to implore her for mercy, if for nothing more. And truly he
was a pitiable object; if a woman wanted a husband whom she could twist
round her finger, of whom she could be absolute mistress all her days,
here surely was the husband at hand! The voice of old Lady Dee called
out to her from the land of ghosts that her victory and her crown were
here.

The end came suddenly, being due to a far-off cause. There was a panic
in “Wall Street”; an event of which Sylvia heard vaguely, but without
paying heed, not dreaming that so remote an event could concern her. One
can consult the financial year-books, and learn how many business men
went into bankruptcy as a result of that panic, what properties had to
be sold as a result of it; but it has apparently not occurred to any
compiler of statistics to record the number of daughters—daughters of
poor men and daughters of rich men—who had to be sold as a result of it.

The Major came home one afternoon and shut himself in his study, and did
not come to dinner. Sylvia knew, by that subtle sixth sense whereby
things are known in families, that something serious had happened. But
she was not allowed to see her father that day or night; and when she
finally did see him, she was dumb with horror. He looked so yellow and
ill—his hands trembled as if palsied, and she knew by the cigar-stumps
scattered about the office, and the decanter of brandy on top of the
desk, that he had been up the entire night at his books.

He would not tell her what was the matter; he insisted, as usual, that
it was “nothing.” But evidently he had told his wife, for the poor
lady’s eyes were red with weeping. Later on in the day Sylvia, chancing
to answer the telephone, received a message from Uncle Mandeville in New
Orleans, to the effect that he was “short,” and powerless to help. Then
she took her mother aside and dragged the story from her. The local bank
was in trouble, and had called some of the Major’s loans. The blow had
almost killed him, and they were in terror as to what he might do to
himself.

Mrs. Castleman saw her daughter go white, and added, “Oh, if only you
were not under the spell of that dreadful man!”

“But what in the world has that to do with it?” demanded the girl.

“I curse the day that you met him!” wailed the other; and then, as
Sylvia repeated her question—“What else is it that keeps you from loving
a good man, and being a help to your father in this dreadful crisis?”

“Mamma!” exclaimed Sylvia. She had never expected to hear anything like
this from the gentle “Miss Margaret.” “Mamma, I couldn’t stop the
panic!”

“You could stop it so far as your father is concerned,” was the answer.

Sylvia said no more at this time. But later on, when Aunt Nannie came
over, she heard the remark that there were a few fortunate persons who
were not affected by panics; it had been the maxim of van Tuiver’s
ancestors to invest in nothing but New York City real estate, and to
live upon their incomes. It was possible to do this, even in New York,
declared Mrs. Chilton, if one’s income was several millions a year.

“Aunt Nannie,” said the girl, gravely, “if I promised to marry Mr. van
Tuiver, could I ask him to lend Papa money?”

Whereat the other laughed. “My dear niece, I assure you that to be the
father of the future Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver would be an asset in the
money market—an asset quite as good as a plantation.”


                                  § 19

Sylvia made up her mind that day; and as usual, she was both
clear-sighted and honest about it. She would not deceive herself, and
she would not deceive van Tuiver. She sent for the young millionaire,
and taking him into another room than the library, shut the door. “Mr.
van Tuiver,” she began, in a voice she tried hard to keep firm, “you
have been begging me to marry you. You must know that I have been trying
to make up my mind.”

“Yes, Miss Sylvia?” he said, eagerly.

“I loved Frank Shirley,” she continued. “Now I can never love again. But
I know I shall have to marry. My people would be unhappy if I didn’t—so
unhappy that I know I couldn’t bear it. You see, the person I really
love is my father.”

She hesitated again. “Yes, Miss Sylvia,” he repeated. She saw that his
hands were trembling, and that he was gazing at her with feverish
excitement.

“I would do anything to make my father happy,” she said. “And now—he’s
in trouble—money-trouble. Of course I know that if I married you, I
could help him. I’ve tried to bring myself to do it. To-day I said, ‘I
will!’ But then, there is your side to be thought of.”

“My side, Miss Sylvia?”

“I have to be honest with you. I can’t pretend to be what I am not, or
to feel what I don’t feel. If I were to marry you, I should try to do my
duty as a wife; I should do everything in my power, honestly and
sincerely. But I don’t love you, and I don’t see how I ever could love
you.”

“But—Miss Sylvia—” he exclaimed, hardly able to speak for his agitation.
“You mean that you would marry me?”

“I didn’t know if you would want to marry me—when I had told you that.”

He was leaning forward, clenching and unclenching his hands nervously.
“I wouldn’t mind—really!” he said.

“Even if you knew—” she began.

“Miss Sylvia,” he cried, “I love you! Don’t you understand how I love
you?”

“Yes, but—if I couldn’t—if I didn’t love you?”

“I would take what you could give me! I love you so much, nothing would
matter. I believe that you would come to love me! If you would only give
me a chance, Miss Sylvia—”

“But suppose!” she protested. “Suppose you found that I never did!
Suppose—”

But he was in no mood for troublesome suppositions. Any way would do, he
said. He began stammering out his happiness, he fell upon his knees
before her and caught her hand, and sought to kiss it. At first she made
a move to withdraw it; but then, with an inward effort, she let him have
it, and sat staring before her, a mantle of scarlet stealing over her
throat and cheeks and forehead.

His hands were hot and moist, and quite horrible to her. Once she looked
at him, and an image of him was stamped upon her mind indelibly. It was
an image quite different from his ordinary rigid and sober mask; it was
the face of the man who had always got everything he wanted. Sylvia did
not formulate to herself just what it was that frightened her so—except
for one phrase. She said it seemed to her that he licked his lips!

He could hardly believe that the long siege was ended, that the guerdon
of victory was his. She had to tell him several times that she would
marry him—that she was serious about it—that would give him her word and
would not take it back. And then she had to prove it to him. He was not
content to clasp her hand, but sought to embrace her; and when she found
that she could not stand it, she had to plead that it was not the
Southern custom. “You must give me a little time to get used to the
idea. I only made up my mind to-day.”

“But you will change your mind!” he exclaimed.

“No, no, I won’t do that. That would be wicked of me. I’ve decided what
is right, and I mean to do it. But you must be patient with me at the
beginning.”

“When will you marry me?” he asked—evidently none too confident in her
resolution.

“I don’t know. It ought to be soon. I must talk with my parents about
it.”

“And where will it be?”

“That’s something I meant to speak of. It can’t be here.” She hesitated.
“I must tell you the truth. There would be too much to remind me. I
couldn’t endure it. This may seem sentimental to you, but I’m quite
determined. But I’ll have a hard time persuading my people—for you see,
they’re proud, and they’ll say the world would expect you to marry me
here. You must stand by me in this.”

“Very well,” he said. “I will urge them to have the wedding in New
York.”

There was a pause, then Sylvia added: “Another thing, you must not
breathe a word to anyone of what I’ve told you—about the state of my
feelings—my reasons for deciding—”

He smiled. “I’d hardly boast about that!”

“No, but I mean you mustn’t tell your dearest friend—not Aunt Nannie,
not Mrs. Winthrop. You see, I have to make my people believe that I’m
quite sure of my own mind. If my father had any idea that I was thinking
of him, then he’d surely forbid it. If he ever found out afterwards,
he’d be wretched—and I’d have failed in what I tried to do.”

“I understand,” said van Tuiver, humbly.

“It’s not going to be easy for me,” she added. “I shall have to make
everybody think I’m happy. You must sympathize with me and help me—and
not mind if I seem unreasonable and full of whims.”

He said again that he understood, and would do his best. He took her
hand, very gently, and held it in his; he started to kiss it, but when
he saw that she had no pleasure in the ceremony he released it, parting
from her with a formal little speech of thanks. And such was the manner
of Sylvia’s second betrothal.


                                  § 20

The engagement was announced at once, the wedding to take place six
weeks later in New York. Just as Sylvia had anticipated, the family made
a great to-do over the place of the ceremony; but finding that both she
and van Tuiver were immovable, they cast about for some pretext to make
a New York wedding seem plausible to a suspicious world. They bethought
themselves of an almost forgotten relative of the family, a step-sister
of Lady Dee’s, who had lived in haughty poverty for half a century in
the metropolis, and was now discovered in a boarding-house in Harlem,
and transported to a suite of apartments in the Palace Hotel, to become
responsible for Sylvia’s desertion of Castleman County. She had nothing
to do but be the hostess of her “dear niece”—since Mrs. Harold Cliveden
had kindly offered to see to the practical details of the ceremonial.

The thrilling news of the betrothal spread, quite literally with the
speed of lightning; the next day all America read of the romance. Since
the story of van Tuiver’s infatuation, his treason to the “Gold Coast”
and his forsaking of college, has been the gossip of New York and Boston
clubs for months, there was a delightful story for the “yellows,” of
which they did not fail to make use. Of course there was nothing of that
kind in the Southern papers, but they had their own way of responding to
the general excitement, of gratifying the general curiosity.

Sylvia was really startled by the furore she had raised; she was as if
caught up and whirled away by a hurricane. Such floods of
congratulations as poured in! So many letters, from people whose names
she could barely remember! Was there a single person in the county who
had a right to call, who did not call to wish her joy? Even Celeste
wrote from Miss Abercrombie’s—a letter which brought the tears to her
sister’s eyes.

Through all these events Sylvia played her rôle; she played it day and
night—not even in the presence of her negro maid did she lay it aside!
The rôle of the blushing bride-to-be, the ten-times-over happy heroine
of a romance in high-life! She must be smiling, radiant with animation
decorously repressed; she must go about with the lucky bridegroom-to-be,
and receive the congratulations of those she knew, and be unaware—yet
not ungraciously unaware—of the interest and the stares of those she did
not know. More difficult yet, she had to look the Major in the eyes, and
say to him that she had come to realize that she was fond of “Mr. van
Tuiver,” and that she honestly believed she would be happy with him.
Since her mother and Aunt Varina were dear sentimental Southern ladies,
incapable of taking a cold-blooded look at a fact, she had to pretend
even to them that she was cradled in bliss.

At first van Tuiver was with her all the time, pouring out the torrents
of his happiness and gratitude. But Aunt Nannie soon came to the rescue
here; Sylvia must not have the inconveniences of matrimony until the
knot had actually been tied. Van Tuiver was ordered off to New York,
until Sylvia should come for the buying of her wedding trousseau.

The dear old Major had suspected nothing when his friend, the president
of the bank, had suddenly discovered that he could “carry” the
troublesome notes. So now he was completely free from care, and his
daughter had a week of bliss in his company. She read history to him,
and drove with him, and tended his flowers in the conservatory, and was
hardly apart from him an hour in the day.

Sylvia had set out some months ago at the task of democratizing van
Tuiver; even in becoming engaged she had kept some lingering hope of
accomplishing this. But alas, how quickly the idea vanished before the
reality of her situation! She remembered with a smile how glibly she had
advised the young millionaire to step away from his shadow; and how he
had labored to make plain to her that he could not help being a King.
Now suddenly she found that she could sympathize with him—she who was
about to be a Queen!

There were a thousand little ways in which she felt the difference. Even
the manner of her friends was changed. She could not go anywhere that
she was not conscious of people staring at her. It was found necessary
to appoint a negro to guard the grounds, because of the number of
strangers who came in the hope of getting a glimpse of her. Her mail
became suddenly a flood: letters from inventors who wished to make her
another fortune; letters from distressed women who implored her to save
them; letters from convicts languishing in prison for crimes of which
they were innocent; letters from poets with immortal, unrecognized
blank-verse dramas; letters from lonely farmers’ wives who thrilled over
her romance, and poured out their souls in ill-spelled blessings;
letters from prophets of the class-war who frightened her with warnings
of the wrath to come!

On the second day after the engagement was announced, Sylvia went out,
all unsuspecting, for a horseback-ride, and had hardly mounted when a
man with a black box stepped from behind a tree, and proceeded calmly to
snap-shot the fair equestrienne. Sylvia cried out in indignation, and
springing from the horse, rushed in to tell the Major what had happened;
whereupon the Major sallied out with a cane, and there was a
cross-country gallop after the intruder, ending in a violent collision
between the camera and the cane. The funniest part of the matter was
that the photographer spent the better part of a day trying to get a
warrant for his assailant—imagining that it was possible to arrest a
Castleman in Castleman County! By way of revenge he telegraphed the
story to New York, where it appeared, duly worked up—with the old
photograph of the “reigning beauty of the New South,” in place of the
one which had died in the camera!


                                  § 21

Sylvia came up to New York in due course; and by the time that she had
been there one day, she was able to understand the fondness of the great
for traveling “incog.” She was “snapped” when she descended from the
train—and this time there was no one to assault the photographer. Coming
out of her hotel with van Tuiver she found a battery of cameras waiting;
and being ungracious enough to put up her hand before her face, she
beheld her picture the next morning with the hand held up, and beside it
the “reigning beauty” picture—with the caption, “What is behind the
hand!”

Van Tuiver was of course known in all the places which were patronized
by the people of his sort; and Sylvia had but to be seen with him once
in order to be equally known. Thereafter when she passed through a
hotel-lobby, or into a tea-room, she would become aware of a sudden
hush, and would know that every eye was following her. Needless to say,
she could count upon the attention of all the “buttons” who caught sight
of her; she lived with a vague consciousness of swarms of blue-uniformed
gnomes with constantly-changing faces, who flitted about her, all but
falling over one another in their zeal, and making her least action,
such as sitting in a chair or passing through a doorway, into a
ceremonial observance.

The most curious thing of all was to go shopping; she simply dared not
order anything sent home. There would be the clerk, with pad and poised
pencil—“Name, please?” She would say, “Miss Sylvia Castleman,” and the
pencil would begin to write mechanically—and then stop, struck with a
sudden paralysis. She would see the fingers trembling, she would be
aware of a swift, wonder-stricken glance. Sometimes she would pretend to
be unconscious, and the business would go on—“Palace Hotel. To be
delivered this afternoon. Yes, certainly, Miss Castleman.” But sometimes
human feeling would break through all routine. A young soul, hungry for
life, for beauty—and confronting suddenly the greatest moment of its
whole existence, touching the hem of the star-sewn garment of Romance! A
young girl—possibly even a man—flushing scarlet, trembling, stammering,
“Oh—why—!” Once or twice Sylvia read in the face before her something so
pitiful that she was moved to put her hand upon that of her devotee; and
if you are learned in the lore of ancient times, you know what miracles
are wrought by the touch of Royalty!

What attitude was she to take to this new power of hers? It was
impossible to pretend to be unaware of it—she had too keen a sense of
humor. But was she to spend her whole life in shrinking, and feeling
shame for other people’s folly? Or should she learn somehow to accept
the homage as her due? She saw that the latter was what van Tuiver
expected. He had chosen her among millions because she was the one
supremely fitted to go through life at his side; and if she kept her
promise and tried to be a faithful wife to him, she would have to take
her rôle seriously, and learn to enjoy the performances.

Meantime, you ask, What of her soul? She was trying her best to forget
it—in excitements and distractions, in meeting new people, going to new
places, buying thousands of dollars worth of new costumes. She would
stay late at dances and supper-parties, trying to get weary enough to
sleep; but then she would have nightmares, and would waken moaning and
sobbing. Always her dream was one thing, in a thousand forms; she was
somewhere in captivity, and some person or creature was telling her that
she could not escape, that it was forever, forever, forever. Her room
had been made into a bower of roses, but she had to send them away,
because one horrible night when she got up and walked about, they made
her think of the gardens at home, and the pacing back and forth in her
nightgown, and the thorns and gravel in her feet.

As a child Sylvia had read a story of a circus-clown, who had played his
part when ill and almost dying, because of his wife and child at home.
Always thereafter a circus-clown had been to her the symbol of the irony
of human life. But now she knew another figure, equally tragic, equally
terrible to be—the heroine of a State romance. To be photographed and
written about, to see people staring at you, to have to smile and look
like one hearing celestial music—and all the while to have a breaking
heart!


                                  § 22

Sylvia fought long battles with herself. “Oh, I can’t do it!” she would
cry. “I can’t do it!” And then “You’ve promised to do it!” she would say
to herself. And every day she spent more money, and met more of van
Tuiver’s friends, and read more articles about her Romance.

Then one morning came a hall-boy with a card. She looked at it, and had
a painful start. “Tubby” Bates!

He came in, cheerful, jolly, reminding her of so many things—such happy
things! She had had a bad night, and now she simply could not talk; her
words choked her, and she sat staring at him, her eyes suddenly filling
with tears.

“Why, Miss Castleman!” he exclaimed—and saw such a look upon that lovely
face that his voice died away to a whisper—“You aren’t happy!”

Still for a while she could not answer. He asked her what was the
matter; and then, again, in greater distress, “Why did you do it?” She
responded, in a faint voice, “I did it on my father’s account.”

There was a long silence. Then with sudden energy she began, “Mr. Bates,
there is something I want to talk to you about. It’s something
difficult—almost impossible for me to speak of. And yet—I seem to get
more and more desperate about it. I can never be happy in my life until
I’ve talked to some one about it.”

“What is it, Miss Castleman?”

“It’s about Frank Shirley.”

“Oh!” he said, in surprise.

“You know that I was engaged to him, Mr. Bates?”

“Yes, I was told that.”

“And you can guess, perhaps, how I have suffered. I know only what the
newspapers printed—nothing more. And now—you are a man, and you were at
Harvard—you must know. Is it true that Frank—that he did something that
would make it wrong for me ever to see him again?”

The blood had pressed into Sylvia’s face, but still she did not lower
her eyes. She was gazing intensely at her friend. She must know the
truth! The whole truth!

He considered, and then said, gravely, “No, Miss Castleman, I don’t
think he did that.”

There was a pause. “But—it was a place——” she could go no further.

“I know,” he said. “But you see, Shirley had a room-mate—Jack Colton.
And he was always trying to help him—to keep him out of trouble and get
him home sober——”

“Oh, then _that_ was it!” The words came in a tone that frightened Bates
by their burden of anguish.

“Yes, Miss Castleman,” he said. “And as to the row—Shirley saw a woman
mistreated, and he interfered, and knocked a man down. I know the man,
and he’s the sort one has to knock down. The only trouble was that he
hit his head as he fell.”

“I see!” whispered Sylvia.

“But even so, there wouldn’t have been any publicity, except that some
of the ‘Auburn Street crowd’ were there. They saw their chance to put
the candidate of the ‘Yard’ out of the running; and they did it. It was
a rotten shame, because everybody knew that Frank Shirley was not that
kind of man——”

Bates stopped again. He could not bear the look he saw on Sylvia’s face.
She bowed her head in her arms, and silent sobbing shook her. Then she
got up and began to pace back and forth distractedly. He knew very well
what was going on in her thoughts.

Suddenly she turned upon him. “Mr. Bates,” she exclaimed, “you must help
me! You must stay here and help me!”

“Certainly, Miss Castleman. What can I do?”

“In the first place, you must not breathe a word of this to anyone. You
understand?”

“Of course.”

“Have you any idea where Frank Shirley is?”

“I heard that he had gone out to Wyoming with Jack Colton.”

“Then you must telegraph to Mr. Colton; and also you must telegraph to
Frank Shirley’s home. You must say that Frank is to come to you in New
York at once. He mustn’t lose an hour, you understand; my father will be
here next week. Then, too, Frank will have heard of my engagement, and
you can’t tell what he might do.”

Bates stared at her. “Do you know what you are doing, Miss Castleman?”
he asked.

“I do,” she answered.

“Very well, then,” he said, “I will do what you ask.”

“Go, do it now,” she cried, and he went—carrying with him for the rest
of his life the memory of her face of agony. He sent the telegrams, and
in due course received replies—which he did not dare to bring to Sylvia
himself, but sent by messenger. The first, from Frank’s home, was to the
effect that his whereabouts were unknown; and the second, from Jack
Colton, was to the effect that Frank had gone away a couple of weeks
before, saying that he would never return.


                                  § 23

Sylvia wrestled this problem out with her own soul. The only person who
ever knew about it was Aunt Varina, and she knew only because she
happened to awaken in the small hours of the morning and hear signs of a
fit of hysteria which the girl was trying to repress. She went into
Sylvia’s room and found her huddled upon the bed; when she asked what
was the matter, the other sobbed without lifting her face—“Oh, I can’t
marry him! I can’t marry him!”

Mrs. Tuis stared at her in consternation. “Why, Sylvia!” she gasped.

“Oh, Aunt Varina,” moaned Sylvia, “I’m so unhappy! It’s so horrible!”

“But, my child! You are out of your senses! What has happened?”

“I’ve come to realize the mistake I’ve made! I’d rather die than do it!”

Poor Aunt Varina was dumb with dismay. Sylvia had played her part so
well that no one had had a suspicion. Now, between her bursts of
weeping, she stammered out what she had learned. Frank was innocent. He
had gone away forever—perhaps he had killed himself. At any rate, his
life was ruined, and Sylvia had done it.

“But, my child,” protested the other, “you couldn’t help it. How could
you know?”

“I should have found out! I should have trusted Frank; I should have
known that he could not do what they accused him of. I have been
faithless to him—faithless to our love. And now what will become of
him?”

Aunt Varina sat gazing at her, tears of sympathy running down her
cheeks. “Sylvia,” she whispered, “what will you do?”

“Oh, I love Frank Shirley!” moaned the girl. “I never loved anybody
else—I never will love anybody else! And I know—what I didn’t know at
first—that it’s wicked, wicked to marry without love!”

“But what will you do?” repeated the other, who was dazed with horror.

For a long time there was no sound but Sylvia’s weeping. “Sylvia dear,”
began Aunt Varina, at last, “you must control yourself. You must not let
these thoughts get possession of you. You will destroy yourself if you
do.”

“I can’t marry him!” sobbed the girl.

“I can’t let you go on talking that way!” exclaimed the other, wildly.
“Do you realize what you are saying? Look at me, child, look at me!”

Sylvia looked at her, wondering a little—for never had she seen such
vehemence exhibited by this gentle and submissive “poor relation.”
“Listen!” Mrs. Tuis rushed on. “How can you know that what you have
heard is true? You say that Frank was innocent—but your Cousin Harley
investigated, and he declared he was guilty. Mrs. Winthrop told you the
same—she said everybody knew. And yet you take the word of one man! And
you told me at Harvard that Mr. Bates was distressed at the idea of your
marrying Mr. van Tuiver. You told me he warned you against him! Isn’t
that so, Sylvia?”

“Yes, Aunt Varina, but—”

“He does not like Mr. van Tuiver, and he comes here at a time like this,
and puts such ideas into your thoughts. Don’t you see that was not an
honorable thing to do—when you were on the verge of being married and
couldn’t get out of it! When you know that your father would be utterly
ruined—that your whole family would be wrecked by it!”

“Surely it can’t be so bad, Aunt Varina!”

“Think how your father has gone into debt on your account! All the
clothes you have bought—the bills at this hotel—the expenses of the
wedding! Thousands and thousands of dollars!”

“Oh, I didn’t want all that!” wailed Sylvia.

“But you did! You insisted on coming here to New York, where a wedding
would cost several times as much as at home! You have come out before
all the world as Mr. van Tuiver’s fiancée—and think of the scandal and
the disgrace, if you were to break it off! And poor Mr. van Tuiver—what
a figure he’d cut! And when he loves you so!”

Sylvia’s sobbing had ceased during this outburst. When she spoke again,
her voice was hard. “He does not love me,” she said.

“Why, what in the world do you mean by that?”

“I mean just what I say. He doesn’t love me—not as Frank loves me. He
isn’t capable of it.”

“But then—why—for what other reason should he be marrying you?”

“I’m beautiful, and he wants me. But it’s mainly because I offended his
vanity—yes, just that! I turned him down, I ridiculed him and insulted
him. I was something he couldn’t get; and the more he couldn’t get me,
the more the thought of me rankled in his mind.”

“Sylvia! How _can_ you be so cynical!”

“I’m not cynical at all. I just won’t gild things over, as other women
do. I won’t make pretences, I won’t cover myself and my whole life with
a cloak of shams. I know right now that I’m being sold, just as much as
if I were led out to an auction-block with chains about my ankles! I’m
being sold to a man—and I was meant to be sold to a man from the very
beginning of my life!”

There was a silence; for Aunt Varina was paralyzed by these amazing
words. She had never heard such an utterance in her life before.
“Sylvia!” she cried. “What do you mean? _Who_ is driving you?”

“I don’t know! But something is!”

“How can you say it? Can you imagine that your good, kind parents—”

“Oh, no!” interrupted Sylvia, passionately. “At least—they don’t know
it!”

Mrs. Tuis sat dumfounded. “Sylvia,” she quavered, at last, “let me
implore you to get yourself together before your father arrives in New
York. If he should hear what you have said to me to-night, he would
never get over it—truly, it would kill him!”


                                  § 24

An event to which Sylvia looked forward with considerable interest was a
meeting with Mrs. Beauregard Dabney, who was coming to New York for a
visit. Harriet, as her letters showed, was not unappreciative of the
glory which had descended upon her friend, and would enjoy having some
of it reflected upon herself. Thus Sylvia might be shown what emotions
she ought to be feeling; possibly she might even be made to feel some of
them. At any rate, she knew that Harriet would help to keep her courage
screwed up.

But Sylvia’s pleasure in the visit was marred by a peculiar
circumstance, which she had failed to prepare for, in spite of warnings
duly given. “You must not be surprised when you see me,” Harriet wrote.
“I have been ill, and I’m terribly changed.” Her reason for coming
North, it appeared, was to consult specialists about a mysterious
ailment which had baffled the doctors at home.

Sylvia was quite horrified when she saw her friend. Never could she have
imagined such a change in anyone in six months’ time. Harriet lifted her
veil, and there was an old woman with wrinkled, yellow skin. “Why,
Harriet!” gasped Sylvia, unable to control herself.

“I know, Sunny,” said the other. “Isn’t it dreadful?”

“But for heaven’s sake, what is the matter?”

“That’s what I’ve come to find out. Nobody knows.”

“Why, I never heard of such a thing!” Sylvia exclaimed. “What are you
doing?”

“I’m having all sorts of things done. The doctors give me medicine, but
nothing seems to do any good. I’m really in despair about myself.”

“How did it begin, Harriet?”

“I don’t really know. There were so many things, and I didn’t put them
together. I began having headaches a great deal; and then pains that the
doctors called neuralgia. I had a bad sore throat over in Europe; I
thought the climate disagreed with me, but I’ve had it again at home.
And now eruptions break out; the doctors treat them with things, and
they go away, but then they come back. All my hair is falling out, and
I’ve got to wear a wig.”

“Why, how perfectly horrible!” cried Sylvia.

She started to embrace her friend, but was repelled. “I mustn’t kiss
anyone,” said Harriet. “You see, it might be contagious—one can’t be
sure.”

“But what are you going to do, Harriet?”

“I’ve almost given up hoping. I haven’t really cared so much, since the
doctors told me I can never have another baby. You know, Sunny, it’s
curious—I never cared about children, I thought they were nuisances. But
when mine came, I cared—oh, so horribly! I wanted to have a real one.”

“A real one?” echoed Sylvia.

“Yes. I didn’t write you about it, and perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you
just at this time. But you know, Sunny, he didn’t seem like a human
being at all; he was a little gray mummy.”

“Harriet!”

“Just like that—a regular skeleton, his skin all loose, so that you
could lift it up in folds. He was a kind of earthy color, and had no
hair, and no finger nails——”

Sylvia broke out with a cry of horror, and her friend stopped. “I
haven’t talked to anyone about it,” she said—“I guess I oughtn’t to,
even to you.”

“How long did he live?”

“About six weeks. Nobody knew what he died of—he just seemed to fade
away. You can’t imagine it, perhaps—but, Sunny, I wanted him to
stay—even him! He was all I could ever have, and it seemed so cruel!”
Suddenly the girl hid her face in her hands and began to sob—the first
time that Sylvia had ever seen her do it in all her life.

So it was not the cheering visit that Sylvia had anticipated. It left
her with much to think about, and to talk about with other people. Later
on, speaking to Aunt Varina, she happened to mention something that van
Tuiver had said about the matter; whereupon her aunt exclaimed, “You
didn’t talk about it with Mr. van Tuiver!”

“But why not, Auntie?”

“You mustn’t do that, dear! You can’t tell.”

“Can’t tell what?”

“I mean, dear, that Harriet might have some disease that you oughtn’t to
talk to Mr. van Tuiver about.” Aunt Varina hesitated, then added, in a
whisper, “Some ‘bad disease’.”

Whereat Sylvia started in sudden dismay. So _that_ was it! A “bad
disease”!

You must understand how it happened that Sylvia had ideas on this
subject. There was a foreign writer of plays, whose name she had heard.
She had never seen his books, and would not have opened one, upon peril
of her soul; but once, in a magazine picked up in a train, she had read
a casual reference to an Ibsen play, which dealt with a nameless and
dreadful malady. From the context it was made clear that this malady was
a price men paid for evil living—and a price which was often collected
from their innocent wives and children. Now and then the women of
Sylvia’s family spoke in awe-stricken whispers of this mysterious taint,
using the phrase “a bad disease.” Now, apparently, she was beholding the
horror before her eyes!


                                  § 25

The problem occupied Sylvia’s mind for several days, to the exclusion of
everything else. It lent a new dread to the thought of marriage. How
could a woman be safe from such a thing? Beauregard Dabney was not the
most perfect specimen of manhood that one could have selected, but there
was nothing especial the matter with him that could be observed. Yet see
what had happened to his wife and child!

Harriet came again, and this time her husband was with her. He was just
as much in love with her as ever—in fact, Sylvia thought that she noted
a new and pathetic clinging on his part. They had been to see a great
specialist, and still there was nothing definite to be learned about the
malady; the doctor, hearing that the couple had journeyed up the Nile,
suggested that possibly it might be an African fever, and promised to
look up the mysterious symptoms in his books. Wasn’t it extraordinary,
exclaimed Harriet; but Sylvia, who could not be deceived for very long,
noticed that Beauregard was not so much excited about the African theory
as his wife. Suddenly the thought came to her, Could it be that the
doctors really knew what the disease was, and would not tell Harriet?
Could it be that Beauregard knew, and was helping in the deception?
Then—horror of horrors—could it be that he had known all along, and had
upon his conscience the crime of having brought the woman he loved into
this state?

Sylvia’s relentless mind, once having got hold of this problem, clung to
it like a bull-dog to the throat of an enemy. Of course such a disease
was a loathsome thing; a woman could not very well ask questions about
it—yet, what was she to do? Apparently she was dependent upon the man’s
honor; and could it be that a man’s notion of honor permitted him, when
he was desperately in love, to take such chances with a woman’s life?
Sylvia remembered suddenly that Beauregard had made love to _her_. More
than once she had actually permitted him to hold and fondle her hand.
The mere thought made her shrink with horror.

And then came another idea. (How quickly she was putting things
together!) Men got this disease by evil living. Then Beauregard must
have done the sort of thing that Frank Shirley had been accused of
doing! Also Jack Colton had done the same! Also—had not Bates said that
there were some of the “Auburn Street crowd” in that place? Club-men,
gentlemen, the aristocracy of Harvard! There came back to her the phrase
from Harley’s letter: “one of the two or three high-class houses of
prostitution which are especially frequented by college men!” How much
Sylvia knew about this forbidden subject, when she came to put her mind
to it! More, apparently, than her own parents—for had they not shown
themselves willing for her to fall in love with Beauregard Dabney? More,
also, than Mrs. Winthrop—for had not that lady implied that it was only
low and obscure men who permitted themselves such baseness?

As you may believe, it was not long before Sylvia’s thoughts came to her
own intended husband. What had been _his_ life? What might be the
chances of her being brought to such a fate as Harriet’s? Apparently
nobody had any thought about it. They had been quick to avail themselves
of the appearance of evil on the part of Frank Shirley; but what had
they done to make sure that van Tuiver had been any better?

For three days Sylvia debated this problem; and then her mind was made
up—she would do something about it. She would talk to someone. But to
whom?

She began with her faithful chaperone, mentioning the African fever
theory, and so bringing up the subject of “bad diseases.” Just how much
did Aunt Varina know about these diseases? Not very much, it appeared.
Was there any way to find out about them? There was no way that Aunt
Varina could conceive—it was not a subject concerning which a young girl
ought to inquire.

“But,” protested Sylvia, “a girl has to marry. And think of taking such
chances! Suppose, for instance, that Mr. van Tuiver—”

“Ssh!” Aunt Varina almost leaped at her niece in her access of horror.
“Sylvia! how can you suggest such a thing?”

“But, Auntie, how can I be sure?”

“You surely know that the man to whom you have given your heart is a
gentleman!”

“Yes, Auntie, but then I knew that Beauregard Dabney was a gentleman—and
so did you. And see what has happened!”

“But, Sylvia dear! You don’t know that it’s _that_!”

“I very nearly know it. And if Beauregard was willing to marry when he—”

“But _he_ may not have known it, Sylvia!”

“Well, don’t you see, Aunt Varina? That makes it all the more serious!
If Mr. van Tuiver himself can be ignorant, how can I feel safe?”

“But, Sylvia, what could you do?”

“Why, I should think he ought to go to some one who knows—a doctor—and
make sure.”

The poor old lady was almost speechless with horror. What was the world
coming to? “How can you say such a thing?” she exclaimed. “You, a pure
girl! Who could suggest such a thing to Mr. van Tuiver?”

“Couldn’t Papa do it?”

“And pray, who is to suggest it to your father? Surely _you_ couldn’t!”

“Why no,” said Sylvia, “perhaps not. But couldn’t Mamma?”

“Your mother would _die_ first!” And Sylvia, remembering her “talk” with
“Miss Margaret,” had to admit that this was probably true.

But still she could not give up her idea that something ought to be
done. She took a couple of days more to think, and then made up her mind
to write to her Uncle Basil. The family had sent him to talk with her
about Frank’s misconduct, thus apparently indicating him as her proper
adviser in delicate matters.

So she wrote, at some length—using most carefully veiled language, and
tearing up many pages which contained words she could not endure seeing
on paper. But she made her meaning clear—that she thought someone should
approach her future husband on the subject.

Sylvia waited the necessary period for the Bishop’s reply, and read it
with trembling fingers and flaming cheeks—although its language was even
more carefully veiled than her own. The substance of it was that van
Tuiver was a Christian gentleman, and this must be Sylvia’s guarantee
that he would not bring any harm to the woman he so deeply revered.
Surely, if Sylvia respected him enough to marry him, she could trust him
in a matter like this! To approach him upon it would be to offer him a
deadly insult.

Whereupon Sylvia took several days more to worry and wonder. She was not
satisfied at all, and finally summoned her courage and wrote to the
Bishop again. It was not merely a question of honor; if that were true,
she would have to say that Beauregard Dabney was a scoundrel and she did
not believe that. Might it not possibly be _knowledge_ that was lacking?
She begged her uncle to do her the favor of his life by writing to van
Tuiver; and she intimated further that if he would not do it, she would
have to put the matter before her father.

So there was another wait, and then came a letter from the Bishop,
saying that he was writing as requested. Then, after a third wait, a
letter with van Tuiver’s reply. He had taken the inquiry very
magnanimously; he could understand, he said, how Sylvia had been upset
by the sight of her friend’s illness. As to her own case, she might rest
assured that there could be no such possibility. And so at last Sylvia’s
fears were allayed, and she was free to be unhappy about other matters.


                                  § 26

You must not imagine that Sylvia was spending these days in moping; all
her thinking had to be done in the odd moments of a strenuous career.
Day and night she had to meet new people, and new people were always an
irresistible stimulus to her curiosity. Not all of them were hall-boys
and shop-clerks, falling instant victims to her charms; on the contrary,
they were Knickerbocker “society”—people not infrequently as wealthy as
her future husband, and having an equally great notion of their own
importance. The tidings that Douglas van Tuiver had picked up a country
girl had not thrilled them with sympathetic emotions. The details of the
newspaper romance inspired them only with contempt. There had to be many
a flash of Sylvia’s rapier-wit, and many a flash of Sylvia’s red-brown
eyes, before these patrician plutocrats had been brought to acknowledge
her an equal.

A few of these acquaintances were kindly people, whom she could imagine
making into friends, if only there had been time. But she wondered how
anybody ever found time for friendship in this restless and expensive
and highly ornamental life. Such a whirl of dinner-parties and
supper-parties, dances and luncheons and teas! Such august and imposing
splendor, such dignified and even sombre dissipation! The Major had
provided abundant credit for this last splurge; and van Tuiver’s aunt
was also on hand, conspiring with her nephew to smother Sylvia under
loads of gifts. The girl wondered sometimes, was it that van Tuiver had
suspicions of her wavering, and sought to bind her by forcing these
luxuries upon her? Or would she be expected always to live this kind of
Arabian Nights’ existence?

There came old friends, to bask in the sunlight of her success. Miss
Abercrombie came, effulgent with delight, assured of a lifetime’s
prosperity by this demonstration of her system. With her came Celeste,
playing her difficult part with bitter pride. Harley Chilton ran down
from Boston, bringing the tidings that he had made the “Dickey” and saw
his way clear to the top of the Harvard pyramid. Last of all, two or
three days before the wedding came “Queen Isabella,” distributing her
largess of blessings to all concerned.

First she met “Miss Margaret” and the Major, and addressed them with
such mystical eloquence that the agitated pair had not a dry eye between
them. After which she sought the prospective bride and bridegroom; and
not even the most reverend millionaire bishop who was to perform the
ceremony could have been more pontifical and impressive than our great
lady in this solemn hour. We live in a cynical world, which affords but
poor soil for the nurture of the finer flowers of the spirit. But Mrs.
Winthrop was one really capable of experiencing the more exalted
emotions, and of giving them ungrudging utterance. She was thrilled now
by the vistas which she saw unfolding; not since the day of her espousal
of the celebrated railroad-builder had the wings of the seraphim rustled
so loudly about her head. She might have been compared to a creative
artist who labors for long in solitude, and who at last, when he reveals
his masterpiece, is startled by the clamor of the world’s applause.

“Sylvia,” she said, and put both her hands upon the girl’s—“Sylvia, you
have before you a great career, a career of service. You will be happy—I
know you must be happy, dear, when once you have come to realize what an
inspiration you are to others. Such fortune as yours falls but rarely to
a woman, but you will be worthy of it—I believe you will be worthy of
everything that has come to you.”

“I hope so, Mrs. Winthrop,” answered Sylvia, humbly.

And then, as van Tuiver discreetly moved away, the other went on, in a
low and deeply-moved voice: “Don’t imagine, dear girl, that I fail to
realize all your doubts and perplexities. I know just how you feel, for
I had to go through with it myself. Every woman does—but believe me,
such tremors are as nothing compared to all the rest of one’s life. We
learn to subordinate our personal feelings, our personal preferences.
That is one of the duties of those who have greatness as their lot—who
have to live what one might call public lives.”

Now, Sylvia might have her doubts as to the soundness of this doctrine,
but she had none as to the genuineness of the speaker’s feelings; so she
was a trifle shocked when Mrs. Winthrop went away, and she discovered
that her future husband was laughing.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, “it’s all right—only when you are Mrs. Douglas van
Tuiver, you will receive Isabella’s ecstasies with a trifle more
reserve. You will realize that she has her own axes to grind.”

“Axes—what do you mean?”

“Social axes. You’ll understand my world bye-and-bye, Sylvia. Isabella’s
trying to make an impression beyond her income, and she’s seeking
alliances. What you must remember is that the need is on her side.”

There was a pause, while Sylvia sat thinking. “Tell me,” she said, at
last, “why did Mrs. Winthrop change so suddenly, and begin urging me to
marry you?”

“It’s the same thing,” he answered. “She couldn’t afford to displease
me. When she found that I was determined to have my way, she tried to
make it seem her work. Naturally, she’d want as much of the prestige of
this wedding as she could get.”

Again Sylvia pondered. “Hasn’t Mrs. Winthrop’s husband enough money?”
she asked.

“He has enough, but he won’t spend it. The tragedy of Isabella’s life is
that her husband is really interested in railroads.”

“But I thought he adored her!” Sylvia remembered a pathetic stout
gentleman she had seen wandering about on the outskirts of a throng of
the great lady’s admirers.

“Oh, yes,” replied van Tuiver, with laughter. “I never saw a woman who
had a man more completely bluffed. But the trouble is that he offers
himself, and what she wants is his money.”

There followed a long silence. Van Tuiver had pleasant things to
meditate upon; but suddenly he chanced to look at Sylvia, and exclaimed,
“Why, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said, and turned away her head to conceal the tears she
had failed to repress.

“But what is it?” he demanded, not without a touch of annoyance.

“There’s no use talking about it,” was Sylvia’s reply. “It’s just that
you promised you would try not to think so much about money. Sometimes I
can’t help being frightened, when I realize that you don’t ever believe
in people—but only in money.”

She saw the old worried look come back to his face. “You know that I
believe in _you_!” he exclaimed.

“You told me,” she answered, “that the only way I was able to make an
impression upon you was by refusing to marry you. And now I have given
up that prestige—so aren’t you afraid that you may come to feel about me
as you do about Mrs. Winthrop?”


                                  § 27

Major and Mrs. Castleman arrived next morning, and after that there were
busy times for Sylvia. There was the wedding-gown to be shown, and the
trousseau and the presents; there were plans for the future to be told
of, and many blessings to be received. “Miss Margaret” was in a “state”
most of the time—tears of joy and tears of sorrow pursuing each other
down her generous cheeks. “Sylvia,” she exclaimed, in one breath, “I
_know_ you will be happy!” And then, in the next breath, “Sylvia, I
_hope_ you will be happy!” And then, in a third breath, “Sylvia, how
will we ever get on without you? Who will dare to spank the baby?”

It was with her father that she had the really trying ordeal; her father
took her into a room alone, and held her hands in his and tried to read
her soul. “Tell me, my child, are you going to be happy?”

“I think so, Papa,” she answered; and had to make herself look into his
eyes.

“I want you to understand me, dear Sylvia—even now, at this last hour,
don’t take the step unless you believe with your best judgment that you
will be happy.”

There was a moment of madness, when she had the impulse to fling herself
into his arms and cry, “I love Frank Shirley!” But instead of that she
hurried on, “I believe he loves me deeply, Papa.”

Said the Major, in a trembling voice, “There is no more solemn moment in
a father’s life than when he sees his dearly loved daughter taking this
irrevocable step. I want you to know, my darling, that I have prayed
earnestly, I have done my best to judge what is right for you.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, “I know that.”

“I want you to know that if ever I have seemed to be stern, it has been
because I believed my daughter’s welfare required it.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, again.

“I am sure, this man loves you, Sylvia; and I believe he’s a good man—he
ought to make you happy. But I want you to know that if by any chance my
prayers are denied—if you find that you are not happy—then your father’s
home will always be open to you, his arms will always be stretched wide
to clasp you.”

“Dear old Daddy!” whispered the girl. She felt the arms about her now,
and she began to sob softly, with a mixture of emotions. Oh, if only she
might stay for the balance of her life in the shelter of those arms,
that were so strong and so dependable! If only there were not the
dreadful thing called marriage—which drove her out into another pair of
arms, from which she shrunk with such unconquerable aversion!

This was the heart of her difficulty—her inability to conquer her
physical shrinking from the man to whom she was betrothed. Here she was,
upon the very eve of her wedding, and she had made no progress whatever.
Mentally and spiritually she had probed him, and felt that she knew him
intimately; but physically he was still an utter stranger to her—as much
so as any man she might have met upon the street. She would sit talking
with him, trying to forget herself and her fears for a while; and
gradually she would be conscious of his gaze upon her, his eyes
traveling over her form, devouring her in thought, longing for her. Then
she would go almost beside herself—she would have to spring up and break
the chain of his thoughts. It seemed to her that she was like the prey
of some wild beast—or a beast that was just tame enough to wait
patiently, knowing that at a certain time the prey would be in its
grasp.

On the evening before the wedding van Tuiver was to attend a
“stag-dinner” with his friends; but he called in to see her for a few
minutes, and the family discreetly left them alone. In a sudden access
of longing, he clasped her in his arms, and she forced herself to
submit. Then he began to kiss her, to press passionate kisses upon her
cheek and throat. His breath was hot, and utterly horrible to her; she
could not endure it, and cried out to him to stop, and struggled and
pushed him away. Still holding her, and gazing at her with desire
blazing in his eyes, he whispered, “Not yet?”

“Oh, how could you?” she cried.

“Is it not time you were beginning to learn?” he demanded; and then,
wholly beside himself, “Sylvia, how much longer am I to endure this?
Can’t you understand what you make me suffer? I love you—I love you to
distraction, and I get nothing from you—nothing! I dare not even tell
you that I love you!”

The passion in his voice made her shudder; and yet, too, she pitied him.
She was ashamed of herself for the way she treated him. “What can I do?”
she cried. “I can’t help it—as God is my witness, I can’t control my
feelings. I ask myself, ought I to marry you so?”

“It seems to me it’s rather late to bring up that question,” he
responded.

“I know, I know! I have nothing to say for myself—except that I didn’t
know, I couldn’t realize. It’s something I must tell you—how I have come
to feel—that I ought not to marry you, that you ought not to want me to
marry you, while things are like this. You must know this, so that if I
marry you, the responsibility will be yours!”

“And you think that is fair of you?” he demanded, his voice grown
suddenly hard.

He meant to rebuke her, and she felt that he had a right to rebuke her;
but the wave of emotion which swept her along was not to be controlled
by her reason. “Oh, you are going to be angry about it!” she cried. “How
horrible of you!”

He exclaimed, “Sylvia! Can you expect me not to be hurt?”

“I told you that I couldn’t help it! I told you in the very beginning
that you would have to take me as I was, and be satisfied if I did my
best! I told you that again and again—that I loved another man, that I
love him still—”

She stopped. A spasm of pain crossed his face—followed by a look of
fear. He hesitated, and then, his voice low and trembling, he began,
“Sylvia, forgive me. I know that you are right—that you are trying to do
your best. I will be patient. You must be patient with me also.”

She stood, her head bowed, ashamed of what she had said. Yet—she felt
that he ought to have heard it. “I hate to seem unfair,” she whispered,
her voice almost breaking. “I don’t want to give you pain, but I can’t
help these feelings, and I know it’s my duty to tell you of them. I
don’t see how you can go on—I should think you would be afraid to marry
me!”

For answer he caught her hands, exclaiming, “I will take my chances! I
love you, and I will never rest until you love me!”


                                  § 28

So far I have put together this story from the memories of Sylvia and
Frank Shirley. But now I have come to the point where you may watch the
events through my own eyes. I will take a paragraph or two to give you
an idea of the quality of these eyes, and then proceed without further
delay.

Mary Abbott, the teller of this tale, was at the age of forty a crude
farmer’s wife upon a lonely pioneer homestead in Manitoba. In winter in
that part of the world it begins to grow dark at three o’clock in the
afternoon, and it is not fully light until nine o’clock in the morning.
We were a mile from the nearest neighbor, and had often three feet of
snow upon the ground, with fifty degrees below zero and a sweeping wind.
I had a husband whom I feared and despised, and for whom I cooked and
washed and sewed, whether I was well or ill. Under these circumstances I
had raised three children to maturity. I had moved to town and seen them
through high-school; and now, the girl being married, and the two boys
in college, I found myself suddenly free to see the world.

You must not think of me as altogether ignorant. I had fought
desperately for books, and had grown up with my children. Discovering in
the town the perpetual miracle of a circulating library, I had read
wildly, acquiring a strange assortment of new ideas. But that, I am
ashamed to say, made very little difference when I reached the East. It
is one thing to read up in the theory of Socialism, and say that you
have freed yourself from _bourgeois_ ideals; it is quite another to come
from a raw pioneer community, and be suddenly hit between the eyes by
all the marvels of the great New Nineveh!

I forgot my principles; I wandered about, breathless with excitement.
Everything that I had ever read about, in Sunday supplements and cheap
magazines—here it was before my eyes! I got myself a hall-room in a
“Greenwich Village” boarding-house, and for days I went, thrusting my
inquisitive country face into everything that was cheap enough. The huge
shops with their amazing treasures of silks and jewels; the great hotels
with their gold and stucco splendors; the dizzy, tower-like
office-buildings; the newspaper offices with their whirling presses; the
theatres, the museums, the parks; the Brooklyn Bridge and the Statue of
Liberty, Grant’s Tomb and the Bowery—I was the very soul of that thing
which the New Yorker derisively calls the “rubber-neck wagon!” I took my
place in one of these moving grand-stands, and listened to all that came
out of the megaphone. Here was the home of the steel-king, which had
cost three millions of dollars! Here was the home where a fifty thousand
dollar chef was employed! Here was the old van Tuiver mansion, where the
millionaire-baby had been brought up! Here was the Palace Hotel, where
Miss Sylvia Castleman was staying!

It was the day before the wedding; and I, like all the rest of the city,
was thrilling over the Romance, knowing more about the preparations than
the bride herself. I had read all the papers—morning papers and
afternoon papers; I had read descriptions of the wedding-gown, the
trousseau, the rooms full of gift-treasures with detectives on guard. I
had stared at the outside of the church, and imagined the inside. Last
of all, I had wandered up to the Palace Hotel and peered about in the
lobby, amusing myself by imagining that each gorgeous female creature
who floated by and disappeared into a motor-car might possibly be the
Princess herself!

At the boarding-house we discussed the possibility of seeing the
wedding-cortege, and everybody said that I could not come within a block
of the church. “I’ll fight my way,” I declared; to which the reply was
that I would find out something about New York policemen that would cure
me of my fighting impulses. The result of the discussion was that I set
out immediately after breakfast, fired with the spirit of the
discoverers of Pike’s Peak.

I must get at least a glimpse, I told myself. What a tale to be able to
tell at the Women’s Club receptions at home! To say: “I saw her! She was
the loveliest thing! And oh, her dress! It was cream-white satin, with
four graduated flounces of exquisite point-lace!” Of course I could have
got all that from the newspapers; but I wanted to be able to say it
truly.

The wedding-hour was noon, but at nine there was already a respectable
crowd. I established myself upon the steps of a nearby house, with a
newspaper to sit on and a pair of borrowed opera-glasses in my hand-bag.
In the meantime I entertained myself talking with the other watchers,
who were a new type to me, well-dressed women, kept in luxury, whether
legal or otherwise, who fed their empty minds upon fashion sheets and
“society notes,” and had no idea in the world beyond the decking of
their persons and the playing of their little part in the great game of
Splurge. We talked about the van Tuiver family, its history and its
present status; we talked with awe about the bride; we talked about the
presents, the decorations, the costumes—there was so much to talk about!

Shortly after ten o’clock a calamity befell us—the police began to clear
the steps, driving the crowd far back from the church-entrance. What
agonies, what expostulations! How outrageous—when we had waited there an
hour already! Sometimes the steps were our own steps, sometimes they
were the steps of friends; but even that made no difference. “I’m sorry,
lady, the orders are to clear everything.” They were as gentle about it
as they could be, but that was none too gentle; we had the butt-ends of
clubs, pressing into our stomachs, and back we went, arguing, scolding,
threatening, sometimes weeping or fainting.

I was tremendously disappointed. To have to go back to the
boarding-house, and admit defeat to the milliner’s assistant who sat
next to me at meals! To hear “I told you so” from the “floor-walker” who
sat across the way! “I won’t do it!” I said to myself.

And then suddenly came my chance. Behind me there was a commotion, angry
protests—“Officer, let us through here! We have cards!” Cards—how our
souls thrilled as we heard the word! Here, right close to us, were some
of the chosen ones! Let us see them at least—a bit of Royalty at second
hand!

They pushed their way through—three women and two men. As they neared
me, I saw the engraved invitations in their hands, and it flashed over
me that in my hand-bag was a milliner’s advertisement of nearly the same
size and shape. I dived in, and fished it out with trembling fingers,
and fell in behind the party, and pushed through the crowd past the line
of police. There before me was the open space in front of the church!

I had acted on impulse, with no idea what to do next. I could scarcely
hope to get in to the wedding on a milliner’s card. But fortunately my
problem solved itself, for there were always the guests pushing into the
entrance, and everybody was perfectly willing to push ahead of me. All I
had to do was to “mark time,” and I was free to stay, inhaling delicious
perfumes and feasting my ears upon scraps of the conversation of the
_élite_. I foresaw that the banner of the great Northwest would wave
triumphantly in “Greenwich Village” that night!


                                  § 29

I will not stop to detail the separate thrills of this adventure.
Carriage after carriage, motor after motor drew up, and released new
revelations of grace and elegance. The time for the ceremony drew near,
and from the stir in the throng about me I knew that the guests from the
wedding-breakfast were passing. How I longed to talk to someone—to ask
who was this and that and the other one! Then I might have been able to
tell you how “Miss Margaret” wept, and how Aunt Varina trembled, and
what “Queen Isabella” was wearing! But the only persons I could be sure
of were the five lovely bridesmaids, and the bride, leaning upon the arm
of a stately old white-haired gentleman. How we craned our necks, and
what rapture transported us! We heard the thunder of the organ and the
orchestra within, and it corresponded to the state of our souls.

There was still quite a throng at either side of the entrance—newspaper
reporters, people who had come out of houses nearby, people who, like
myself, had got by the police-lines upon one pretext or another. Down
the street we could see a solid line of bluecoats, and behind them
people crowded upon steps, leaning out of windows, clinging to railings
and lamp-posts. We were in fear lest at any time we might be ordered to
join this throng, so we stayed silent and very decorous, careful not to
crowd or to make ourselves conspicuous.

You might have expected, perhaps, that when all the protagonists of the
drama had entered the church, the crowd would have dispersed; but not a
soul went. We stood, listening to the faint music, and imagining the
glories that were hid from our eyes. We pictured the procession up the
aisle, with the guests standing on the seats in order to get a glimpse
of it. We pictured the sacred ceremony. (There were some who had
prayer-books in their hands, the better to aid their imaginations.) We
pictured the bride, kneeling upon a white silk cushion embroidered with
gold, receiving the blessings of the millionaire bishop. We heard the
wild burst of chimes which told us that the two were made one, and our
pulses leaped with excitement.

All this took perhaps half an hour; and I think that about half that
time had passed when I first noticed Claire. I never knew how she got
there; but fate, or providence, or what you will, had set her next to
me, and that strange intuition which sometimes comes to me, and puts me
inside the soul of another person in less time than it takes for my eye
to look them over, gave me the warning of danger from her presence.

She was a tall and striking woman, beautifully gowned, with high color
and bold black eyes—a woman you would have noticed in any gathering. You
would have thought at once that she was a foreigner, but you might have
been puzzled as to her country, for she had none of the characteristic
French traits, and her English was quite perfect. I glanced at her once,
and thereafter I forgot everything else—the crowd, the ceremony, all.
What was the matter with this woman?

What first made me turn was a quick motion, as of a nervous spasm. Then
I saw that her hands were clenched tightly, and drawn up in front of her
as if she were struggling with someone. Her lips were moving, yet I
heard no sound; she was staring in front of her fixedly, but at nothing.

I must explain that it did not occur to me that she had been drinking.
My country imagination was not equal to that flight. To be sure, since
my arrival I had learned that the women of the New Nineveh did drink; I
had peered into the “orange room,” and the “palm room,” and several
other strange rooms, and had seen gorgeous peacock-creatures with little
glasses of highly-colored liquids before them. But I had not got so far
as to imagine any consequences; I had never thought of connecting the
high color in women’s cheeks, the sparkle in women’s eyes, the animation
of women’s chatter with the little glasses of highly-colored liquids.
They had so many other reasons for being animated, these fortunate,
victorious ones!

No, I only knew that this woman was excited; and I began forthwith to
imagine most desperate and romantic things. You must remember what I
said when I was first telling about Sylvia—that my ideas of the _grand
monde_ had been derived from cheap fiction in “Farm” and “Home” and
“Fireside” publications. You all know the old story of the beautiful
heroine who marries the dissolute duke; how the duke’s cast-off mistress
attends the wedding, and does something melodramatic and
thrilling—perhaps shoots at the duke, perhaps throws vitriol at the
bride, perhaps hands her a letter which is worse than vitriol to her
innocent young soul. I smile when I think how instantly I understood
this situation, and with what desperate seriousness I made ready to play
my part—watching the woman like a cat, ready to spring and seize her at
the first hostile move. And yet, after all, it was no joke, for Claire
was really quite capable of a murderous impulse when she was in her
present condition.

Other people had begun to notice her peculiar behavior; I saw one or two
women edging away from her, but I stayed all the closer. The time came
when we heard the music of the Mendelssohn March, and the excitement in
the crowd told us what was coming. Suddenly the doors of the church
swung open—and there, in her radiant loveliness—the bride!

Her veil was thrown back, but her eyes were cast down, and she clung to
the arm of her husband. Oh, what a vision she was, and what a thrill
went about! For myself, however, I scarcely saw her. My eyes were on the
strange woman.

She looked like a mad creature; quivering in every nerve, her fingers
twisting and untwisting themselves like writhing snakes. She had
crouched, as if ready to spring; and I had my hands within a foot of
hers, ready to stop her. The procession moved through the passage kept
clear by the police, and I literally held my breath while they
passed—held it until the bride had stepped into a limousine, and the
bridegroom had followed, and the door had slammed. Then suddenly the
strange woman drew herself up and turned upon me, her face glaring into
mine. I saw her wild eyes—and also I got a whiff of her breath. She
laughed, a hysterical, hateful laugh, and muttered: “She’ll pay for what
she gets!”

I whispered “Hush!” But the woman cried again, so that several people
heard her: “She’ll pay for everything she gets from him!” She added a
phrase in French, the meaning and import of which I learned to
understand long afterwards—“_Le cadeau de noce que la maitresse laisse
dans la corbeille de la jeune fille!_” Then suddenly I saw her sway, and
I caught her and steadied her, as I know how to steady people with my
big strong arms.

And that, reader, was the strange way of my coming into the life of
Sylvia Castleman!

------------------------------------------------------------------------




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------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 4. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.