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diff --git a/old/61984-0.txt b/old/61984-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 17bd095..0000000 --- a/old/61984-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11593 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sylvia, by Upton Sinclair - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: Sylvia - A Novel - -Author: Upton Sinclair - -Release Date: April 30, 2020 [EBook #61984] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYLVIA *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing, MWS, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - 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! - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - NEW BOOKS YOU OUGHT TO READ - - - * * * * * - - -=WRITTEN IN THE SAND.= By G. R. DUVAL - -This is a romance, perhaps it would be truer to say _THE_ romance, of -the Sahara. 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