“I know,” she said, “and I’m sorry. But there’s no help for it. Putting

off only makes it worse for you.”

“Don’t think about me,” he said. “I’ve no place to go, and nothing

better I can be doing. If you’ll let me stay, and try to be of some

service”—

“No,” she declared, “you can be of no service. I want to be alone, with

my father and the people I love; and it is only distressing to me to see

you.”

He rose, and stood looking at her, crestfallen. “That is all you have to

say to me, Miss Sylvia?”

“That is all. If you wish to show your regard for me, you will go away

and never think of me again.”

§ 15

Van Tuiver went away; but within a week he was back, writing Sylvia

notes to say that he must see her, that he only sought her friendship.

And then came Aunt Nannie, and there was a family conference—ending not

altogether to Sylvia’s advantage. Aunt Nannie took the same view as Mrs.

Winthrop, that one had no right to humiliate a man who carried such vast

responsibilities upon his shoulders. Sylvia recurred to her old phrase

“Royalty”—and was taken aback when her aunt wanted to know just what

were her objections to Royalty. Had she not often heard her Uncle

Mandeville say that there ought to be a king in America to counteract

the influence of Yankee demagogs? That rather took the wind out of

Sylvia’s sails; for she had a great respect for the political wisdom of

her uncles, and really could give no reason why a king might not be a

beneficent phenomenon. All she could reply was that she did not like

this particular king, and would not see him. When Aunt Nannie insisted

that van Tuiver had been a guest under her roof, and that Sylvia’s

action had been an unheard of discourtesy, the girl said that she was

willing to apologize, either to her aunt or to van Tuiver—but that

nothing could induce her to let him call again.

King Douglas went off to Newport, where the family of Dorothy Cortlandt

had its granite cottage; and so for two months Sylvia enjoyed peace. She

read to her father, and played cards with him, and took him driving,

exercising her social graces to keep him from drinking too many toddies.

I could wish there were space to recite some of the comical little

dramas that were played round the good Major’s efforts to cheat himself

and his daughter, and exceed the number of toddies which his physician

allowed to him!

Aunt Nannie being away at the coast, it was easier for the girl to avoid

social engagements, especially with the excuse that her father’s health

was poor, and his plantation duties engrossing. There had been an

overflow in the early spring, just at planting-time, and so there was no

cotton that year. Fences had been swept away, cattle drowned, and

negro-cabins borne off to parts unknown. The Major had three large

plantations, whose negroes must be kept over the year, just as if they

were working. Also there were small farms, rented to negro tenants who

had lost everything; they had to be taken care of—one must “hold on to

one’s niggers.” “Why don’t you let them raise corn?” van Tuiver had

inquired; to which the Major answered, “My negroes could no more raise

corn than they could raise ostriches.”

So there was much money to be borrowed, and money was “tight.” Everybody

wanted it from the local banks, and as this was the second bad year, the

local banks were in an ungenerous mood. Worse than that, there were

troubles vaguely rumored from “Wall Street.” What this meant to Sylvia

was that her father sat up at night and worried over his books, and

could not be got to talk of his affairs.

But what distressed her most was that there was no sign of any effort to

curtail the family’s expenditure. Aunt Varina and the children were at

the summer home in the mountains, and so there were two establishments

to be kept going. Also Celeste was giving house parties, and ordering

new things from New York, in spite of the fact that she had come home

from school with several trunkloads of splendor. The Major’s family all

signed his name to checks, and all these checks were like chickens which

came home to roost in the pigeon-holes in the office-desk.

In the fall the Major’s health weakened under the strain, and the doctor

insisted that he must go away at all hazards. Uncle Mandeville had taken

a place at one of the Gulf Coast resorts, and Sylvia and her father were

urged to come there—just in time for the yachting regatta, wrote the

host. They came; and about two weeks later a great ocean-going yacht

steamed majestically into the harbor, and the dismayed Sylvia read in

the next morning’s paper that Mr. Douglas van Tuiver, who had been

cruising in the Gulf with a party of friends, had come to attend the

races!

“I won’t see him!” she declared; and Uncle Mandeville, who was in

command here, backed her up, and offered to shoot the fellow if he

molested her. This, of course, was in fun, but Uncle Mandeville was

serious in his support of his niece, maintaining that the Castlemans

needed no Yankee princeling to buttress their fortunes.

She fully meant not to see him. But he had brought allies to make sure

of her. That afternoon an automobile drew up at the door, and Sylvia,

who was on the gallery, saw a lady descending, waving a hand to her. She

stared, dumb-founded. It was Mrs. Winthrop!

Mrs. Winthrop—clad in spotless white from hat to shoetips, looking

sunburned and picturesque, and surprisingly festive. No one was in sight

but Sylvia, and so she had a free field for her wizardry. She came

slowly up the gallery-steps, and took the outstretched hands in hers,

and gazed. How much she read in the pale, thin face—and what deeps of

feeling welled up in her!

“Oh, let me help you!” she murmured. And nothing more.

“Thank you!” said Sylvia at last.

“My dryad!” Quick tears of sympathy started in the great lady’s eyes,

and came running down her sunburned cheeks, and had to be brushed away

with a tiny Irish lace handkerchief.

“Believe me, Sylvia, I too have known grief!” she began, after a minute.

Sylvia was deeply touched; for what grief could be more fascinating than

that which lurked in the dream-laden eyes before her? She found herself

suddenly recalling an irreverent phrase of “Tubby” Bates’: “The

beautiful unhappy wife of a railroad-builder!”

They sat down. “Sylvia,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “you need diversion. Come

out on the yacht!”

“No,” she replied, “I don’t want to meet Mr. van Tuiver again.”

“I appreciate your motives,” said the other. “But you may surely trust

to my discretion, Sylvia. Mr. van Tuiver has recovered himself, and

there is no longer any need for you to avoid him.”

He was a much changed man, went on “Queen Isabella”; so chastened that

his best friends hardly knew him. He had become a most fascinating

figure, a sort of superior Werther; his melancholy became him. He had

been really admirable in his behavior, and Sylvia owed it to him to give

him a chance to show her that he could control himself, to show his

friends that she had not dismissed him with contempt. There was a

charming party on board the yacht; it included van Tuiver’s aunt, Mrs.

Harold Cliveden, of whom Sylvia had surely heard; also her niece, Miss

Vaillant, and Lord Howard Annersley, who was engaged to her. Sylvia had

probably not seen the accounts of this affair, but it was most romantic.

The girl pleaded that her father was ill and needed her. But he might

come too, said Mrs. Winthrop; the diversion would benefit him. So at

last Sylvia consented to go to lunch.

§ 16

Van Tuiver came to fetch them on the following day. He looked his new

rôle of a leisure-class Werther, and acted up to it quite touchingly. He

was perfect in his attitude toward his guests, carefully omitting all

reference to personal matters, and confining his conversation to the

yachting-trip and the party on board—especially to Lord Howard. Sylvia

said that she had never met a Lord before, and it would seem like a

fairy-story to her. The other was careful to explain that Lord Howard

was not a fortune-hunter, but a friend of his. So Sylvia furbished up

her weapons—but put most of them away when she got on board, and found

out what a very commonplace young man his lordship was.

It was necessary to extend a return invitation, so Uncle Mandeville took

the party automobiling along the coast, and spread a sumptuous

picnic-luncheon. Then the next day Sylvia let herself be inveigled on a

moonlight sailing-trip; and so it came about that she was cornered in

the bow of the boat, with van Tuiver at her side, declaring in trembling

accents that he had tried to forget her, that he could not live without

her, that if she did not give him some hope he would take his life.

She was intensely annoyed, and answered him in monosyllables, and took

refuge with Lord Howard, who showed signs of forgetting that he was

already in the midst of a romance. She vowed that she would accept no

more invitations, and that van Tuiver would never deceive her in that

way again. This last with angry emphasis to Mrs. Winthrop, who,

perceiving that something had gone wrong, took her aside as the party

was breaking up.

“Queen Isabella’s” lovely face showed intense distress. “Oh, these men!”

she cried. “Sylvia, what can we do with them?” And when Sylvia, taken

aback by this appeal, was silent, the other continued, pleadingly, “You

must be loyal to your sex, and help me! We all have to manage men!”

“But what do you want me to do?” asked the girl. “Marry him?”

She meant this for the extreme of sarcasm; and great was her surprise

when Mrs. Winthrop caught her hand and exclaimed, “My dear, I want you

to do just that!”

“But then—what becomes of my fineness of spirit?” cried Sylvia, with

still more withering sarcasm.

Said “Queen Isabella,” “The man loves you.”

“I know—but I don’t love him.”

“He loves you deeply, Sylvia. I think you will really have to marry

him.”

“In spite of the fact that I don’t love him in the least?”

The other smiled her gentlest smile. “I want you to let me come and talk

to you about these matters.”

“But, Mrs. Winthrop, I don’t want to be talked to about marrying Mr. van

Tuiver!”

“I want to explain things to you, Sylvia. You must grant me that

favor—please!” In the hurry of departure, Sylvia gave no reply, and the

other took silence for consent.

By what device van Tuiver could have reconciled Mrs. Winthrop, Sylvia

could not imagine; but when the great lady called, the next afternoon,

she was as ardent on the one side as she had formerly been on the other.

She painted glowing pictures of the splendors which awaited the future

Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver. The courts of Europe would be open to her, her

life would be one triumphal pageant. Also, taking a leaf out of “Tubby”

Bates’ note-book, “Queen Isabella” discoursed upon the good that Sylvia

would be able to do with her husband’s wealth.

This interview with Mrs. Winthrop was important for another reason; it

was the means of setting at rest what doubts were lurking in Sylvia’s

mind as to her treatment of Frank Shirley. The other evidently had the

matter in mind, for Sylvia needed only to allude to it, whereupon Mrs.

Winthrop proceeded, with the utmost tact and understanding, to give her

exactly the information she was craving. The dreadful story was surely

true—everybody at Harvard knew it. All that one heard in defense was

that it was a shame the story had been spread abroad; for there were

men, said Mrs. Winthrop, who did these shameful things in secret, and

had no remorse save when they were found out. Without saying it in plain

words, she caused Sylvia to have the impression that such evils were to

be found among men of low origin and ignominious destinies: a suggestion

which started in Sylvia a brand-new train of thought. Could it be that

_this_ was the basis of social discrimination—the secret reason why her

parents were so careful what men she met? It threw quite a new light

upon the question of college snobbery, if one pictured the club-men as

selected and set apart because of their chaste lives. It made quite a

difference in one’s attitude towards the “exclusiveness” of van

Tuiver—if one might think of him, as Mrs. Winthrop apparently did think

of him, as having been guarded from contamination, from the kind of

commonness to which Frank Shirley had permitted himself to stoop.

§ 17

Van Tuiver of course wrote letters of apology; but Sylvia would not

answer them nor see him. As the yacht still lingered in the harbor, she

became restless, and was glad when the Major decided to return home to

the rose-gardens and Alexander Stephens. Soon afterwards she learned

that the yachting-party had returned to New York; but in a couple of

weeks “King Douglas” was at Aunt Nannie’s again, annoying her with his

letters and his importunities.

By this time everybody in Castleman County knew the situation; it had

become a sort of State romance—or perhaps it would be better to say a

State scandal. Sylvia became aware of a new force, vaguer, but more

compelling even than that of the family—the power of public opinion. It

was all very well for a girl to have whims and to indulge them; to be

coquettish and wayward—naturally. But to keep it up for so long a time,

to carry the joke so far—well, it was unusual, and in somewhat

questionable taste. It was a fact that every person in Castleman County

shone by the reflected glory of Sylvia’s great opportunity; and

everybody felt himself—or more especially herself—cheated of this glory

by the girl’s eccentricity. You may take this for a joke, but let me

tell you that public opinion is a terrible agent, which has driven

mighty princes to madness, and captains of predatory finance to suicide.

All this time Sylvia was thinking—thinking. Wherever she went, whatever

she did, she was debating one problem in her soul. As I don’t want

anyone to misunderstand her or despise her, I must try to tell, briefly

and simply, what were her thoughts.

She had come to hate life. Everything that had ever been sweet to her

seemed to have turned to ashes in her mouth. The social game, for which

she had been trained with so much care and at so great expense, upon

which she had entered with such zest three years before—the game had

become a sordid mockery to her. It was a chase after men, an elaboration

of devices to gain and hold their attention. To be decked out and sent

forth to perform tricks—no, it was an utterly intolerable thing.

Her whole being was one cry to stay at home with the people she loved.

Here were her true friends, who would always stand by her, who would be

a bulwark against the ugliness of life. A wonderful thing it was, after

all, the family; a kind of army of mutual defense against a hostile,

predatory world. “Life is a case of dog eat dog,” had been the words of

Uncle Mandeville. “You have to eat or be eaten.” And Uncle Mandeville

had seen so much of life!

So the one high duty that Sylvia could see was to stand by and maintain

the family. And there were increasing signs that this family was in

peril. More and more plainly was worry to be read in the face of the

Major; there were even signs that his worry had infected others.

Curious, incredible as it might seem, “Miss Margaret” was trying to

economize! She wandered over her exquisite velvet carpets in a faded

last year’s gown, and a pair of rusty last year’s slippers; nor could

she be persuaded to purchase new—until the Major himself sent off an

order to her costumer in New Orleans!

Also Aunt Varina had taken to fretting over the housekeeping

extravagances. So many idle negroes eating their heads off in the

kitchen! Such grocery and laundry bills, beyond all reason and sense!

The echoes of her protest reached even to the tradesmen in the town, who

heard with dismay that at Castleman Hall they were counting the

supplies, and going over the bills, and refusing to pay for goods which

had not been sent, or had been stolen by the negroes employed to deliver

them!

“Aunt Mandy,” the black cook, had once been heard to declare that

Castleman Hall was not a home, but “a free hotel.” A hotel with great

airy rooms, huge four-poster beds, and quaint old “dressers” and

“armours” of hand-carved mahogany! No wonder the guests came trooping!

“We ought to move into one of the smaller houses on the plantation!”

declared Aunt Varina; and what a horror to have such an idea mentioned

in the family. Fear assailed “Miss Margaret”—what if the neighbors were

to hear of it? Everybody knew that there had been droughts and floods,

and somebody might suspect that these had touched the Castlemans! Mrs.

Castleman decided forthwith that it would be necessary to give a big

reception; and the moment this was announced came a cry from

Celeste—why, if her mother could give a reception, could she not have

the little “electric” for which she had begged all summer?

Celeste was going back to Miss Abercrombie’s in a week or two. Going

back to Fifth Avenue and its shops—to open accounts at any of them she

chose, and sign her father’s name to checks, just as Sylvia had done. It

would have been a painful matter to curtail this privilege, for Sylvia

was the favorite daughter, and Celeste knew it, and was bitterly

resentful of every sign of favoritism. And yet the privilege was more

dangerous in the case of Celeste, who was careless to the point of

wickedness. You might see her step out of an expensive ball-gown at

night, and leave it a crumpled ring upon the floor until the maid hung

it up in the morning; you might see her kick off her tight, high-heeled

slippers, and walk about the room for hours in her stockinged feet—thus

wearing out a pair of new silk hose that had cost five dollars, and

kicking them to one side to be carried off by the negroes. Celeste would

permit nothing but silk upon her exquisite person, and was given to

lounging about in oriental luxuriance, while Peggy and Maria gazed at

her awe-stricken, as at some princess in a fairy-story book. Sylvia saw

with bewilderment that everywhere about her it was the evil example

which seemed to be prevailing.

§ 18

Sylvia could not plan to stay at home and share in this plundering of

her father. She must marry; yet when it came to the question of

marrying, the one positive fact in her consciousness was that she could

never love any man. No matter how long she might wait, no matter how

much energy she might expend in hesitating and agonizing, sooner or

later she would give herself in marriage to some man whom she did not

love. And after all, there was very little choice among them, so far as

she could see. Some were more entertaining than others; but it was true

of everyone that if he touched her hand in token of desire, she shrunk

from him with repugnance.

The time came when to her cool reason this shrinking wore the aspect of

a weakness. When so much happiness for all those she loved depended upon

the conquering of it, what folly not to conquer it! Here was the obverse

of that distrust of “blind passion” which they had taught her. Whether

it was an emotion towards or away from a man, was it a thing which

should dominate a woman’s life? Was it not rather a thing for her to

beat into whatever shape her good sense directed?

Seated one day in her mother’s room, Sylvia asked, quite casually,

“Mamma, how often do women marry the men they love?”

“Why, what makes you ask that?” inquired the other.

“I don’t know, Mamma. I was just thinking.”

“Miss Margaret” considered. “Not often, my child; certainly not, if you

mean their first love.” Then, after a pause, she added, “I think perhaps

it’s well they don’t. Most all those I know who married their first love

are unhappy now.”

“Why is that, Mamma?”

“They don’t seem able to judge wisely when they’re young and blinded by

passion.” “Miss Margaret” drifted into reminiscences—beginning with the

case of Aunt Varina, who was in the next room.

“It seems such a terrible thing,” said Sylvia. “Love is—well, it makes

you want to trust it.”

“Something generally happens,” replied the other. “A woman has to wait,

and in the end she marries for quite other reasons.”

“And yet they manage to make out!” said the girl, half to herself.

“Children come, dear. Children take their time, and they forget. I

remember so well your Uncle Barry’s wife—she visited us in her courtship

days, and she used to wake up in the middle of the night, and whisper to

me in a trembling voice, ‘Margaret, tell me—_shall_ I marry him?’ I

think she went to the altar without really having her mind made up; and

yet, you see, she’s one of the happiest women I know—they are perfectly

devoted to each other.”

Sylvia went away to ponder these things. The next day Aunt Varina

happened to talk about her life-tragedy, and told Sylvia of the death of

her young love; and later on came Uncle Barry’s wife, traveling a

hundred miles for the sake of a casual conversation upon the state of

happiness vouchsafed to those who chose their husbands in accordance

with reason. All of which was managed with such delicacy and tact that

no one but an utterly depraved person like Sylvia would ever have

suspected that it was planned.

There was one person from whom the girl hoped for an unworldly opinion;

that was the Bishop. She went to see him one day, and casually brought

up the subject of van Tuiver—a thing which was easy enough to do, since

the man was a guest in the house.

“Sylvia,” said her uncle, at once, “why don’t you marry him?”

The girl was astounded. “Why, Uncle Basil!” she exclaimed. “Would you

advise me to?”

“Nothing would make me happier than the news that you had so decided.”

Sylvia was at a loss for words. She had thought that here was one person

who would surely not be influenced by Royalty. “Tell me why,” she said.

“Because, my child,” the Bishop answered, “he’s a Christian gentleman.”

“Oh! So it’s that!”

“Yes, Sylvia. You don’t know how often I have prayed that you might have

a religious man for a husband.”

Sylvia said no more. Her thoughts flew back to Boston, to an incident

which had caused her amusement at the time. She had told “Tubby” Bates

that she would go motoring with van Tuiver on a Sunday morning; and the

answer was that on Sunday mornings van Tuiver passed the

collection-plate in a Very High Church. Bates went on to explain—in his

irreverent fashion—that van Tuiver’s great-uncle had been of the opinion

that the only hope for a young man with so much money was to turn him

over to the Lord; so for his grand-nephew’s head-tutor he had engaged a

clergyman recommended by an English bishop. And now here was another

bishop recommending van Tuiver as an instrument for the converting of

his wayward niece!

Sylvia went away, and spent more time in doubting and fearing. But there

was a limit to the time she could take, because the man was practically

in her home, moving heaven and earth to get a chance to see her, to urge

his suit, to implore her for mercy, if for nothing more. And truly he

was a pitiable object; if a woman wanted a husband whom she could twist

round her finger, of whom she could be absolute mistress all her days,

here surely was the husband at hand! The voice of old Lady Dee called

out to her from the land of ghosts that her victory and her crown were

here.

The end came suddenly, being due to a far-off cause. There was a panic

in “Wall Street”; an event of which Sylvia heard vaguely, but without

paying heed, not dreaming that so remote an event could concern her. One

can consult the financial year-books, and learn how many business men

went into bankruptcy as a result of that panic, what properties had to

be sold as a result of it; but it has apparently not occurred to any

compiler of statistics to record the number of daughters—daughters of

poor men and daughters of rich men—who had to be sold as a result of it.

The Major came home one afternoon and shut himself in his study, and did

not come to dinner. Sylvia knew, by that subtle sixth sense whereby

things are known in families, that something serious had happened. But

she was not allowed to see her father that day or night; and when she

finally did see him, she was dumb with horror. He looked so yellow and

ill—his hands trembled as if palsied, and she knew by the cigar-stumps

scattered about the office, and the decanter of brandy on top of the

desk, that he had been up the entire night at his books.

He would not tell her what was the matter; he insisted, as usual, that

it was “nothing.” But evidently he had told his wife, for the poor

lady’s eyes were red with weeping. Later on in the day Sylvia, chancing

to answer the telephone, received a message from Uncle Mandeville in New

Orleans, to the effect that he was “short,” and powerless to help. Then

she took her mother aside and dragged the story from her. The local bank

was in trouble, and had called some of the Major’s loans. The blow had

almost killed him, and they were in terror as to what he might do to

himself.

Mrs. Castleman saw her daughter go white, and added, “Oh, if only you

were not under the spell of that dreadful man!”

“But what in the world has that to do with it?” demanded the girl.

“I curse the day that you met him!” wailed the other; and then, as

Sylvia repeated her question—“What else is it that keeps you from loving

a good man, and being a help to your father in this dreadful crisis?”

“Mamma!” exclaimed Sylvia. She had never expected to hear anything like

this from the gentle “Miss Margaret.” “Mamma, I couldn’t stop the

panic!”

“You could stop it so far as your father is concerned,” was the answer.

Sylvia said no more at this time. But later on, when Aunt Nannie came

over, she heard the remark that there were a few fortunate persons who

were not affected by panics; it had been the maxim of van Tuiver’s

ancestors to invest in nothing but New York City real estate, and to

live upon their incomes. It was possible to do this, even in New York,

declared Mrs. Chilton, if one’s income was several millions a year.

“Aunt Nannie,” said the girl, gravely, “if I promised to marry Mr. van

Tuiver, could I ask him to lend Papa money?”

Whereat the other laughed. “My dear niece, I assure you that to be the

father of the future Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver would be an asset in the

money market—an asset quite as good as a plantation.”

§ 19

Sylvia made up her mind that day; and as usual, she was both

clear-sighted and honest about it. She would not deceive herself, and

she would not deceive van Tuiver. She sent for the young millionaire,

and taking him into another room than the library, shut the door. “Mr.

van Tuiver,” she began, in a voice she tried hard to keep firm, “you

have been begging me to marry you. You must know that I have been trying

to make up my mind.”

“Yes, Miss Sylvia?” he said, eagerly.

“I loved Frank Shirley,” she continued. “Now I can never love again. But

I know I shall have to marry. My people would be unhappy if I didn’t—so

unhappy that I know I couldn’t bear it. You see, the person I really

love is my father.”

She hesitated again. “Yes, Miss Sylvia,” he repeated. She saw that his

hands were trembling, and that he was gazing at her with feverish

excitement.

“I would do anything to make my father happy,” she said. “And now—he’s

in trouble—money-trouble. Of course I know that if I married you, I

could help him. I’ve tried to bring myself to do it. To-day I said, ‘I

will!’ But then, there is your side to be thought of.”

“My side, Miss Sylvia?”

“I have to be honest with you. I can’t pretend to be what I am not, or

to feel what I don’t feel. If I were to marry you, I should try to do my

duty as a wife; I should do everything in my power, honestly and

sincerely. But I don’t love you, and I don’t see how I ever could love

you.”

“But—Miss Sylvia—” he exclaimed, hardly able to speak for his agitation.

“You mean that you would marry me?”

“I didn’t know if you would want to marry me—when I had told you that.”

He was leaning forward, clenching and unclenching his hands nervously.

“I wouldn’t mind—really!” he said.

“Even if you knew—” she began.

“Miss Sylvia,” he cried, “I love you! Don’t you understand how I love

you?”

“Yes, but—if I couldn’t—if I didn’t love you?”

“I would take what you could give me! I love you so much, nothing would

matter. I believe that you would come to love me! If you would only give

me a chance, Miss Sylvia—”

“But suppose!” she protested. “Suppose you found that I never did!

Suppose—”

But he was in no mood for troublesome suppositions. Any way would do, he

said. He began stammering out his happiness, he fell upon his knees

before her and caught her hand, and sought to kiss it. At first she made

a move to withdraw it; but then, with an inward effort, she let him have

it, and sat staring before her, a mantle of scarlet stealing over her

throat and cheeks and forehead.

His hands were hot and moist, and quite horrible to her. Once she looked

at him, and an image of him was stamped upon her mind indelibly. It was

an image quite different from his ordinary rigid and sober mask; it was

the face of the man who had always got everything he wanted. Sylvia did

not formulate to herself just what it was that frightened her so—except

for one phrase. She said it seemed to her that he licked his lips!

He could hardly believe that the long siege was ended, that the guerdon

of victory was his. She had to tell him several times that she would

marry him—that she was serious about it—that would give him her word and

would not take it back. And then she had to prove it to him. He was not

content to clasp her hand, but sought to embrace her; and when she found

that she could not stand it, she had to plead that it was not the

Southern custom. “You must give me a little time to get used to the

idea. I only made up my mind to-day.”

“But you will change your mind!” he exclaimed.

“No, no, I won’t do that. That would be wicked of me. I’ve decided what

is right, and I mean to do it. But you must be patient with me at the

beginning.”

“When will you marry me?” he asked—evidently none too confident in her

resolution.

“I don’t know. It ought to be soon. I must talk with my parents about

it.”

“And where will it be?”

“That’s something I meant to speak of. It can’t be here.” She hesitated.

“I must tell you the truth. There would be too much to remind me. I

couldn’t endure it. This may seem sentimental to you, but I’m quite

determined. But I’ll have a hard time persuading my people—for you see,

they’re proud, and they’ll say the world would expect you to marry me

here. You must stand by me in this.”

“Very well,” he said. “I will urge them to have the wedding in New

York.”

There was a pause, then Sylvia added: “Another thing, you must not

breathe a word to anyone of what I’ve told you—about the state of my

feelings—my reasons for deciding—”

He smiled. “I’d hardly boast about that!”

“No, but I mean you mustn’t tell your dearest friend—not Aunt Nannie,

not Mrs. Winthrop. You see, I have to make my people believe that I’m

quite sure of my own mind. If my father had any idea that I was thinking

of him, then he’d surely forbid it. If he ever found out afterwards,

he’d be wretched—and I’d have failed in what I tried to do.”

“I understand,” said van Tuiver, humbly.

“It’s not going to be easy for me,” she added. “I shall have to make

everybody think I’m happy. You must sympathize with me and help me—and

not mind if I seem unreasonable and full of whims.”

He said again that he understood, and would do his best. He took her

hand, very gently, and held it in his; he started to kiss it, but when

he saw that she had no pleasure in the ceremony he released it, parting

from her with a formal little speech of thanks. And such was the manner

of Sylvia’s second betrothal.

§ 20

The engagement was announced at once, the wedding to take place six

weeks later in New York. Just as Sylvia had anticipated, the family made

a great to-do over the place of the ceremony; but finding that both she

and van Tuiver were immovable, they cast about for some pretext to make

a New York wedding seem plausible to a suspicious world. They bethought

themselves of an almost forgotten relative of the family, a step-sister

of Lady Dee’s, who had lived in haughty poverty for half a century in

the metropolis, and was now discovered in a boarding-house in Harlem,

and transported to a suite of apartments in the Palace Hotel, to become

responsible for Sylvia’s desertion of Castleman County. She had nothing

to do but be the hostess of her “dear niece”—since Mrs. Harold Cliveden

had kindly offered to see to the practical details of the ceremonial.

The thrilling news of the betrothal spread, quite literally with the

speed of lightning; the next day all America read of the romance. Since

the story of van Tuiver’s infatuation, his treason to the “Gold Coast”

and his forsaking of college, has been the gossip of New York and Boston

clubs for months, there was a delightful story for the “yellows,” of

which they did not fail to make use. Of course there was nothing of that

kind in the Southern papers, but they had their own way of responding to

the general excitement, of gratifying the general curiosity.

Sylvia was really startled by the furore she had raised; she was as if

caught up and whirled away by a hurricane. Such floods of

congratulations as poured in! So many letters, from people whose names

she could barely remember! Was there a single person in the county who

had a right to call, who did not call to wish her joy? Even Celeste

wrote from Miss Abercrombie’s—a letter which brought the tears to her

sister’s eyes.

Through all these events Sylvia played her rôle; she played it day and

night—not even in the presence of her negro maid did she lay it aside!

The rôle of the blushing bride-to-be, the ten-times-over happy heroine

of a romance in high-life! She must be smiling, radiant with animation

decorously repressed; she must go about with the lucky bridegroom-to-be,

and receive the congratulations of those she knew, and be unaware—yet

not ungraciously unaware—of the interest and the stares of those she did

not know. More difficult yet, she had to look the Major in the eyes, and

say to him that she had come to realize that she was fond of “Mr. van

Tuiver,” and that she honestly believed she would be happy with him.

Since her mother and Aunt Varina were dear sentimental Southern ladies,

incapable of taking a cold-blooded look at a fact, she had to pretend

even to them that she was cradled in bliss.

At first van Tuiver was with her all the time, pouring out the torrents

of his happiness and gratitude. But Aunt Nannie soon came to the rescue

here; Sylvia must not have the inconveniences of matrimony until the

knot had actually been tied. Van Tuiver was ordered off to New York,

until Sylvia should come for the buying of her wedding trousseau.

The dear old Major had suspected nothing when his friend, the president

of the bank, had suddenly discovered that he could “carry” the

troublesome notes. So now he was completely free from care, and his

daughter had a week of bliss in his company. She read history to him,

and drove with him, and tended his flowers in the conservatory, and was

hardly apart from him an hour in the day.

Sylvia had set out some months ago at the task of democratizing van

Tuiver; even in becoming engaged she had kept some lingering hope of

accomplishing this. But alas, how quickly the idea vanished before the

reality of her situation! She remembered with a smile how glibly she had

advised the young millionaire to step away from his shadow; and how he

had labored to make plain to her that he could not help being a King.

Now suddenly she found that she could sympathize with him—she who was

about to be a Queen!

There were a thousand little ways in which she felt the difference. Even

the manner of her friends was changed. She could not go anywhere that

she was not conscious of people staring at her. It was found necessary

to appoint a negro to guard the grounds, because of the number of

strangers who came in the hope of getting a glimpse of her. Her mail

became suddenly a flood: letters from inventors who wished to make her

another fortune; letters from distressed women who implored her to save

them; letters from convicts languishing in prison for crimes of which

they were innocent; letters from poets with immortal, unrecognized

blank-verse dramas; letters from lonely farmers’ wives who thrilled over

her romance, and poured out their souls in ill-spelled blessings;

letters from prophets of the class-war who frightened her with warnings

of the wrath to come!

On the second day after the engagement was announced, Sylvia went out,

all unsuspecting, for a horseback-ride, and had hardly mounted when a

man with a black box stepped from behind a tree, and proceeded calmly to

snap-shot the fair equestrienne. Sylvia cried out in indignation, and

springing from the horse, rushed in to tell the Major what had happened;

whereupon the Major sallied out with a cane, and there was a

cross-country gallop after the intruder, ending in a violent collision

between the camera and the cane. The funniest part of the matter was

that the photographer spent the better part of a day trying to get a

warrant for his assailant—imagining that it was possible to arrest a

Castleman in Castleman County! By way of revenge he telegraphed the

story to New York, where it appeared, duly worked up—with the old

photograph of the “reigning beauty of the New South,” in place of the

one which had died in the camera!

§ 21

Sylvia came up to New York in due course; and by the time that she had

been there one day, she was able to understand the fondness of the great

for traveling “incog.” She was “snapped” when she descended from the

train—and this time there was no one to assault the photographer. Coming

out of her hotel with van Tuiver she found a battery of cameras waiting;

and being ungracious enough to put up her hand before her face, she

beheld her picture the next morning with the hand held up, and beside it

the “reigning beauty” picture—with the caption, “What is behind the

hand!”

Van Tuiver was of course known in all the places which were patronized

by the people of his sort; and Sylvia had but to be seen with him once

in order to be equally known. Thereafter when she passed through a

hotel-lobby, or into a tea-room, she would become aware of a sudden

hush, and would know that every eye was following her. Needless to say,

she could count upon the attention of all the “buttons” who caught sight

of her; she lived with a vague consciousness of swarms of blue-uniformed

gnomes with constantly-changing faces, who flitted about her, all but

falling over one another in their zeal, and making her least action,

such as sitting in a chair or passing through a doorway, into a

ceremonial observance.

The most curious thing of all was to go shopping; she simply dared not

order anything sent home. There would be the clerk, with pad and poised

pencil—“Name, please?” She would say, “Miss Sylvia Castleman,” and the

pencil would begin to write mechanically—and then stop, struck with a

sudden paralysis. She would see the fingers trembling, she would be

aware of a swift, wonder-stricken glance. Sometimes she would pretend to

be unconscious, and the business would go on—“Palace Hotel. To be

delivered this afternoon. Yes, certainly, Miss Castleman.” But sometimes

human feeling would break through all routine. A young soul, hungry for

life, for beauty—and confronting suddenly the greatest moment of its

whole existence, touching the hem of the star-sewn garment of Romance! A

young girl—possibly even a man—flushing scarlet, trembling, stammering,

“Oh—why—!” Once or twice Sylvia read in the face before her something so

pitiful that she was moved to put her hand upon that of her devotee; and

if you are learned in the lore of ancient times, you know what miracles

are wrought by the touch of Royalty!

What attitude was she to take to this new power of hers? It was

impossible to pretend to be unaware of it—she had too keen a sense of

humor. But was she to spend her whole life in shrinking, and feeling

shame for other people’s folly? Or should she learn somehow to accept

the homage as her due? She saw that the latter was what van Tuiver

expected. He had chosen her among millions because she was the one

supremely fitted to go through life at his side; and if she kept her

promise and tried to be a faithful wife to him, she would have to take

her rôle seriously, and learn to enjoy the performances.

Meantime, you ask, What of her soul? She was trying her best to forget

it—in excitements and distractions, in meeting new people, going to new

places, buying thousands of dollars worth of new costumes. She would

stay late at dances and supper-parties, trying to get weary enough to

sleep; but then she would have nightmares, and would waken moaning and

sobbing. Always her dream was one thing, in a thousand forms; she was

somewhere in captivity, and some person or creature was telling her that

she could not escape, that it was forever, forever, forever. Her room

had been made into a bower of roses, but she had to send them away,

because one horrible night when she got up and walked about, they made

her think of the gardens at home, and the pacing back and forth in her

nightgown, and the thorns and gravel in her feet.

As a child Sylvia had read a story of a circus-clown, who had played his

part when ill and almost dying, because of his wife and child at home.

Always thereafter a circus-clown had been to her the symbol of the irony

of human life. But now she knew another figure, equally tragic, equally

terrible to be—the heroine of a State romance. To be photographed and

written about, to see people staring at you, to have to smile and look

like one hearing celestial music—and all the while to have a breaking

heart!

§ 22

Sylvia fought long battles with herself. “Oh, I can’t do it!” she would

cry. “I can’t do it!” And then “You’ve promised to do it!” she would say

to herself. And every day she spent more money, and met more of van

Tuiver’s friends, and read more articles about her Romance.

Then one morning came a hall-boy with a card. She looked at it, and had

a painful start. “Tubby” Bates!

He came in, cheerful, jolly, reminding her of so many things—such happy

things! She had had a bad night, and now she simply could not talk; her

words choked her, and she sat staring at him, her eyes suddenly filling

with tears.

“Why, Miss Castleman!” he exclaimed—and saw such a look upon that lovely

face that his voice died away to a whisper—“You aren’t happy!”

Still for a while she could not answer. He asked her what was the

matter; and then, again, in greater distress, “Why did you do it?” She

responded, in a faint voice, “I did it on my father’s account.”

There was a long silence. Then with sudden energy she began, “Mr. Bates,

there is something I want to talk to you about. It’s something

difficult—almost impossible for me to speak of. And yet—I seem to get

more and more desperate about it. I can never be happy in my life until

I’ve talked to some one about it.”

“What is it, Miss Castleman?”

“It’s about Frank Shirley.”

“Oh!” he said, in surprise.

“You know that I was engaged to him, Mr. Bates?”

“Yes, I was told that.”

“And you can guess, perhaps, how I have suffered. I know only what the

newspapers printed—nothing more. And now—you are a man, and you were at

Harvard—you must know. Is it true that Frank—that he did something that

would make it wrong for me ever to see him again?”

The blood had pressed into Sylvia’s face, but still she did not lower

her eyes. She was gazing intensely at her friend. She must know the

truth! The whole truth!

He considered, and then said, gravely, “No, Miss Castleman, I don’t

think he did that.”

There was a pause. “But—it was a place——” she could go no further.

“I know,” he said. “But you see, Shirley had a room-mate—Jack Colton.

And he was always trying to help him—to keep him out of trouble and get

him home sober——”

“Oh, then _that_ was it!” The words came in a tone that frightened Bates

by their burden of anguish.

“Yes, Miss Castleman,” he said. “And as to the row—Shirley saw a woman

mistreated, and he interfered, and knocked a man down. I know the man,

and he’s the sort one has to knock down. The only trouble was that he

hit his head as he fell.”

“I see!” whispered Sylvia.

“But even so, there wouldn’t have been any publicity, except that some

of the ‘Auburn Street crowd’ were there. They saw their chance to put

the candidate of the ‘Yard’ out of the running; and they did it. It was

a rotten shame, because everybody knew that Frank Shirley was not that

kind of man——”

Bates stopped again. He could not bear the look he saw on Sylvia’s face.

She bowed her head in her arms, and silent sobbing shook her. Then she

got up and began to pace back and forth distractedly. He knew very well

what was going on in her thoughts.

Suddenly she turned upon him. “Mr. Bates,” she exclaimed, “you must help

me! You must stay here and help me!”

“Certainly, Miss Castleman. What can I do?”

“In the first place, you must not breathe a word of this to anyone. You

understand?”

“Of course.”

“Have you any idea where Frank Shirley is?”

“I heard that he had gone out to Wyoming with Jack Colton.”

“Then you must telegraph to Mr. Colton; and also you must telegraph to

Frank Shirley’s home. You must say that Frank is to come to you in New

York at once. He mustn’t lose an hour, you understand; my father will be

here next week. Then, too, Frank will have heard of my engagement, and

you can’t tell what he might do.”

Bates stared at her. “Do you know what you are doing, Miss Castleman?”

he asked.

“I do,” she answered.

“Very well, then,” he said, “I will do what you ask.”

“Go, do it now,” she cried, and he went—carrying with him for the rest

of his life the memory of her face of agony. He sent the telegrams, and

in due course received replies—which he did not dare to bring to Sylvia

himself, but sent by messenger. The first, from Frank’s home, was to the

effect that his whereabouts were unknown; and the second, from Jack

Colton, was to the effect that Frank had gone away a couple of weeks

before, saying that he would never return.

§ 23

Sylvia wrestled this problem out with her own soul. The only person who

ever knew about it was Aunt Varina, and she knew only because she

happened to awaken in the small hours of the morning and hear signs of a

fit of hysteria which the girl was trying to repress. She went into

Sylvia’s room and found her huddled upon the bed; when she asked what

was the matter, the other sobbed without lifting her face—“Oh, I can’t

marry him! I can’t marry him!”

Mrs. Tuis stared at her in consternation. “Why, Sylvia!” she gasped.

“Oh, Aunt Varina,” moaned Sylvia, “I’m so unhappy! It’s so horrible!”

“But, my child! You are out of your senses! What has happened?”

“I’ve come to realize the mistake I’ve made! I’d rather die than do it!”

Poor Aunt Varina was dumb with dismay. Sylvia had played her part so

well that no one had had a suspicion. Now, between her bursts of

weeping, she stammered out what she had learned. Frank was innocent. He

had gone away forever—perhaps he had killed himself. At any rate, his

life was ruined, and Sylvia had done it.

“But, my child,” protested the other, “you couldn’t help it. How could

you know?”

“I should have found out! I should have trusted Frank; I should have

known that he could not do what they accused him of. I have been

faithless to him—faithless to our love. And now what will become of

him?”

Aunt Varina sat gazing at her, tears of sympathy running down her

cheeks. “Sylvia,” she whispered, “what will you do?”

“Oh, I love Frank Shirley!” moaned the girl. “I never loved anybody

else—I never will love anybody else! And I know—what I didn’t know at

first—that it’s wicked, wicked to marry without love!”

“But what will you do?” repeated the other, who was dazed with horror.

For a long time there was no sound but Sylvia’s weeping. “Sylvia dear,”

began Aunt Varina, at last, “you must control yourself. You must not let

these thoughts get possession of you. You will destroy yourself if you

do.”

“I can’t marry him!” sobbed the girl.

“I can’t let you go on talking that way!” exclaimed the other, wildly.

“Do you realize what you are saying? Look at me, child, look at me!”

Sylvia looked at her, wondering a little—for never had she seen such

vehemence exhibited by this gentle and submissive “poor relation.”

“Listen!” Mrs. Tuis rushed on. “How can you know that what you have

heard is true? You say that Frank was innocent—but your Cousin Harley

investigated, and he declared he was guilty. Mrs. Winthrop told you the

same—she said everybody knew. And yet you take the word of one man! And

you told me at Harvard that Mr. Bates was distressed at the idea of your

marrying Mr. van Tuiver. You told me he warned you against him! Isn’t

that so, Sylvia?”

“Yes, Aunt Varina, but—”

“He does not like Mr. van Tuiver, and he comes here at a time like this,

and puts such ideas into your thoughts. Don’t you see that was not an

honorable thing to do—when you were on the verge of being married and

couldn’t get out of it! When you know that your father would be utterly

ruined—that your whole family would be wrecked by it!”

“Surely it can’t be so bad, Aunt Varina!”

“Think how your father has gone into debt on your account! All the

clothes you have bought—the bills at this hotel—the expenses of the

wedding! Thousands and thousands of dollars!”

“Oh, I didn’t want all that!” wailed Sylvia.

“But you did! You insisted on coming here to New York, where a wedding

would cost several times as much as at home! You have come out before

all the world as Mr. van Tuiver’s fiancée—and think of the scandal and

the disgrace, if you were to break it off! And poor Mr. van Tuiver—what

a figure he’d cut! And when he loves you so!”

Sylvia’s sobbing had ceased during this outburst. When she spoke again,

her voice was hard. “He does not love me,” she said.

“Why, what in the world do you mean by that?”

“I mean just what I say. He doesn’t love me—not as Frank loves me. He

isn’t capable of it.”

“But then—why—for what other reason should he be marrying you?”

“I’m beautiful, and he wants me. But it’s mainly because I offended his

vanity—yes, just that! I turned him down, I ridiculed him and insulted

him. I was something he couldn’t get; and the more he couldn’t get me,

the more the thought of me rankled in his mind.”

“Sylvia! How _can_ you be so cynical!”

“I’m not cynical at all. I just won’t gild things over, as other women

do. I won’t make pretences, I won’t cover myself and my whole life with

a cloak of shams. I know right now that I’m being sold, just as much as

if I were led out to an auction-block with chains about my ankles! I’m

being sold to a man—and I was meant to be sold to a man from the very

beginning of my life!”

There was a silence; for Aunt Varina was paralyzed by these amazing

words. She had never heard such an utterance in her life before.

“Sylvia!” she cried. “What do you mean? _Who_ is driving you?”

“I don’t know! But something is!”

“How can you say it? Can you imagine that your good, kind parents—”

“Oh, no!” interrupted Sylvia, passionately. “At least—they don’t know

it!”

Mrs. Tuis sat dumfounded. “Sylvia,” she quavered, at last, “let me

implore you to get yourself together before your father arrives in New

York. If he should hear what you have said to me to-night, he would

never get over it—truly, it would kill him!”

§ 24

An event to which Sylvia looked forward with considerable interest was a

meeting with Mrs. Beauregard Dabney, who was coming to New York for a

visit. Harriet, as her letters showed, was not unappreciative of the

glory which had descended upon her friend, and would enjoy having some

of it reflected upon herself. Thus Sylvia might be shown what emotions

she ought to be feeling; possibly she might even be made to feel some of

them. At any rate, she knew that Harriet would help to keep her courage

screwed up.

But Sylvia’s pleasure in the visit was marred by a peculiar

circumstance, which she had failed to prepare for, in spite of warnings

duly given. “You must not be surprised when you see me,” Harriet wrote.

“I have been ill, and I’m terribly changed.” Her reason for coming

North, it appeared, was to consult specialists about a mysterious

ailment which had baffled the doctors at home.

Sylvia was quite horrified when she saw her friend. Never could she have

imagined such a change in anyone in six months’ time. Harriet lifted her

veil, and there was an old woman with wrinkled, yellow skin. “Why,

Harriet!” gasped Sylvia, unable to control herself.

“I know, Sunny,” said the other. “Isn’t it dreadful?”

“But for heaven’s sake, what is the matter?”

“That’s what I’ve come to find out. Nobody knows.”

“Why, I never heard of such a thing!” Sylvia exclaimed. “What are you

doing?”

“I’m having all sorts of things done. The doctors give me medicine, but

nothing seems to do any good. I’m really in despair about myself.”

“How did it begin, Harriet?”

“I don’t really know. There were so many things, and I didn’t put them

together. I began having headaches a great deal; and then pains that the

doctors called neuralgia. I had a bad sore throat over in Europe; I

thought the climate disagreed with me, but I’ve had it again at home.

And now eruptions break out; the doctors treat them with things, and

they go away, but then they come back. All my hair is falling out, and

I’ve got to wear a wig.”

“Why, how perfectly horrible!” cried Sylvia.

She started to embrace her friend, but was repelled. “I mustn’t kiss

anyone,” said Harriet. “You see, it might be contagious—one can’t be

sure.”

“But what are you going to do, Harriet?”

“I’ve almost given up hoping. I haven’t really cared so much, since the

doctors told me I can never have another baby. You know, Sunny, it’s

curious—I never cared about children, I thought they were nuisances. But

when mine came, I cared—oh, so horribly! I wanted to have a real one.”

“A real one?” echoed Sylvia.

“Yes. I didn’t write you about it, and perhaps I oughtn’t to tell you

just at this time. But you know, Sunny, he didn’t seem like a human

being at all; he was a little gray mummy.”

“Harriet!”

“Just like that—a regular skeleton, his skin all loose, so that you

could lift it up in folds. He was a kind of earthy color, and had no

hair, and no finger nails——”

Sylvia broke out with a cry of horror, and her friend stopped. “I

haven’t talked to anyone about it,” she said—“I guess I oughtn’t to,

even to you.”

“How long did he live?”

“About six weeks. Nobody knew what he died of—he just seemed to fade

away. You can’t imagine it, perhaps—but, Sunny, I wanted him to

stay—even him! He was all I could ever have, and it seemed so cruel!”

Suddenly the girl hid her face in her hands and began to sob—the first

time that Sylvia had ever seen her do it in all her life.

So it was not the cheering visit that Sylvia had anticipated. It left

her with much to think about, and to talk about with other people. Later

on, speaking to Aunt Varina, she happened to mention something that van

Tuiver had said about the matter; whereupon her aunt exclaimed, “You

didn’t talk about it with Mr. van Tuiver!”

“But why not, Auntie?”

“You mustn’t do that, dear! You can’t tell.”

“Can’t tell what?”

“I mean, dear, that Harriet might have some disease that you oughtn’t to

talk to Mr. van Tuiver about.” Aunt Varina hesitated, then added, in a

whisper, “Some ‘bad disease’.”

Whereat Sylvia started in sudden dismay. So _that_ was it! A “bad

disease”!

You must understand how it happened that Sylvia had ideas on this

subject. There was a foreign writer of plays, whose name she had heard.

She had never seen his books, and would not have opened one, upon peril

of her soul; but once, in a magazine picked up in a train, she had read

a casual reference to an Ibsen play, which dealt with a nameless and

dreadful malady. From the context it was made clear that this malady was

a price men paid for evil living—and a price which was often collected

from their innocent wives and children. Now and then the women of

Sylvia’s family spoke in awe-stricken whispers of this mysterious taint,

using the phrase “a bad disease.” Now, apparently, she was beholding the

horror before her eyes!

§ 25

The problem occupied Sylvia’s mind for several days, to the exclusion of

everything else. It lent a new dread to the thought of marriage. How

could a woman be safe from such a thing? Beauregard Dabney was not the

most perfect specimen of manhood that one could have selected, but there

was nothing especial the matter with him that could be observed. Yet see

what had happened to his wife and child!

Harriet came again, and this time her husband was with her. He was just

as much in love with her as ever—in fact, Sylvia thought that she noted

a new and pathetic clinging on his part. They had been to see a great

specialist, and still there was nothing definite to be learned about the

malady; the doctor, hearing that the couple had journeyed up the Nile,

suggested that possibly it might be an African fever, and promised to

look up the mysterious symptoms in his books. Wasn’t it extraordinary,

exclaimed Harriet; but Sylvia, who could not be deceived for very long,

noticed that Beauregard was not so much excited about the African theory

as his wife. Suddenly the thought came to her, Could it be that the

doctors really knew what the disease was, and would not tell Harriet?

Could it be that Beauregard knew, and was helping in the deception?

Then—horror of horrors—could it be that he had known all along, and had

upon his conscience the crime of having brought the woman he loved into

this state?

Sylvia’s relentless mind, once having got hold of this problem, clung to

it like a bull-dog to the throat of an enemy. Of course such a disease

was a loathsome thing; a woman could not very well ask questions about

it—yet, what was she to do? Apparently she was dependent upon the man’s

honor; and could it be that a man’s notion of honor permitted him, when

he was desperately in love, to take such chances with a woman’s life?

Sylvia remembered suddenly that Beauregard had made love to _her_. More

than once she had actually permitted him to hold and fondle her hand.

The mere thought made her shrink with horror.

And then came another idea. (How quickly she was putting things

together!) Men got this disease by evil living. Then Beauregard must

have done the sort of thing that Frank Shirley had been accused of

doing! Also Jack Colton had done the same! Also—had not Bates said that

there were some of the “Auburn Street crowd” in that place? Club-men,

gentlemen, the aristocracy of Harvard! There came back to her the phrase

from Harley’s letter: “one of the two or three high-class houses of

prostitution which are especially frequented by college men!” How much

Sylvia knew about this forbidden subject, when she came to put her mind

to it! More, apparently, than her own parents—for had they not shown

themselves willing for her to fall in love with Beauregard Dabney? More,

also, than Mrs. Winthrop—for had not that lady implied that it was only

low and obscure men who permitted themselves such baseness?

As you may believe, it was not long before Sylvia’s thoughts came to her

own intended husband. What had been _his_ life? What might be the

chances of her being brought to such a fate as Harriet’s? Apparently

nobody had any thought about it. They had been quick to avail themselves

of the appearance of evil on the part of Frank Shirley; but what had

they done to make sure that van Tuiver had been any better?

For three days Sylvia debated this problem; and then her mind was made

up—she would do something about it. She would talk to someone. But to

whom?

She began with her faithful chaperone, mentioning the African fever

theory, and so bringing up the subject of “bad diseases.” Just how much

did Aunt Varina know about these diseases? Not very much, it appeared.

Was there any way to find out about them? There was no way that Aunt

Varina could conceive—it was not a subject concerning which a young girl

ought to inquire.

“But,” protested Sylvia, “a girl has to marry. And think of taking such

chances! Suppose, for instance, that Mr. van Tuiver—”

“Ssh!” Aunt Varina almost leaped at her niece in her access of horror.

“Sylvia! how can you suggest such a thing?”

“But, Auntie, how can I be sure?”

“You surely know that the man to whom you have given your heart is a

gentleman!”

“Yes, Auntie, but then I knew that Beauregard Dabney was a gentleman—and

so did you. And see what has happened!”

“But, Sylvia dear! You don’t know that it’s _that_!”

“I very nearly know it. And if Beauregard was willing to marry when he—”

“But _he_ may not have known it, Sylvia!”

“Well, don’t you see, Aunt Varina? That makes it all the more serious!

If Mr. van Tuiver himself can be ignorant, how can I feel safe?”

“But, Sylvia, what could you do?”

“Why, I should think he ought to go to some one who knows—a doctor—and

make sure.”

The poor old lady was almost speechless with horror. What was the world

coming to? “How can you say such a thing?” she exclaimed. “You, a pure

girl! Who could suggest such a thing to Mr. van Tuiver?”

“Couldn’t Papa do it?”

“And pray, who is to suggest it to your father? Surely _you_ couldn’t!”

“Why no,” said Sylvia, “perhaps not. But couldn’t Mamma?”

“Your mother would _die_ first!” And Sylvia, remembering her “talk” with

“Miss Margaret,” had to admit that this was probably true.

But still she could not give up her idea that something ought to be

done. She took a couple of days more to think, and then made up her mind

to write to her Uncle Basil. The family had sent him to talk with her

about Frank’s misconduct, thus apparently indicating him as her proper

adviser in delicate matters.

So she wrote, at some length—using most carefully veiled language, and

tearing up many pages which contained words she could not endure seeing

on paper. But she made her meaning clear—that she thought someone should

approach her future husband on the subject.

Sylvia waited the necessary period for the Bishop’s reply, and read it

with trembling fingers and flaming cheeks—although its language was even

more carefully veiled than her own. The substance of it was that van

Tuiver was a Christian gentleman, and this must be Sylvia’s guarantee

that he would not bring any harm to the woman he so deeply revered.

Surely, if Sylvia respected him enough to marry him, she could trust him

in a matter like this! To approach him upon it would be to offer him a

deadly insult.

Whereupon Sylvia took several days more to worry and wonder. She was not

satisfied at all, and finally summoned her courage and wrote to the

Bishop again. It was not merely a question of honor; if that were true,

she would have to say that Beauregard Dabney was a scoundrel and she did

not believe that. Might it not possibly be _knowledge_ that was lacking?

She begged her uncle to do her the favor of his life by writing to van

Tuiver; and she intimated further that if he would not do it, she would

have to put the matter before her father.

So there was another wait, and then came a letter from the Bishop,

saying that he was writing as requested. Then, after a third wait, a

letter with van Tuiver’s reply. He had taken the inquiry very

magnanimously; he could understand, he said, how Sylvia had been upset

by the sight of her friend’s illness. As to her own case, she might rest

assured that there could be no such possibility. And so at last Sylvia’s

fears were allayed, and she was free to be unhappy about other matters.

§ 26

You must not imagine that Sylvia was spending these days in moping; all

her thinking had to be done in the odd moments of a strenuous career.

Day and night she had to meet new people, and new people were always an

irresistible stimulus to her curiosity. Not all of them were hall-boys

and shop-clerks, falling instant victims to her charms; on the contrary,

they were Knickerbocker “society”—people not infrequently as wealthy as

her future husband, and having an equally great notion of their own

importance. The tidings that Douglas van Tuiver had picked up a country

girl had not thrilled them with sympathetic emotions. The details of the

newspaper romance inspired them only with contempt. There had to be many

a flash of Sylvia’s rapier-wit, and many a flash of Sylvia’s red-brown

eyes, before these patrician plutocrats had been brought to acknowledge

her an equal.

A few of these acquaintances were kindly people, whom she could imagine

making into friends, if only there had been time. But she wondered how

anybody ever found time for friendship in this restless and expensive

and highly ornamental life. Such a whirl of dinner-parties and

supper-parties, dances and luncheons and teas! Such august and imposing

splendor, such dignified and even sombre dissipation! The Major had

provided abundant credit for this last splurge; and van Tuiver’s aunt

was also on hand, conspiring with her nephew to smother Sylvia under

loads of gifts. The girl wondered sometimes, was it that van Tuiver had

suspicions of her wavering, and sought to bind her by forcing these

luxuries upon her? Or would she be expected always to live this kind of

Arabian Nights’ existence?

There came old friends, to bask in the sunlight of her success. Miss

Abercrombie came, effulgent with delight, assured of a lifetime’s

prosperity by this demonstration of her system. With her came Celeste,

playing her difficult part with bitter pride. Harley Chilton ran down

from Boston, bringing the tidings that he had made the “Dickey” and saw

his way clear to the top of the Harvard pyramid. Last of all, two or

three days before the wedding came “Queen Isabella,” distributing her

largess of blessings to all concerned.

First she met “Miss Margaret” and the Major, and addressed them with

such mystical eloquence that the agitated pair had not a dry eye between

them. After which she sought the prospective bride and bridegroom; and

not even the most reverend millionaire bishop who was to perform the

ceremony could have been more pontifical and impressive than our great

lady in this solemn hour. We live in a cynical world, which affords but

poor soil for the nurture of the finer flowers of the spirit. But Mrs.

Winthrop was one really capable of experiencing the more exalted

emotions, and of giving them ungrudging utterance. She was thrilled now

by the vistas which she saw unfolding; not since the day of her espousal

of the celebrated railroad-builder had the wings of the seraphim rustled

so loudly about her head. She might have been compared to a creative

artist who labors for long in solitude, and who at last, when he reveals

his masterpiece, is startled by the clamor of the world’s applause.

“Sylvia,” she said, and put both her hands upon the girl’s—“Sylvia, you

have before you a great career, a career of service. You will be happy—I

know you must be happy, dear, when once you have come to realize what an

inspiration you are to others. Such fortune as yours falls but rarely to

a woman, but you will be worthy of it—I believe you will be worthy of

everything that has come to you.”

“I hope so, Mrs. Winthrop,” answered Sylvia, humbly.

And then, as van Tuiver discreetly moved away, the other went on, in a

low and deeply-moved voice: “Don’t imagine, dear girl, that I fail to

realize all your doubts and perplexities. I know just how you feel, for

I had to go through with it myself. Every woman does—but believe me,

such tremors are as nothing compared to all the rest of one’s life. We

learn to subordinate our personal feelings, our personal preferences.

That is one of the duties of those who have greatness as their lot—who

have to live what one might call public lives.”

Now, Sylvia might have her doubts as to the soundness of this doctrine,

but she had none as to the genuineness of the speaker’s feelings; so she

was a trifle shocked when Mrs. Winthrop went away, and she discovered

that her future husband was laughing.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, “it’s all right—only when you are Mrs. Douglas van

Tuiver, you will receive Isabella’s ecstasies with a trifle more

reserve. You will realize that she has her own axes to grind.”

“Axes—what do you mean?”

“Social axes. You’ll understand my world bye-and-bye, Sylvia. Isabella’s

trying to make an impression beyond her income, and she’s seeking

alliances. What you must remember is that the need is on her side.”

There was a pause, while Sylvia sat thinking. “Tell me,” she said, at

last, “why did Mrs. Winthrop change so suddenly, and begin urging me to

marry you?”

“It’s the same thing,” he answered. “She couldn’t afford to displease

me. When she found that I was determined to have my way, she tried to

make it seem her work. Naturally, she’d want as much of the prestige of

this wedding as she could get.”

Again Sylvia pondered. “Hasn’t Mrs. Winthrop’s husband enough money?”

she asked.

“He has enough, but he won’t spend it. The tragedy of Isabella’s life is

that her husband is really interested in railroads.”

“But I thought he adored her!” Sylvia remembered a pathetic stout

gentleman she had seen wandering about on the outskirts of a throng of

the great lady’s admirers.

“Oh, yes,” replied van Tuiver, with laughter. “I never saw a woman who

had a man more completely bluffed. But the trouble is that he offers

himself, and what she wants is his money.”

There followed a long silence. Van Tuiver had pleasant things to

meditate upon; but suddenly he chanced to look at Sylvia, and exclaimed,

“Why, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said, and turned away her head to conceal the tears she

had failed to repress.

“But what is it?” he demanded, not without a touch of annoyance.

“There’s no use talking about it,” was Sylvia’s reply. “It’s just that

you promised you would try not to think so much about money. Sometimes I

can’t help being frightened, when I realize that you don’t ever believe

in people—but only in money.”

She saw the old worried look come back to his face. “You know that I

believe in _you_!” he exclaimed.

“You told me,” she answered, “that the only way I was able to make an

impression upon you was by refusing to marry you. And now I have given

up that prestige—so aren’t you afraid that you may come to feel about me

as you do about Mrs. Winthrop?”

§ 27

Major and Mrs. Castleman arrived next morning, and after that there were

busy times for Sylvia. There was the wedding-gown to be shown, and the

trousseau and the presents; there were plans for the future to be told

of, and many blessings to be received. “Miss Margaret” was in a “state”

most of the time—tears of joy and tears of sorrow pursuing each other

down her generous cheeks. “Sylvia,” she exclaimed, in one breath, “I

_know_ you will be happy!” And then, in the next breath, “Sylvia, I

_hope_ you will be happy!” And then, in a third breath, “Sylvia, how

will we ever get on without you? Who will dare to spank the baby?”

It was with her father that she had the really trying ordeal; her father

took her into a room alone, and held her hands in his and tried to read

her soul. “Tell me, my child, are you going to be happy?”

“I think so, Papa,” she answered; and had to make herself look into his

eyes.

“I want you to understand me, dear Sylvia—even now, at this last hour,

don’t take the step unless you believe with your best judgment that you

will be happy.”

There was a moment of madness, when she had the impulse to fling herself

into his arms and cry, “I love Frank Shirley!” But instead of that she

hurried on, “I believe he loves me deeply, Papa.”

Said the Major, in a trembling voice, “There is no more solemn moment in

a father’s life than when he sees his dearly loved daughter taking this

irrevocable step. I want you to know, my darling, that I have prayed

earnestly, I have done my best to judge what is right for you.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, “I know that.”

“I want you to know that if ever I have seemed to be stern, it has been

because I believed my daughter’s welfare required it.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, again.

“I am sure, this man loves you, Sylvia; and I believe he’s a good man—he

ought to make you happy. But I want you to know that if by any chance my

prayers are denied—if you find that you are not happy—then your father’s

home will always be open to you, his arms will always be stretched wide

to clasp you.”

“Dear old Daddy!” whispered the girl. She felt the arms about her now,

and she began to sob softly, with a mixture of emotions. Oh, if only she

might stay for the balance of her life in the shelter of those arms,

that were so strong and so dependable! If only there were not the

dreadful thing called marriage—which drove her out into another pair of

arms, from which she shrunk with such unconquerable aversion!

This was the heart of her difficulty—her inability to conquer her

physical shrinking from the man to whom she was betrothed. Here she was,

upon the very eve of her wedding, and she had made no progress whatever.

Mentally and spiritually she had probed him, and felt that she knew him

intimately; but physically he was still an utter stranger to her—as much

so as any man she might have met upon the street. She would sit talking

with him, trying to forget herself and her fears for a while; and

gradually she would be conscious of his gaze upon her, his eyes

traveling over her form, devouring her in thought, longing for her. Then

she would go almost beside herself—she would have to spring up and break

the chain of his thoughts. It seemed to her that she was like the prey

of some wild beast—or a beast that was just tame enough to wait

patiently, knowing that at a certain time the prey would be in its

grasp.

On the evening before the wedding van Tuiver was to attend a

“stag-dinner” with his friends; but he called in to see her for a few

minutes, and the family discreetly left them alone. In a sudden access

of longing, he clasped her in his arms, and she forced herself to

submit. Then he began to kiss her, to press passionate kisses upon her

cheek and throat. His breath was hot, and utterly horrible to her; she

could not endure it, and cried out to him to stop, and struggled and

pushed him away. Still holding her, and gazing at her with desire

blazing in his eyes, he whispered, “Not yet?”

“Oh, how could you?” she cried.

“Is it not time you were beginning to learn?” he demanded; and then,

wholly beside himself, “Sylvia, how much longer am I to endure this?

Can’t you understand what you make me suffer? I love you—I love you to

distraction, and I get nothing from you—nothing! I dare not even tell

you that I love you!”

The passion in his voice made her shudder; and yet, too, she pitied him.

She was ashamed of herself for the way she treated him. “What can I do?”

she cried. “I can’t help it—as God is my witness, I can’t control my

feelings. I ask myself, ought I to marry you so?”

“It seems to me it’s rather late to bring up that question,” he

responded.

“I know, I know! I have nothing to say for myself—except that I didn’t

know, I couldn’t realize. It’s something I must tell you—how I have come

to feel—that I ought not to marry you, that you ought not to want me to

marry you, while things are like this. You must know this, so that if I

marry you, the responsibility will be yours!”

“And you think that is fair of you?” he demanded, his voice grown

suddenly hard.

He meant to rebuke her, and she felt that he had a right to rebuke her;

but the wave of emotion which swept her along was not to be controlled

by her reason. “Oh, you are going to be angry about it!” she cried. “How

horrible of you!”

He exclaimed, “Sylvia! Can you expect me not to be hurt?”

“I told you that I couldn’t help it! I told you in the very beginning

that you would have to take me as I was, and be satisfied if I did my

best! I told you that again and again—that I loved another man, that I

love him still—”

She stopped. A spasm of pain crossed his face—followed by a look of

fear. He hesitated, and then, his voice low and trembling, he began,

“Sylvia, forgive me. I know that you are right—that you are trying to do

your best. I will be patient. You must be patient with me also.”

She stood, her head bowed, ashamed of what she had said. Yet—she felt

that he ought to have heard it. “I hate to seem unfair,” she whispered,

her voice almost breaking. “I don’t want to give you pain, but I can’t

help these feelings, and I know it’s my duty to tell you of them. I

don’t see how you can go on—I should think you would be afraid to marry

me!”

For answer he caught her hands, exclaiming, “I will take my chances! I

love you, and I will never rest until you love me!”

§ 28

So far I have put together this story from the memories of Sylvia and

Frank Shirley. But now I have come to the point where you may watch the

events through my own eyes. I will take a paragraph or two to give you

an idea of the quality of these eyes, and then proceed without further

delay.

Mary Abbott, the teller of this tale, was at the age of forty a crude

farmer’s wife upon a lonely pioneer homestead in Manitoba. In winter in

that part of the world it begins to grow dark at three o’clock in the

afternoon, and it is not fully light until nine o’clock in the morning.

We were a mile from the nearest neighbor, and had often three feet of

snow upon the ground, with fifty degrees below zero and a sweeping wind.

I had a husband whom I feared and despised, and for whom I cooked and

washed and sewed, whether I was well or ill. Under these circumstances I

had raised three children to maturity. I had moved to town and seen them

through high-school; and now, the girl being married, and the two boys

in college, I found myself suddenly free to see the world.

You must not think of me as altogether ignorant. I had fought

desperately for books, and had grown up with my children. Discovering in

the town the perpetual miracle of a circulating library, I had read

wildly, acquiring a strange assortment of new ideas. But that, I am

ashamed to say, made very little difference when I reached the East. It

is one thing to read up in the theory of Socialism, and say that you

have freed yourself from _bourgeois_ ideals; it is quite another to come

from a raw pioneer community, and be suddenly hit between the eyes by

all the marvels of the great New Nineveh!

I forgot my principles; I wandered about, breathless with excitement.

Everything that I had ever read about, in Sunday supplements and cheap

magazines—here it was before my eyes! I got myself a hall-room in a

“Greenwich Village” boarding-house, and for days I went, thrusting my

inquisitive country face into everything that was cheap enough. The huge

shops with their amazing treasures of silks and jewels; the great hotels

with their gold and stucco splendors; the dizzy, tower-like

office-buildings; the newspaper offices with their whirling presses; the

theatres, the museums, the parks; the Brooklyn Bridge and the Statue of

Liberty, Grant’s Tomb and the Bowery—I was the very soul of that thing

which the New Yorker derisively calls the “rubber-neck wagon!” I took my

place in one of these moving grand-stands, and listened to all that came

out of the megaphone. Here was the home of the steel-king, which had

cost three millions of dollars! Here was the home where a fifty thousand

dollar chef was employed! Here was the old van Tuiver mansion, where the

millionaire-baby had been brought up! Here was the Palace Hotel, where

Miss Sylvia Castleman was staying!

It was the day before the wedding; and I, like all the rest of the city,

was thrilling over the Romance, knowing more about the preparations than

the bride herself. I had read all the papers—morning papers and

afternoon papers; I had read descriptions of the wedding-gown, the

trousseau, the rooms full of gift-treasures with detectives on guard. I

had stared at the outside of the church, and imagined the inside. Last

of all, I had wandered up to the Palace Hotel and peered about in the

lobby, amusing myself by imagining that each gorgeous female creature

who floated by and disappeared into a motor-car might possibly be the

Princess herself!

At the boarding-house we discussed the possibility of seeing the

wedding-cortege, and everybody said that I could not come within a block

of the church. “I’ll fight my way,” I declared; to which the reply was

that I would find out something about New York policemen that would cure

me of my fighting impulses. The result of the discussion was that I set

out immediately after breakfast, fired with the spirit of the

discoverers of Pike’s Peak.

I must get at least a glimpse, I told myself. What a tale to be able to

tell at the Women’s Club receptions at home! To say: “I saw her! She was

the loveliest thing! And oh, her dress! It was cream-white satin, with

four graduated flounces of exquisite point-lace!” Of course I could have

got all that from the newspapers; but I wanted to be able to say it

truly.

The wedding-hour was noon, but at nine there was already a respectable

crowd. I established myself upon the steps of a nearby house, with a

newspaper to sit on and a pair of borrowed opera-glasses in my hand-bag.

In the meantime I entertained myself talking with the other watchers,

who were a new type to me, well-dressed women, kept in luxury, whether

legal or otherwise, who fed their empty minds upon fashion sheets and

“society notes,” and had no idea in the world beyond the decking of

their persons and the playing of their little part in the great game of

Splurge. We talked about the van Tuiver family, its history and its

present status; we talked with awe about the bride; we talked about the

presents, the decorations, the costumes—there was so much to talk about!

Shortly after ten o’clock a calamity befell us—the police began to clear

the steps, driving the crowd far back from the church-entrance. What

agonies, what expostulations! How outrageous—when we had waited there an

hour already! Sometimes the steps were our own steps, sometimes they

were the steps of friends; but even that made no difference. “I’m sorry,

lady, the orders are to clear everything.” They were as gentle about it

as they could be, but that was none too gentle; we had the butt-ends of

clubs, pressing into our stomachs, and back we went, arguing, scolding,

threatening, sometimes weeping or fainting.

I was tremendously disappointed. To have to go back to the

boarding-house, and admit defeat to the milliner’s assistant who sat

next to me at meals! To hear “I told you so” from the “floor-walker” who

sat across the way! “I won’t do it!” I said to myself.

And then suddenly came my chance. Behind me there was a commotion, angry

protests—“Officer, let us through here! We have cards!” Cards—how our

souls thrilled as we heard the word! Here, right close to us, were some

of the chosen ones! Let us see them at least—a bit of Royalty at second

hand!

They pushed their way through—three women and two men. As they neared

me, I saw the engraved invitations in their hands, and it flashed over

me that in my hand-bag was a milliner’s advertisement of nearly the same

size and shape. I dived in, and fished it out with trembling fingers,

and fell in behind the party, and pushed through the crowd past the line

of police. There before me was the open space in front of the church!

I had acted on impulse, with no idea what to do next. I could scarcely

hope to get in to the wedding on a milliner’s card. But fortunately my

problem solved itself, for there were always the guests pushing into the

entrance, and everybody was perfectly willing to push ahead of me. All I

had to do was to “mark time,” and I was free to stay, inhaling delicious

perfumes and feasting my ears upon scraps of the conversation of the

_élite_. I foresaw that the banner of the great Northwest would wave

triumphantly in “Greenwich Village” that night!

§ 29

I will not stop to detail the separate thrills of this adventure.

Carriage after carriage, motor after motor drew up, and released new

revelations of grace and elegance. The time for the ceremony drew near,

and from the stir in the throng about me I knew that the guests from the

wedding-breakfast were passing. How I longed to talk to someone—to ask

who was this and that and the other one! Then I might have been able to

tell you how “Miss Margaret” wept, and how Aunt Varina trembled, and

what “Queen Isabella” was wearing! But the only persons I could be sure

of were the five lovely bridesmaids, and the bride, leaning upon the arm

of a stately old white-haired gentleman. How we craned our necks, and

what rapture transported us! We heard the thunder of the organ and the

orchestra within, and it corresponded to the state of our souls.

There was still quite a throng at either side of the entrance—newspaper

reporters, people who had come out of houses nearby, people who, like

myself, had got by the police-lines upon one pretext or another. Down

the street we could see a solid line of bluecoats, and behind them

people crowded upon steps, leaning out of windows, clinging to railings

and lamp-posts. We were in fear lest at any time we might be ordered to

join this throng, so we stayed silent and very decorous, careful not to

crowd or to make ourselves conspicuous.

You might have expected, perhaps, that when all the protagonists of the

drama had entered the church, the crowd would have dispersed; but not a

soul went. We stood, listening to the faint music, and imagining the

glories that were hid from our eyes. We pictured the procession up the

aisle, with the guests standing on the seats in order to get a glimpse

of it. We pictured the sacred ceremony. (There were some who had

prayer-books in their hands, the better to aid their imaginations.) We

pictured the bride, kneeling upon a white silk cushion embroidered with

gold, receiving the blessings of the millionaire bishop. We heard the

wild burst of chimes which told us that the two were made one, and our

pulses leaped with excitement.

All this took perhaps half an hour; and I think that about half that

time had passed when I first noticed Claire. I never knew how she got

there; but fate, or providence, or what you will, had set her next to

me, and that strange intuition which sometimes comes to me, and puts me

inside the soul of another person in less time than it takes for my eye

to look them over, gave me the warning of danger from her presence.

She was a tall and striking woman, beautifully gowned, with high color

and bold black eyes—a woman you would have noticed in any gathering. You

would have thought at once that she was a foreigner, but you might have

been puzzled as to her country, for she had none of the characteristic

French traits, and her English was quite perfect. I glanced at her once,

and thereafter I forgot everything else—the crowd, the ceremony, all.

What was the matter with this woman?

What first made me turn was a quick motion, as of a nervous spasm. Then

I saw that her hands were clenched tightly, and drawn up in front of her

as if she were struggling with someone. Her lips were moving, yet I

heard no sound; she was staring in front of her fixedly, but at nothing.

I must explain that it did not occur to me that she had been drinking.

My country imagination was not equal to that flight. To be sure, since

my arrival I had learned that the women of the New Nineveh did drink; I

had peered into the “orange room,” and the “palm room,” and several

other strange rooms, and had seen gorgeous peacock-creatures with little

glasses of highly-colored liquids before them. But I had not got so far

as to imagine any consequences; I had never thought of connecting the

high color in women’s cheeks, the sparkle in women’s eyes, the animation

of women’s chatter with the little glasses of highly-colored liquids.

They had so many other reasons for being animated, these fortunate,

victorious ones!

No, I only knew that this woman was excited; and I began forthwith to

imagine most desperate and romantic things. You must remember what I

said when I was first telling about Sylvia—that my ideas of the _grand

monde_ had been derived from cheap fiction in “Farm” and “Home” and

“Fireside” publications. You all know the old story of the beautiful

heroine who marries the dissolute duke; how the duke’s cast-off mistress

attends the wedding, and does something melodramatic and

thrilling—perhaps shoots at the duke, perhaps throws vitriol at the

bride, perhaps hands her a letter which is worse than vitriol to her

innocent young soul. I smile when I think how instantly I understood

this situation, and with what desperate seriousness I made ready to play

my part—watching the woman like a cat, ready to spring and seize her at

the first hostile move. And yet, after all, it was no joke, for Claire

was really quite capable of a murderous impulse when she was in her

present condition.

Other people had begun to notice her peculiar behavior; I saw one or two

women edging away from her, but I stayed all the closer. The time came

when we heard the music of the Mendelssohn March, and the excitement in

the crowd told us what was coming. Suddenly the doors of the church

swung open—and there, in her radiant loveliness—the bride!

Her veil was thrown back, but her eyes were cast down, and she clung to

the arm of her husband. Oh, what a vision she was, and what a thrill

went about! For myself, however, I scarcely saw her. My eyes were on the

strange woman.

She looked like a mad creature; quivering in every nerve, her fingers

twisting and untwisting themselves like writhing snakes. She had

crouched, as if ready to spring; and I had my hands within a foot of

hers, ready to stop her. The procession moved through the passage kept

clear by the police, and I literally held my breath while they

passed—held it until the bride had stepped into a limousine, and the

bridegroom had followed, and the door had slammed. Then suddenly the

strange woman drew herself up and turned upon me, her face glaring into

mine. I saw her wild eyes—and also I got a whiff of her breath. She

laughed, a hysterical, hateful laugh, and muttered: “She’ll pay for what

she gets!”

I whispered “Hush!” But the woman cried again, so that several people

heard her: “She’ll pay for everything she gets from him!” She added a

phrase in French, the meaning and import of which I learned to

understand long afterwards—“_Le cadeau de noce que la maitresse laisse

dans la corbeille de la jeune fille!_” Then suddenly I saw her sway, and

I caught her and steadied her, as I know how to steady people with my

big strong arms.

And that, reader, was the strange way of my coming into the life of

Sylvia Castleman!

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

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.

2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.

3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

4. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.