Chapter XI: Book III: Sylvia Loses (3)

“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?”