"No, Sylvia." 

"Did he tell you anything definite?" 

"No." 

"Then you didn't do what you had set out to do!" 

"Yes, I did. I told him that he must see a doctor." 

"You made quite clear to him what you wanted?" 

"Yes, I did--really, I did." 

"And what did he say?" She went to him and took his arm and led him
to a couch. "Come, papa, let us get to the facts. You must tell me."
They sat down, and the major sighed, lit a fresh cigar, rolled it
about in his fingers until it was ruined, and then flung it away. 

"Boys don't talk freely to older men," he said. "They really never
do. You may doubt this----" 

"What did he _say,_ papa?" 

"Why, he didn't know what to say. He didn't really say anything."
And here the major came to a complete halt. 

His daughter, after studying his face for a minute, remarked, "In
plain words, papa, you think he has something to hide, and he may
not be able to give you the evidence you asked?" 

The other was silent. 

"You fear that is the situation, but you are trying not to believe
it." As he still said nothing, Sylvia whispered, "Poor Celeste!" 

Suddenly she put her hands upon his shoulders, and looked into his
eye. "Papa, can't you see what that means--that Celeste ought to
have been told these things long ago?" 

"What good would that have done?" he asked, in bewilderment. 

"She could have known what kind of man she was choosing; and she
might be spared the dreadful unhappiness that is before her now." 

"Sylvia! Sylvia!" protested the other. "Surely such things cannot be
discussed with innocent young girls!" 

"So long as we refuse to do it, we are simply entering into a
conspiracy with the man of loose life, so that he may escape the
worst penalty of his evil-doing. Take the boys in our own set--why
is it they feel safe in running off to the big cities and 'sowing
their wild oats'--even sowing them in the obscure parts of their own
town? Is it not because they know that their sisters and girl
friends are ignorant and helpless; so that when they are ready to
pick a wife, they will be at no disadvantage? Here is Celeste; she
knows that Roger has been 'wild,' but no one has hinted to her what
that means; she thinks of things that are picturesque--that he's
high-spirited, and brave, and free with his money." 

"But, my daughter," protested the major, "such knowledge would have
a terrible effect upon young girls!" He rose and began to pace the
floor again. "Daughter, you are letting yourself run wild! The
sweetness, the virginal innocence of young and pure women--if you
take that from them, there'd be nothing left to keep men from
falling to the level of brutes!" 

"Papa," said Sylvia, "all that sounds well, but it has no meaning. I
have been robbed of my 'innocence,' and I know that it has not
debased me. It has only fitted me to deal with the realities of
life. And it will do the same for any girl who is taught by earnest
and reverent people. Now, as it is, we have to tell Celeste, but we
tell her too late." 

"But we _won't_ have to tell her!" cried the major. 

"Dear papa, please explain how we can avoid telling her." 

"I will inform her that she must give the young man up. She is a
good and dutiful daughter----" 

"Yes," replied Sylvia, "but suppose on this one occasion she were to
fail to be good and dutiful? Suppose the next day you learn that she
had run away and married Roger--what would you do about it then?" 

16. That evening Roger was to take his _fiancГ©e_ to one of the young
people's dances. And there was Celeste, in a flaming red dress, with
a great bunch of flaming roses; she could wear these colours, with
her brilliant black hair and gorgeous complexion. Roger was fair,
with a frank, boyish face, and they made a pretty couple; but that
evening Roger did not come. Sylvia helped to dress her sister, and
then watched her wandering restlessly about the hall, while the hour
came and went. Later in the evening Major Castleman called up the
Peyton home. The boy was not there, and no one seemed to know where
he was. 

Nor the next day did there come any explanation. At the Peytons it
was still declared that no one had heard from Roger, and for another
day the mystery continued, to Celeste's distress and mortification.
At last, from Clive Chilton, Sylvia managed to extract the truth.
Roger was drunk--crazy drunk, and had been taken off by some of the
boys to be straightened out. 

Of course this rumour soon got to the rest of the family and they
had to tell Celeste, because she was frantic with anxiety. There
were grave consultations among the Castleman ladies. It was a wanton
affront to his _fiancГ©e_ that the boy had committed, and something
must be done about it quickly. Then came the news that Roger had
escaped from his warders, and got drunker than ever; he had been out
at night, smashing the street lamps, and it had required extreme
self-control on the part of the town police force to avoid
complications. 

"Miss Margaret" went to her young daughter, and in a tear-flooded
scene informed her of the opinion of the family, that her
self-respect required the breaking of the engagement. Celeste went
into hysterics. She would _not_ have her happiness ruined for life!
Roger was "wild," but so were all the other boys--and he would atone
for his recklessness. She had the idea that if only she could get
hold of him, she could recall him to his senses; the more her mother
was scandalised by this proposal, the more frantically Celeste wept.
She shut herself up in her room, refusing to appear at meals, and
spending her time pacing the floor and wringing her hands. 

The family had been through all this with their eldest daughter
several years before, but they had not learned to handle it any
better. The whole household was in a state of distraction, and the
conditions grew worse day by day, as bulletins came in concerning
the young man. He seemed to have gone actually insane. He was not to
be restrained even by his own father, and if the unfortunate
policemen could be believed, he had violently attacked them.
Apparently he was trying to break down the unwritten law that the
sons of the "best families" are not arrested. 

Poor Celeste, with pale, tear-drenched face, sent for her elder
sister, to make one last appeal. Could Sylvia not somehow get hold
of Roger and bring him to his senses? Could she not interview some
of the other boys, and find out what he meant by his conduct? 

So Sylvia went to her cousin Clive, and had a talk with
him--assuredly the most remarkable talk that that young man had ever
had in his life. She told him that she wanted to know the truth
about Roger Peyton, and after a cross-examination that would have
made the reputation of a criminal lawyer, she got what she wanted.
All the young men in town, it seemed, knew the true state of
affairs, and were in a panic concerning it; that Major Castleman had
sent for Roger and informed him that he could not marry his
daughter, until he produced a certain kind of medical certificate.
No, he couldn't produce it! Was there a fellow in town who could
produce it? What was there for him to do but to get drunk and stay
drunk, until Celeste had cast him off? 

It was Clive's turn then to do some plain speaking. "Look here,
Sylvia," he said, "since you have made me talk about this----" 

"Yes, Clive?" 

"Do you know what people are saying--I mean the reason the Major
made this proposition to Roger?" 

She answered, in a quiet voice: "I suppose, Clive, it has something
to do with Elaine." 

"Yes, exactly!" exclaimed Clive. "They say--" But then he stopped.
He could not repeat it. "Surely you don't want that kind of talk,
Sylvia?" 

"Naturally, Clive, I'd prefer to escape that kind of talk, but my
fear of it will not make me neglect the protection of my sister." 

"But Sylvia," cried the boy, "you don't understand about this! A
woman _can't_ understand about these things----" 

"You are mistaken, my dear cousin," said Sylvia--and her voice was
firm and decisive. "I _do_ understand." 

"All right!" cried Clive, with sudden exasperation. "But let me tell
you this--Celeste is going to have a hard time getting any other man
to propose to her!" 

"You mean, Clive, because so many of them are----?" 

"Yes, if you must put it that way," he said. 

There was a pause, then Sylvia went on: "Let us discuss the
practical problem, Clive. Don't you think it would have been better
if Roger, instead of going off and getting drunk, had set about
getting himself cured?" 

The other looked at her, with evident surprise. "You mean in that
case Celeste might marry him?" 

"You say the boys are all alike, Clive; and we can't turn our girls
into nuns. Why didn't some of you fellows point that out to Roger?" 

"The truth is," said Clive, "we tried to." There was a little more
cordiality in his manner, since Sylvia had shown such a unexpected
amount of intelligence. 

"Well?" she asked. "What then?" 

"Why, he wouldn't listen to anything." 

"You mean--because he was drunk?" 

"No, we had him nearly sober. But you see--" And Clive paused for a
moment, painfully embarrassed. "The truth is, Roger had been to a
doctor, and been told it might take him a year or two to get cured."

"Clive!" she cried. "Clive! And you mean that in the face of that,
he proposed to go on and marry?" 

"Well, Sylvia, you see--" And the young man hesitated still longer.
He was crimson with embarrassment, and suddenly he blurted out: "The
truth is, the doctor told him to marry. That was the only way he'd
ever get cured." 

Sylvia was almost speechless. "Oh! Oh!" she cried, "I can't believe
you!" 

"That's what the doctors tell you, Sylvia. You don't
understand--it's just as I told you, a woman can't understand. It's
a question of a man's nature----" 

"But Clive--what about the wife and her health? Has the wife no
rights whatever?" 

"The truth is, Sylvia, people don't take this disease with such
desperate seriousness. You understand, it isn't the one that
everybody knows is dangerous. It doesn't do any real harm----" 

"Look at Elaine! Don't you call that real harm?" 

"Yes, but that doesn't happen often, and they say there are ways it
can be prevented. Anyway, fellows just can't help it! God knows we'd
help it if we could." 

Sylvia thought for a moment, and then came back to the immediate
question. "It's evident what Roger could do in this case. He is
young, and Celeste is still younger. They might wait a couple of
years and Roger might take care of himself, and in time it might be
properly arranged." 

But Clive did not seem too warm to the proposition, and Sylvia, who
knew Roger Peyton, was not long in making out the reason. "You mean
you don't think he has character enough to keep straight for a year
or two?" 

"To tell you the honest truth, we talked it out with him, and he
wouldn't make any promises." 

To which Sylvia answered: "Very well, Clive--that settles it. You
can help me find some man for Celeste who loves her a little more
than that!" 

17. That afternoon came Aunt Nannie, the Bishop's wife, in shining
chestnut-coloured silk to match a pair of shining chestnut-coloured
horses. Other people, it appeared, had been making inquiries into
Roger Peyton's story, and other people besides Clive Chilton had
been telling the truth. Aunt Nannie gathered the ladies of the
family in a hurried conference, and Sylvia was summoned to appear
before it--quite as in the days of her affair with Frank Shirley. 

"Miss Margaret" and Aunt Varina were solemn and frightened, as of
old; and, as of old, Aunt Nannie did the talking. "Sylvia, do you
know what people are saying about you?" 

"Yes, Aunt Nannie" said Sylvia. 

"Oh, you do know?" 

"Yes, of course. And I knew in advance that they would say it." 

Something about the seraphic face of Sylvia, chastened by terrible
suffering, must have suggested to Mrs. Chilton the idea of caution.
"Have you thought of the humiliation this must inflict upon your
relatives?" 

"I have found, Aunt Nannie," said Sylvia, "that there are worse
afflictions than being talked about." 

"I am not sure," declared the other, "that anything could be worse
than to be the object of the kind of gossip that is now seething
around our family. It has been the tradition of our people to bear
their afflictions in silence." 

"In this case, Aunt Nannie, it is obvious that silence would have
meant more afflictions, many more. I have thought of my sister--and
of all the other girls in our family, who may be led to sacrifice by
the ambitions of their relatives." Sylvia paused a moment, so that
her words might have effect. 

Said the bishop's wife: "Sylvia, we cannot undertake to save the
world from the results of its sins. God has his own ways of
punishing men." 

"Perhaps so, but surely God does not wish the punishment to fall
upon innocent young girls. For instance, Aunt Nannie, think of your
own daughters----" 

"My daughters!" broke out Mrs. Chilton. And then, mastering her
excitement: "At least, you will permit me to look after my own
children." 

"I noticed, my dear aunt, that Lucy May turned colour when Tom
Aldrich came into the room last night. Have you noticed anything?" 

"Yes--what of it?" 

"It means that Lucy May is falling in love with Tom." 

"Why should she not? I certainly consider him an eligible man." 

"And yet you know, Aunt Nannie, that he is one of Roger Peyton's
set. You know that he goes about town getting drunk with the gayest
of them, and you let Lucy May go on and fall in love with him! You
have taken no steps to find out about him--you have not warned your
daughter--" 

Mrs. Chilton was crimson with agitation. "Warned my daughter! Who
ever heard of such a thing?" 

Said Sylvia, quietly: "I can believe that you never heard of it--but
you will hear soon. The other day I had a talk with Lucy May--" 

"Sylvia Castleman!" And then it seemed Mrs. Chilton reminded herself
that she was dealing with a dangerous lunatic. "Sylvia," she said,
in a suppressed voice, "you mean to tell me that you have been
poisoning my young daughter's mind--" 

"You have brought her up well," said Sylvia, as her aunt stopped for
lack of words. "She did not want to listen to me. She said that
young girls ought not to know about such matters. But I pointed out
Elaine, and then she changed her mind--just as you will have to
change yours in the end, Aunt Nannie." 

Mrs. Chilton sat glaring at her niece, her bosom heaving. Then
suddenly she turned her indignant eyes upon Mrs. Castleman.
"Margaret, cannot you stop this shocking business? I demand that the
tongues of gossip shall no longer clatter around the family of which
I am a member! My husband is the bishop of this diocese, and if
our ancient and untarnished name is of no importance to Sylvia van
Tuiver, then, perhaps the dignity and authority of the church may
have some weight----" 

"Aunt Nannie," interrupted Sylvia, "it will do no good to drag Uncle
Basil into this matter. I fear you will have to face the fact that
from this time on your authority in our family is to be diminished.
You had more to do than any other person with driving me into the
marriage that has wrecked my life, and now you want to go on and do
the same thing for my sister and for your own daughters--to marry
them with no thought of anything save the social position of the
man. And in the same way you are saving up your sons to find rich
girls. You know that you kept Clive from marrying a poor girl in
this town a couple of years ago--and meantime it seems to be nothing
to you that he's going with men like Roger Peyton and Tom Aldrich,
learning all the vices the women in the brothels have to teach
him----" 

Poor "Miss Margaret" had several times made futile efforts to check
her daughter's outburst. Now she and Aunt Varina started up at the
same time. "Sylvia! Sylvia! You must not talk like that to your
aunt!" 

And Sylvia turned and gazed at them with her sad eyes. "From now
on," she said, "that is the way I am going to talk. You are a lot of
ignorant children. I was one too, but now I know. And I say to you:
Look at Elaine! Look at my little one, and see what the worship of
Mammon has done to one of the daughters of your family!" 

18. After this, Sylvia had her people reduced to a state of terror.
She was an avenging angel, sent by the Lord to punish them for their
sins. How could one rebuke the unconventionality of an avenging
angel? On the other hand, of course, one could not help being in
agony, and letting the angel see it in one's face. Outside, there
were the tongues of gossip clattering, as Aunt Nannie had said;
quite literally everyone in Castleman County was talking about the
blindness of Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver's baby, and how, because of it,
the mother was setting out on a campaign to destroy the modesty of
the State. The excitement, the curiosity, the obscene delight of the
world came rolling back into Castleman Hall in great waves, that
picked up the unfortunate inmates and buffeted them about. 

Family consultations were restricted, because it was impossible for
the ladies of the family to talk to the gentlemen about these
horrible things; but the ladies talked to the ladies, and the
gentlemen talked to the gentlemen, and each came separately to
Sylvia with their distress. Poor, helpless "Miss Margaret" would
come wringing her hands, and looking as if she had buried all her
children. "Sylvia! Sylvia! Do you realise that you are being
DISCUSSED?" That was the worst calamity that could befal a woman in
Castleman County--it summed up all possible calamities that could
befal her--to be "discussed." "They were discussing you once when
you wanted to marry Frank Shirley! And now--oh, now they will never
stop discussing you!" 

Then would come the dear major. He loved his eldest daughter as he
loved nothing else in the world, and he was a just man at heart. He
could not meet her arguments--yes, she was right, she was right.
But then he would go away, and the waves of scandal and shame would
come rolling. 

"My child," he pleaded, "have you thought what this thing is doing
to your husband? Do you realise that while you talk about protecting
other people, you are putting upon Douglas a brand that will follow
him through life?" 

Uncle Mandeville came up from New Orleans to see his favourite
niece; and the wave smote him as he alighted from the train, and he
became so much excited that he went to the club and got drunk, and
then could not see his niece, but had to be carried off upstairs and
given forcible hypodermics. Cousin Clive told Sylvia about it
afterwards--how Uncle Mandeville refused to believe the truth, and
swore that he would shoot some of these fellows if they didn't stop
talking about his niece. Said Clive, with a grim laugh: "I told him:
'If Sylvia had her way, you'd shoot a good part of the men in the
town.'" He answered: "Well, by God, I'll do it--it would serve the
scoundrels right!" And he tried to get out of bed and get his pants
and his pistols--so that in the end it was necessary to telephone
for the major, and then for Barry Chilton and two of his gigantic
sons from their plantation. 

Sylvia had her way, and talked things out with the agonised Celeste.
And the next day came Aunt Varina, hardly able to contain herself.
"Oh, Sylvia, such a horrible thing! To hear such words coming from
your little sister's lips--like the toads and snakes in the fairy
story! To think of these ideas festering in a young girl's brain!"
And then again: "Sylvia, your sister declares she will never go to a
party again! You are teaching her to hate men! You will make her a
STRONG-MINDED woman!"--that was another phrase they had summing up
a whole universe of horrors. Sylvia could not recall a time when she
had not heard that warning. "Be careful, dear, when you express an
opinion, always end it with a question: 'Don't you think so?' or
something like that, otherwise, men may get the idea that you are
'STRONG-MINDED'!" 

Sylvia, in her girlhood, had heard vague hints and rumours which now
she was able to interpret in the light of her experience. In her
courtship days she had met a man who always wore gloves, even in the
hottest weather, and she had heard that this was because of some
affliction of the skin. Now, talking with the young matrons of her
own set, she learned that this man had married, and had since had to
take to a wheel-chair, while his wife had borne a child with a
monstrous deformed head, and had died of the ordeal and the shock. 

Oh, the stories that one uncovered--right in one's own town, among
one's own set--like foul sewers underneath the pavements! The
succession of deceased generations, of imbeciles, epileptics,
paralytics! The innocent children born to a life-time of torment;
the women hiding their secret agonies from the world! Sometimes
women went all through life without knowing the truth about
themselves. There was poor Mrs. Valens, for example, who reclined
all day upon the gallery of one of the most beautiful homes in the
county, and showed her friends the palms of her hands, all covered
with callouses and scales, exclaiming: "What in the world do you
suppose can be the matter with me?" She had been a beautiful woman,
a "belle" of "Miss Margaret's" day; she had married a man who was
rich and handsome and witty--and a rake. Now he was drunk all the
time, and two of his children had died in hospital, and another had
arms that came out of joint, and had to be put in plaster of Paris
for months at a time. His wife, the one-time darling of society,
would lie on her couch and read the Book of Job until she knew it by
heart. 

And could you believe it, when Sylvia came home, ablaze with
excitement over the story, she found that the only thing that her
relatives were able to see in it was the Book of Job! Under the
burden of her afflictions the woman had become devout; and how could
anyone fail to see in this the deep purposes of Providence revealed?
"Verily," said "Miss Margaret," "'whom the Lord loveth, He
chasteneth.' We are told in the Lord's Word that 'the sins of the
fathers shall be visited upon the children, even unto the third and
fourth generations,' and do you suppose the Lord would have told us
that, if He had not known there would be such children?" 

19. I cannot pass over this part of my story without bringing
forward Mrs. Armistead, the town cynic, who constituted herself one
of Sylvia's sources of information in the crisis. Mrs. Sallie Ann
Armistead was the mother of two boys with whom Sylvia, as a child,
had insisted upon playing, in spite of the protests of the family.
"Wha' fo' you go wi' dem Armistead chillun, Mi' Sylvia?" would cry
Aunt Mandy, the cook. "Doan' you know they granddaddy done pick
cottin in de fiel' 'long o' me?" But while her father was picking
cotton, Sallie Ann had looked after her complexion and her figure,
and had married a rising young merchant. Now he was the wealthy
proprietor of a chain of "nigger stores," and his wife was the
possessor of the most dreaded tongue in Castleman County. 

She was a person who, if she had been born a duchess, would have
made a reputation in history; the one woman in the county who had a
mind and was not afraid to have it known. She used all the tricks of
a duchess--lorgnettes, for example, with which she stared people
into a state of fright. She did not dare try anything like that on
the Castlemans, of course, but woe to the little people who crossed
her path! She had an eye that sought out every human weakness, and
such a wit that even her victims were fascinated. One of the legends
about her told how her dearest foe, a dashing young matron, had
died, and all the friends had gathered with their floral tributes.
Sallie Ann went in to review the remains, and when she came out a
sentimental voice inquired: "And how does our poor Ruth look?" 

"Oh," was the answer, "as old and grey as ever!" 

Now Mrs. Armistead stopped Sylvia in the street: "My dear, how goes
the eugenics campaign?" 

And while Sylvia gazed, dumbfounded, the other went on as if she
were chatting about the weather: "You can't realise what a stir you
are making in our little frog pond. Come, see me, and let me tell
you the gossip! Do you know you've enriched our vocabulary?" 

"I have made someone look up the meaning of eugenics, at least,"
answered Sylvia--having got herself together in haste. 

"Oh, not only that, my dear. You have made a new medical term--the
'van Tuiver disease.' Isn't that interesting?" 

For a moment Sylvia shrivelled before this flame from hell. But
then, being the only person who had ever been able to chain this
devil, she said: "Indeed? I hope that with so fashionable a name the
disease does not become an epidemic!" 

Mrs. Armistead gazed at her, and then, in a burst of enthusiasm, she
exclaimed: "Sylvia Castleman, I have always insisted that one of the
most interesting women in the world was spoiled by the taint of
goodness in you." 

She took Sylvia to her bosom, as it were. "Let us sit on the fence
and enjoy this spectacle! My dear, you can have no idea what an
uproar you are making! The young married women gather in their
boudoirs and whisper ghastly secrets to each other; some of them are
sure they have it, and some of them say they can trust their
husbands--as if any man could be trusted as far as you can throw a
bull by the horns! Did you hear about poor Mrs. Pattie Peyton, she
has the measles, but she sent for a specialist, and vowed she had
something else--she had read about it, and knew all the symptoms,
and insisted on having elaborate blood-tests! And little Mrs.
Stanley Pendleton has left her husband, and everybody says that's
the reason. The men are simply shivering in their boots--they steal
into the doctor's offices by the back-doors, and a whole car-load of
the boys have been shipped off to Hot Springs to be boiled--" And so
on, while Mrs. Armistead revelled in the sensation of strolling down
Main Street with Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver! 

Then Sylvia would go home, and get the newest reactions of the
family to these horrors. Aunt Nannie, it seemed, made the discovery
that Basil, junr., her fifth son, was carrying on an intrigue with a
mulatto girl in the town; and she forbade him to go to Castleman
Hall, for fear lest Sylvia should worm the secret out of him; also
she shipped Lucy May off to visit a friend, and came and tried to
persuade Mrs. Chilton to do the same with Peggy and Maria, lest
Sylvia should somehow corrupt these children. 

The bishop came, having been ordered to preach religion to his
wayward niece. Poor dear Uncle Basil--he had tried preaching
religion to Sylvia many years ago, and never could do it because he
loved her so well that with all his Seventeenth Century theology he
could not deny her chance of salvation. Now the first sight that met
his eyes when he came to see her was his little blind grand-niece.
And also he had in his secret heart the knowledge that he, a rich
and gay young planter before he became converted to Methodism, had
played with the fire of vice, and been badly burned. So Sylvia did
not find him at all the Voice of Authority, but just a poor,
hen-pecked, unhappy husband of a tyrannous Castleman woman. 

The next thing was that "Miss Margaret" took up the notion that a
time such as this was not one for Sylvia's husband to be away from
her. What if people were to say that they had separated? There were
family consultations, and in the midst of them there came word that
van Tuiver was called North upon business. When the family
delegations came to Sylvia, to insist that she go with him, the
answer they got was that if they could not let her stay quietly at
home without asking her any questions, she would go off to New York
and live with a divorced woman Socialist! 

"Of course, they gave up," she wrote me. "And half an hour ago poor
dear mamma came to my room and said: 'Sylvia, dear, we will let you
do what you want, but won't you please do one small favour for me?'
I got ready for trouble, and asked what she wanted. Her answer was:
'Won't you go with Celeste to the Young Matrons' Cotillion tomorrow
night, so that people won't think there's anything the matter?'" 

20. Roger Peyton had gone off to Hot Springs, and Douglas van Tuiver
was in New York; so little by little the storms about Castleman Hall
began to abate in violence. Sylvia was absorbed with her baby, and
beginning to fit her life into that of her people. She found many
ways in which she could serve them--entertaining Uncle Mandeville to
keep him sober; checking the extravagrance of Celeste; nursing
Castleman Lysle through green apple convulsions. That was to be her
life for the future, she told herself, and she was making herself
really happy in it--when suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, came
an event that swept her poor little plans into chaos. 

It was an afternoon in March, the sun was shining brightly and the
Southern springtime was in full tide, and Sylvia had had the old
family carriage made ready, with two of the oldest and gentlest
family horses, and took the girls upon a shopping expedition to
town. In the front seat sat Celeste, driving, with two of her
friends, and in the rear seat was Sylvia, with Peggy and Maria. When
an assemblage of allurements such as this stopped on the streets of
the town, the young men would come out of the banks and the offices
and gather round to chat. There would be a halt before an ice-cream
parlour, and a big tray of ices would be brought out, and the girls
would sit in the carriage and eat, and the boys would stand on the
curb and eat--undismayed by the fact that they had welcomed half a
dozen such parties during the afternoon. The statistics proved that
this was a thriving town, with rapidly increasing business, but
there was never so much business as to interfere with gallantries
like these. 

Sylvia enjoyed the scene; it took her back to happy days, before
black care had taken his seat behind her. She sat in a kind of
dream, only half hearing the merriment of the young people, and only
half tasting her ice. How she loved this old town, with its streets
deep in black spring mud, its mud-plastered "buck-boards" and saddle
horses hitched at every telegraph pole! Its banks and stores and law
offices seemed shabbier after one had made the "grand tour," but
they were none the less dear to her for that. She would spend the
rest of her days in Castleman County, and the sunshine and peace
would gradually enfold her. 

Such were her thoughts when the unforeseen event befel. A man on
horse-back rode down a side-street, crossing Main Street a little
way in front of her; a man dressed in khaki, with a khaki riding hat
pulled low over his face. He rode rapidly--appearing and vanishing,
so that Sylvia scarcely saw him--really did not see him with her
conscious mind at all. Her thoughts were still busy with dreams, and
the clatter of boys and girls; but deep within her had begun a
tumult--a trembling, a pounding of the heart, a clamouring under the
floors of her consciousness. 

And slowly this excitement mounted. What was the matter, what had
happened? A man had ridden by, but why should a man--. Surely it
could not have been--no. There were hundreds of men in Castleman
County who wore khaki and rode horse-back, and had sturdy, thick-set
figures! But then, how could she make a mistake? How could her
instinct have betrayed her so? It was that same view of him as he
sat on a horse that had first thrilled her during the hunting party
years ago! 

He had gone West, and had said that he would never return. He had
not been heard from in years. What an amazing thing, that a mere
glimpse of a man who looked and dressed and rode like him should be
able to set her whole being into such a panic! How futile became her
dreams of peace! 

She heard the sound of a vehicle close beside her carriage, and
turned and found herself looking into the sharp eyes of Mrs.
Armistead. It happened that Sylvia was on the side away from the
curb, and there was no one talking to her; so Mrs. Armistead ran her
electric alongside, and had the stirring occasion to herself. Sylvia
looked into her face, so full of malice, and knew two things in a
flash: First, it really had been Frank Shirley riding by; and
second, Mrs. Armistead had seen him! 

"Another candidate for your eugenics class!" said the lady. 

Sylvia glanced at the young people and made sure they were paying no
attention. She might have made some remark that would have brought
them into the conversation, and delivered her from the torments of
this devil. But no, she had never quailed from Mrs. Armistead in her
life, and she would not now give her the satisfaction of driving off
to tell the town that Sylvia van Tuiver had seen Frank Shirley, and
had been overcome by it, and had taken refuge behind the skirts of
her little sisters! 

"You can see I have my carriage full of pupils" she said, smilingly.

"How happy it must make you, Sylvia--coming home and meeting all
your old friends! It must set you trembling with ecstasy--angels
singing in the sky above you--little golden bells ringing all over
you!" 

Sylvia recognised these phrases. They were part of an effort she had
made to describe the raptures of young love to her bosom friend,
Harriet Atkinson. And so Harriet had passed them on to the town! And
they had been cherished all these years. 

She could not afford to recognise these illegitimate children of
romance. "Mrs. Armistead," she said, "I had no idea you had so much
poetry in you!" 

"I am simply improvising, my dear--upon the colour in your cheeks at
present!" 

There was no way save to be bold. "You couldn't expect me not to be
excited, Mrs. Armistead. You see, I had no idea he had come back
from the West." 

"They say he left a wife there." remarked the lady, innocently. 

"Ah!" said Sylvia. "Then he will not be staying long, presumably." 

There was a pause; all at once Mrs. Armistead's voice became gentle
and sympathetic. "Sylvia," she said, "don't imagine that I fail to
appreciate what is going on in your heart. I know a true romance
when I see one. If only you could have known in those days what you
know now, there might have been one beautiful love story that did
not end as a tragedy." 

You would have thought the lady's better self had suddenly been
touched. But Sylvia knew her; too many times she had seen this
huntress trying to lure a victim out of his refuge. 

"Yes, Mrs. Armistead," she said, gently. "But I have the consolation
at least of being a martyr to science." 

"In what way?" 

"Have you forgotten the new medical term that I have given to the
world?" 

And Mrs. Armistead looked at her for a moment aghast. "My God,
Sylvia!" she whispered; and then--an honest tribute: "You certainly
can take care of yourself!" 

"Yes," said Sylvia. "Tell that to my other friends in town." And so,
at last, Mrs. Armistead started her machine, and this battle of
hell-cats came to an end. 

21. Sylvia rode home in a daze, answering without hearing the
prattle of the children. She was appalled at the emotions that
possessed her--that the sight of Frank Shirley riding down the
street could have affected her so! She forgot Mrs. Armistead, she
forgot the whole world, in her dismay over her own state of mind.
Having dismissed Frank from her life and her thoughts forever, it
seemed to her preposterous that she should be at the mercy of such
an excitement. 

She found herself wondering about her family. Did they know that
Frank Shirley had returned? Would they have failed to mention it to
her? For a moment she told herself it would not have occurred to
them she could have any interest in the subject. But no--they were
not so _naive_--the Castleman women--as their sense of propriety
made them pretend to be! But how stupid of them not to give her
warning! Suppose she had happened to meet Frank face to face, and in
the presence of others! She must certainly have betrayed her
excitement; and just at this time, when the world had the Castleman
family under the microscope! 

She told herself that she would avoid such difficulty in future; she
would stay at home until Frank had gone away. If he had a wife in
the West, presumably he had merely come for a visit to his mother
and sisters. And then Sylvia found herself in an argument with
herself. What possible difference could it make that Frank Shirley
had a wife? So long as she, Sylvia, had a husband, what else
mattered? Yet she could not deny it--it brought her a separate and
additional pang that Frank Shirley should have married. What sort of
wife could he have found--he, a stranger in the far West? And why
had he not brought his wife home to his people? 

When she stepped out of the carriage, it was with her mind made up
that she would stay at home until all danger was past. But the next
afternoon a neighbour called up to ask Sylvia and Celeste to come
and play cards in the evening. It was not a party, Mrs. Witherspoon
explained to "Miss Margaret," who answered the 'phone; just a few
friends and a good time, and she did so hope that Sylvia was not
going to refuse. The mere hint of the fear that Sylvia might refuse
was enough to excite Mrs. Castleman. Why should Sylvia refuse? So
she accepted the invitation, and then came to plead with her
daughter--for Celeste's sake, and for the sake of all her family, so
that the world might see that she was not crushed by misfortune! 

There were reasons why the invitation was a difficult one to
decline. Mrs. Virginia Witherspoon was the daughter of a Confederate
general whose name you read in every history-book; and she had a
famous old home in the country which was falling about her ears--her
husband being seldom sober enough to know what was happening. She
had also three blossoming daughters, whom she must manage to get out
of the home before the plastering of the drawing-room fell upon the
heads of their suitors; so that the ardour of her husband-hunting
was one of the jokes of the State. Naturally, under such
circumstances, the Witherspoons had to be treated with consideration
by the Castlemans. One might snub rich Yankees, and chasten the
suddenly-prosperous; but a family with an ancient house in ruins,
and with faded uniforms and battle-scarred sabres in the
cedar-chests in its attic--such a family can with difficulty
overdraw its social bank account. 

Dolly Witherspoon, the oldest daughter, had been Sylvia's rival for
the palm as the most beautiful girl in Castleman County. And Sylvia
had triumphed, and Dolly had failed. So, in her secret heart she
hated Sylvia, and the mother hated her; and yet--such was the social
game--they had to invite Sylvia and her sister to their
card-parties, and Sylvia and her sister had to go. They had to go
and be the most striking figures there: Celeste, slim and pale from
sorrow, virginal, in clinging white chiffon; and Sylvia, regal and
splendid, shimmering like a mermaid in a gown of emerald green. 

The mermaid imagined that she noticed a slight agitation underneath
the cordiality of her hostess. The next person to greet her was Mrs.
Armistead; and Sylvia was sure that she did not imagine the
suppressed excitement in that lady's manner. But even while she was
speculating and suspecting, she was led toward the drawing-room. It
was late, her hostess explained; the other guests were waiting, so
if they did not mind, the play would start at once. Celeste was to
sit at that table over there, with Mr. Witherspoon's crippled
brother, and old Mr. Perkins, who was deaf; and Sylvia was to come
this way--the table in the corner. Sylvia moved toward it, and Dolly
Witherspoon and her sister, Emma, greeted her cordially, and then
stepped out of the way to let her to her seat; and Sylvia gave one
glance--and found herself face to face with Frank Shirley! 

22. Frank's face was scarlet; and Sylvia had a moment of blind
terror, when she wanted to turn and fly. But there about her was the
circle of her enemies; a whole roomful of people, breathless with
curiosity, drinking in with eyes and ears every hint of distress
that she might give. And the next morning the whole town would, in
imagination, attend the scene! 

"Good-evening, Julia," said Sylvia, to Mrs. Witherspoon's youngest
daughter, the other lady at the table. "Good-evening, Malcolm"--to
Malcolm McCallum, an old "beau" of hers. And then, taking the seat
which Malcolm sprang to move out for her, "How do you do, Frank?" 

Frank's eyes had fallen to his lap. "How do you do?" he murmured.
The sound of his voice, low and trembling, full of pain, was like
the sound of some old funeral bell to Sylvia; it sent the blood
leaping in torrents to her forehead. Oh, horrible, horrible! 

For a moment her eyes fell like his, and she shuddered, and was
beaten. But there was the roomful of people, watching; there was
Mrs. Armistead, there were the Witherspoon women gloating. She
forced a tortured smile to her lips, and asked, "What are we
playing?" 

"Oh, didn't you know that?" said Julia. "Progressive whist." 

"Thank-you," said Sylvia. "When do we begin?" And she looked
about--anywhere but at Frank Shirley, with his face grown so old in
four years. 

No one said anything, no one made a move. Was everybody in the room
conspiring to break her down? "I thought we were late," she said,
desperately; and then, with another effort--"Shall I cut?" she
asked, of Julia. 

"If you please," said the girl; but she did not make a motion to
pass the cards. Her manner seemed to say, You may cut all night, but
it won't help you to rob me of this satisfaction. 

Sylvia made a still more determined effort. If the game was to be
postponed indefinitely, so that people might watch her and
Frank--well, she would have to find something to talk about. 

"It is a surprise to see you again, Frank Shirley!" she exclaimed. 

"Yes," he said. His voice was a mumble, and he did not lift his
eyes. 

"You have been in the West, I understand?" 

"Yes," again; but still he did not lift his eyes. 

Sylvia managed to lift hers as far as his cravat; and she saw in it
an old piece of imitation jewelry which she had picked up once on
the street, and had handed to him in jest. He had worn it all these
years! He had not thrown it away--not even when she had thrown him
away! 

Again came a surge of emotion; and out of the mist she looked about
her and saw the faces of tormenting demons, leering. "Well," she
demanded, "are we going to play?" 

"We were waiting for you to cut," said Julia, graciously; and
Sylvia's fury helped to restore her self-posession. She cut the
cards; and fate was kind, sparing both her and Frank the task of
dealing. 

But then a new difficulty arose. Julia dealt, and thirteen cards lay
in front of Frank Shirley; but he did not seem to know that he ought
to pick them up. And when the opposing lady called him to time, in
what seemed an unnecessarily penetrating voice, he found that he was
physically unable to get the cards from the table. And when with his
fumbling efforts he got them into a bunch, he could not straighten
them out--to say nothing of the labour of sorting them according to
suit, which all whist-players know to be an indispensable
preliminary to the game. When the opposing lady prodded him again,
Frank's face changed from vivid scarlet to a dark and alarming
purple. 

Miss Julia led the tray of clubs; and Frank, whose turn came next,
spilled three cards upon the table, and finally selected from them
the king of hearts to play--hearts being trumps. "But you have a
club there, Mr. Shirley," said his opponent; something that was
pardonable, inasmuch as the nine of clubs lay face up where he had
shoved it aside. 

"Oh--I beg pardon," he stammered, and took back his king, and
reached into his hand and pulled out the six of clubs, and a diamond
with it. 

It was evident that this could not go on. Sylvia might be equal to
the emergency, but Frank was not. He was too much of a human being
and too little of a social automaton. Something must be done. 

"Don't they play whist out West, Mr. Shirley," asked Julia, still
smiling benevolently. 

And Sylvia lowered her cards. "Surely, my dear, you must
understand," she said, gently. "Mr. Shirley is too much embarrassed
to think about cards." 

"Oh!" said the other, taken aback. (_L'audace, touljours l'audace!_
runs the formula!) 

"You see," continued Sylvia, "this is the first time that Frank has
seen me in more than three years. And when two people have been as
much in love as he and I were, they are naturally disturbed when
they meet, and cannot put their minds upon a game of cards." 

Julia was speechless. And Sylvia let her glance wander casually
about the room. She saw her hostess and her daughters standing
watching; and near the wall at the other side of the room stood the
head-devil, who had planned this torment. 

"Mrs. Armistead," Sylvia called, "aren't you going to play
to-night?" Of course everybody in the room heard this; and after it,
anyone could have heard a pin drop. 

"I'm to keep score," said Mrs. Armistead. 

"But it doesn't need four to keep score," objected Sylvia--and
looked at the three Witherspoon ladies. 

"Dolly and Emma are staying out," said Mrs. Witherspoon. "Two of our
guests did not come." 

"Well," Sylvia exclaimed, "that just makes it right! Please let them
take the place of Mr. Shirley and myself. You see, we haven't seen
each other for three or four years, and it's hard for us to get
interested into a game of cards." 

The whole room caught its breath at once; and here and there one
heard a little squeak of hysteria, cut short by some one who was not
sure whether it was a joke or a scandal. "Why--Sylvia!" stammered
Mrs. Witherspoon, completely staggered. 

Then Sylvia perceived that she was mistress of the scene. There came
the old rapture of conquest, that made her social genius. "We have
so much that we want to talk about," she said, in her most winning
voice. "Let Dolly and Emma take our places, and we will sit on the
sofa in the other room and chat. You and Mrs. Armistead come and
chaperone us. Won't you do that, please?" 

"Why--why----" gasped the bewildered lady. 

"I'm sure that you will both be interested to hear what we have to
say to each other; and you can tell everybody about it
afterwards--and that will be so much better than having the
card-game delayed any more." 

And with this side-swipe Sylvia arose. She stood and waited, to make
sure that her ex-fiancГ© was not too paralysed to follow. She led him
out through the tangle of card-tables; and in the door-way she
stopped and waited for Mrs. Armistead and Mrs. Witherspoon, and
literally forced these two ladies to come with her out of the room. 

23. Do you care to hear the details of the punishment which Sylvia
administered to the two conspirators? She took them to the sofa, and
made Frank draw up chairs for them, and when she had got comfortably
seated, she proceeded to talk to Frank just as gently and sincerely
and touchingly as she would have talked if there had been nobody
present. She asked about all that had befallen him, and when she
discovered that he was still not able to chat, she told him about
herself, about her baby, who was beautiful and dear, even if she was
blind, and about all the interesting things she had seen in Europe.
When presently the old ladies showed signs of growing restless, she
put hand cuffs on them and chained them to their chairs. 

"You see," she said, "it would never do for Mr. Shirley and myself
to talk without a chaperon. You got me into this situation, you
know, and papa and mamma would never forgive you." 

"You are mistaken, Sylvia!" cried Mrs. Witherspoon. "Mr. Shirley so
seldom goes out, and he had said he didn't think he would come!" 

"I am willing to accept that explanation," said Sylvia, politely,
"but you must help me out now that the embarrassing accident has
happened." 

Nor did it avail Mrs. Witherspoon to plead her guests and their
score. "You may be sure they don't care about the score," said
Sylvia. "They'd much prefer you stayed here, so that you can tell
them how Frank and I behaved." 

And then, while Mrs. Witherspoon was getting herself together,
Sylvia turned upon the other conspirator. "We will now hold one of
my eugenics classes," she said, and added, to Frank, "Mrs. Armistead
told me that you wanted to join my class." 

"I don't understand," replied Frank, at a loss. 

"I will explain," said Sylvia. "It is not a very refined joke they
have in the town. Mrs. Armistead meant to say that she credits a
disgraceful story that was circulated about you when we were
engaged, and which my people made use of to make me break our
engagement. I am glad to have a chance to tell you that I have
investigated and satisfied myself that the story was not true. I
want to apologise to you for ever having believed it; and I am sure
that Mrs. Armistead may be glad of this opportunity to apologise for
having said that she believed it." 

"I never said that I believed it!" cried Sallie Ann. 

"No, you didn't, Mrs. Armistead--you would not be so crude as to say
it directly. You merely dropped a hint, which would lead everybody
to understand that you believed it." 

Sylvia paused, just long enough to let the wicked lady suffer, but
not long enough to let her find a reply. "When you tell your friends
about this scene," she continued, "please make clear that I did not
drop hints about anything, but said exactly what I meant--that the
story is false, so far as it implies any evil done by Mr. Shirley,
and that I am deeply ashamed of myself for having ever believed it.
It is all in the past now, of course--we are both of us married, and
we shall probably never meet again. But it will be a help to us in
future to have had this little talk--will it not, Frank?" 

There was a pause, while Sallie Ann Armistead recovered from her
dismay, and got back a little of her fighting power. Suddenly she
rose: "Virginia," she said, firmly, "you are neglecting your
guests."