Sylvia went to her father, to talk with him about the difficult
subject of venereal disease. The poor major had never expected to
live to hear such a discourse from a daughter of his; however, with
the blind child under his roof, he could not find words to stop her.
"But, Sylvia," he protested, "what reason have you to suspect such a
thing of Roger Peyton?"
"I have the reason of his life. You know that he has the reputation
of being 'fast'; you know that he drinks, you know that I once
refused to speak to him because he danced with me when he was
drunk."
"My child, all the men you know have sowed their wild oats."
"Papa, you must not take advantage of me in such a discussion. I
don't claim to know what sins may be included in the phrase 'wild
oats.' Let us speak frankly--can you say that you think it unlikely
that Roger Peyton has been unchaste?"
The major hesitated and coughed; finally he said: "The boy drinks,
Sylvia; further than that I have no knowledge."
"The medical books tell me that the use of alcohol tends to break
down self-control, and to make continence impossible. And if that be
true, you must admit that we have a right to ask assurances. What do
you suppose that Roger and his crowd are doing when they go
roistering about the streets at night? What do they do when they go
off to Mardi Gras? Or at college--you know that Cousin Clive had to
get him out of trouble several times. Go and ask Clive if Roger has
ever been exposed to the possibility of these diseases."
"My child," said the major, "Clive would not feel he had the right
to tell me such things about his friend."
"Not even when the friend wants to marry his cousin?"
"But such questions are not asked, my daughter."
"Papa, I have thought this matter out carefully, and I hava
something definite to propose to you. I have no idea of stopping
with what Clive Chilton may or may not see fit to tell about his
chum. I want _you_ to go to Roger."
Major Castleman's face wore a blank stare.
"If he's going to marry your daughter, you have the right to ask
about his past. What I want you to tell him is that you will get the
name of a reputable specialist in these diseases, and that before he
can have your daughter he must present you with a letter from this
man, to the effect that he is fit to marry."
The poor major was all but speechless. "My child, who ever heard of
such a proposition?"
"I don't know that any one ever did, papa. But it seems to me time
they should begin to hear of it; and I don't see who can have a
better right to take the first step than you and I, who have paid
such a dreadful price for our neglect."
Sylvia had been prepared for opposition--the instinctive opposition
which men manifest to having this embarrassing subject dragged out
into the light of day. Even men who have been chaste
themselves--good fathers of families like the major--cannot be
unaware of the complications incidental to frightening their
women-folk, and setting up an impossibly high standard in
sons-in-law. But Sylvia stood by her guns; at last she brought her
father to his knees by the threat that if he could not bring himself
to talk with Roger Peyton, she, Sylvia Castleman, would do it.
15. The young suitor came by appointment the next day, and had a
session with the Major in his office. After he had gone, Sylvia went
to her father and found him pacing the floor, with an extinct cigar
between his lips, and several other ruined cigars lying on the
hearth.
"You asked him, papa?"
"I did, Sylvia."
"And what did he say?"
"Why, daughter----" The major flung his cigar from him with
desperate energy. "It was most embarrassing!" he exclaimed--"most
painful!" His pale old face was crimson with blushes.
"Go on, papa," said Sylvia, gentle but firm.
"The poor boy--naturally, Sylvia, he could not but feel hurt that I
should think it necessary to ask such questions. Such things are not
done, my child. It seemed to him that I must look upon him as--well,
as much worse than other young fellows----"
The old man stopped, and began to walk restlessly up and down. "Yes,
papa," said Sylvia. "What else?"
"Well, he said it seemed to him that such a matter might have been
left to the honour of a man whom I was willing to think of as a
son-in-law. And you see, my child, what an embarrassing position I
was in; I could not give him any hint as to my reason for being
anxious about these matters--anything, you understand, that might be
to the discredit of your husband."
"Go on, papa."
"Well, I gave him a fatherly talking to about his way of life."
"Did you ask him the definite question as to his health?"
"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
know
s 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 _fianc�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 _fianc�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?"
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 woul
dn'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