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 Sylvi
a 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
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
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-fianc� 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!"