Book 3. Sylvia As Rebel - Part 2

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_ BOOK III. SYLVIA AS REBEL - PART II

8. For the rest of that year I knew nothing about Sylvia except what I read in the "society" column of my newspaper--that she was spending the late summer in her husband's castle in Scotland. I myself was suffering from the strain of what I had been through, and had to take a vacation. I went West; and when I came back in the fall, to plunge again into my work, I read that the van Tuivers, in their yacht, the "Triton," were in the Mediterranean, and were planning to spend the winter in Japan.

And then one day in January, like a bolt from the blue, came a cablegram from Sylvia, dated Cairo: "Sailing for New York, Steamship 'Atlantic,' are you there, answer."

Of course I answered. And I consulted the sailing-lists, and waited, wild with impatience. She sent me a wireless, two days out, and so I was at the pier when the great vessel docked. Yes, there she was, waving her handkerchief to me; and there by her side stood her husband.

It was a long, cold ordeal, while the ship was warped in. We could only gaze at each other across the distance, and stamp our feet and beat our hands. There were other friends waiting for the van Tuivers, I saw, and so I held myself in the background, full of a thousand wild speculations. How incredible that Sylvia, arriving with her husband, should have summoned me to meet her!

At last the gangway was let down, and the stream of passengers began to flow. In time came the van Tuivers, and their friends gathered to welcome them. I waited; and at last Sylvia came to me--outwardly calm--but with her emotions in the pressure of her two hands. "Oh, Mary, Mary!" she murmured. "I'm so glad to see you! I'm so glad to see you!"

"What has happened?" I asked.

Her voice went to a whisper. "I am leaving my husband."

"Leaving your husband!" I stood, dumbfounded.

"Leaving him for ever, Mary."

"But--but----" I could not finish the sentence. My eyes moved to where he stood, calmly chatting with his friends.

"He insisted on coming back with me, to preserve appearances. He is terrified of the gossip. He is going all the way home, and then leave me."

"Sylvia! What does it mean?" I whispered.

"I can't tell you here. I want to come and see you. Are you living at the same place?"

I answered in the affirmative.

"It's a long story," she added. "I must apologise for asking you to come here, where we can't talk. But I did it for an important reason. I can't make my husband really believe that I mean what I say; and you are my Declaration of Independence!" And she laughed, but a trifle wildly, and looking at her suddenly, I realized that she was keyed almost to the breaking point.

"You poor dear!" I murmured.

"I wanted to show him that I meant what I said. I wanted him to see us meet. You see, he's going home, thinking that with the help of my people he can make me change my mind."

"But why do you go home? Why not stay here with me? There's an apartment vacant next to mine."

"And with a baby?"

"There are lots of babies in our tenement," I said. But to tell the truth, I had almost forgotten the baby in the excitement of the moment. "How is she," I asked.

"Come and see," said Sylvia; and when I glanced enquiringly at the tall gentleman who was chatting with his friends, she added, "She's _my_ baby, and I have a right to show her."

The nurse, a rosy-cheeked English girl in a blue dress and a bonnet with long streamers, stood apart, holding an armful of white silk and lace. Sylvia turned back the coverings; and again I beheld the vision which had so thrilled me--the comical little miniature of herself--her nose, her lips, her golden hair. But oh, the pitiful little eyes, that did not move! I looked at my friend, uncertain what I should say; I was startled to see her whole being aglow with mother-pride. "Isn't she a dear?" she whispered. "And, Mary, she's learning so fast, and growing--you couldn't believe it!" Oh, the marvel of mother-love, I thought--that is blinder than any child it ever bore!

We turned away; and Sylvia said, "I'll come to you as soon as I've got the baby settled. Our train starts for the South to-night, so I shan't waste any time."

"God bless you, dear," I whispered; and she gave my hand a squeeze, and turned away. I stood for a few moments watching, and saw her approach her husband, and exchange a few smiling words with him in the presence of their friends. I, knowing the agony that was in the hearts of that desperate young couple, marvelled anew at the discipline of caste.

9. She sat in my big arm-chair; and how proud I was of her, and how thrilled by her courage. Above all, however, I was devoured by curiosity. "Tell me!" I exclaimed.

"There's so much," she said.

"Tell me why you are leaving him."

"Mary, because I don't love him. That's the one reason. I have thought it out--I have thought of little else for the last year. I have come to see that it is wrong for a woman to live with a man she does not love. It is the supreme crime a woman can commit."

"Ah, yes!" I said. "If you have got that far!"

"I have got that far. Other things have contributed, but they are not the real things--they might have been forgiven. The fact that he had this disease, and made my child blind----"

"Oh! You found out that?"

"Yes, I found it out."

"How?"

"It came to me little by little. In the end, he grew tired of pretending, I think." She paused for a moment, then went on, "The trouble was over the question of my obligations as a wife. You see, I had told him at the outset that I was going to live for my baby, and for her alone. That was the ground upon which he had persuaded me not to see you or read any of your letters. I was to ask no questions, and be nice and bovine--and I agreed. But then, a few months ago, my husband came to me with the story of his needs. He said that the doctors had given their sanction to our reunion. Of course, I was stunned. I knew that he had understood me before we left Florida."

She stopped. "Yes, dear," I said, gently.

"Well, he said now the doctors were agreed there was no danger to either of us. We could take precautions and not have children. I could only plead that the whole subject was distressing to me. He had asked me to put off my problems till my baby was weaned; now I asked him to put off his. But that would not do, it seemed. He took to arguing with me. It was an unnatural way to live, and he could not endure it. I was a woman, and I couldn't understand this. It seemed utterly impossible to make him realize what I felt. I suppose he has always had what he wanted, and he simply does not know what it is to be denied. It wasn't only a physical thing, I think; it was an affront to his pride, a denial of his authority." She stopped, and I saw her shudder.

"I have been through it all," I said.

"He wanted to know how long I expected to withhold myself. I said, 'Until I have got this disease out of my mind, as well as out of my body; until I know that there is no possibility of either of us having it, to give to the other.' But then, after I had taken a little more time to think it over, I said, 'Douglas, I must be honest with you. I shall never be able to live with you again. It is no longer a question of your wishes or mine--it is a question of right or wrong. I do not love you. I know now that it can never under any circumstances be right for a woman to give herself in the intimacy of the sex-relation without love. When she does it, she is violating the deepest instinct of her nature, the very voice of God in her soul.'

"His reply was, 'Why didn't you know that before you married?'

"I answered, 'I did not know what marriage meant; and I let myself be persuaded by others.'

"'By your own mother!' he declared.

"I said, 'A mother who permits her daughter to commit such an offence is either a slave-dealer, or else a slave.' Of course, he thought I was out of my mind at that. He argued about the duties of marriage, the preserving of the home, wives submitting themselves to their husbands, and so on. He would not give me any peace----"

And suddenly she started up. I saw in her eyes the light of old battles. "Oh, it was a horror!" she cried, beginning to pace the floor. "It seemed to me that I was living the agony of all the loveless marriages of the world. I felt myself pursued, not merely by the importunate desires of one man--I suffered with all the millions of women who give themselves night after night without love! He came to seem like some monster to me; I could not meet him unexpectedly without starting. I forbade him to mention the subject to me again, and for a long time he obeyed. But several weeks ago he brought it up afresh, and I lost my self-control completely. 'Douglas,' I said, 'I can stand it no longer! It is not only the tragedy of my blind child--it's that you have driven me to hate you. You have crushed all the life and joy and youth out of me! You've been to me like a terrible black cloud, constantly pressing down on me, smothering me. You stalk around me like a grim, sepulchral figure, closing me up in the circle of your narrow ideas. But now I can endure it no longer. I was a proud, high-spirited girl, you've made of me a colourless social automaton, a slave of your stupid worldly traditions. I'm turning into a feeble, complaining, discontented wife! And I refuse to be it. I'm going home--where at least there's some human spontaneity left in people; I'm going back to my father!'--And I went and looked up the next steamer!"

She stopped. She stood before me, with the fire of her wild Southern blood shining in her cheeks and in her eyes.

I sat waiting, and finally she went on, "I won't repeat all his protests. When he found that I was really going, he offered to take me in the yacht, but I wouldn't go in the yacht. I had got to be really afraid of him--sometimes, you know, his obstinacy seems to be abnormal, almost insane. So then he decided he would have to go in the steamer with me to preserve appearances. I had a letter saying that papa was not well, and he said that would serve for an excuse. He is going to Castleman County, and after he has stayed a week or so, he is going off on a hunting-trip, and not return."

"And will he do it?"

"I don't think he expects to do it at present. I feel sure he has the idea of starting mamma to quoting the Bible to me, and dragging me down with her tears. But I have done all I can to make clear to him that it will make no difference. I told him I would not say a word about my intentions at home until he had gone away, and that I expected the same silence from him. But, of course--" She stopped abruptly, and after a moment she asked: "What do you think of it, Mary?"

I leaned forward and took her two hands in mine. "Only," I said, "that I'm glad you fought it out alone! I knew it had to come--and I didn't want to have to help you to decide!"

10. She sat for a while absorbed in her own thoughts. Knowing her as I did, I understood what intense emotions were seething within her, what a terrific struggle her decision must have represented.

"Dear Friend," she said, suddenly, "don't think I haven't seen his side of the case. I try to tell myself that I dealt with him frankly from the beginning. But then I ask was there ever a man I dealt with frankly? There was coquetry in the very clothes I wore! And now that we are so entangled, now that he loves me, what is my duty? I find I can't respect his love for me. A part of it is because my beauty fascinates him, but more of it seems to me just wounded vanity. I was the only woman who ever flouted him, and he has a kind of snobbery that made him think I must be something remarkable because of it. I talked that all out with him--yes, I've dragged him through all that humiliation. I wanted to make him see that he didn't really love me, that he only wanted to conquer me, to force me to admire him and submit to him. I want to be myself, and he wants to be himself--that has always been the issue between us."

"That is the issue in many unhappy marriages," I said.

"I've done a lot of thinking in the last year," she resumed--"about things generally, I mean. We American women think we are so free. That is because our husbands indulge us, give us money, and let us run about. But when it comes to real freedom--freedom of intellect and of character, English women are simply another kind of being from us. I met a cabinet minister's wife--he's a Conservative in everything, and she's an ardent suffragist; she not merely gives money, she makes speeches and has a public name. Yet they are friends, and have a happy home-life. Do you suppose my husband would consider such an arrangement?"

"I thought he admired English ways," I said.

"There was the Honorable Betty Annersley--the sister of a chum of his. She was friendly with the militants, and I wanted to talk to her to understand what such women thought. Yet my husband tried to stop me from going to see her. And it's the same way with everything I try to do, that threatens to take me out of his power. He wanted me to accept the authority of the doctors as to any possible danger from venereal disease. When I got the books, and showed him what the doctors admitted about the question--the narrow margin of safety they allowed, the terrible chances they took--he was angry again."

She stopped, seeing a question in my eyes. "I've been reading up on the subject," she explained. "I know it all now--the things I should have known before I married."

"How did you manage that?"

"I tried to get two of the doctors to give me something to read, but they wouldn't hear of it. I'd set myself crazy imagining things, it was no sort of stuff for a woman's mind. So in the end I took the bit in my teeth. I found a medical book store, and I went in and said: 'I am an American physician, and I want to see the latest works on venereal disease.' So the clerk took me to the shelves, and I picked out a couple of volumes."

"You poor child!" I exclaimed.

"When Douglas found that I was reading these books he threatened to burn them. I told him 'There are more copies in the store, and I am determined to be educated on this subject.'"

She paused. "How much like my own experience!" I thought.

"There were chapters on the subject of wives, how much they were not told, and why this was. So very quickly I began to see around my own experience. Douglas must have figured out that this would be so, for the end of the matter was an admission."

"You don't mean he confessed to you!"

She smiled bitterly. "No," she said. "He brought Dr. Perrin to London to do it for him. Dr. Perrin said he had concluded I had best know that my husband had had some symptoms of the disease. He, the doctor, wished to tell me who was to blame for the attempt to deceive me. Douglas had been willing to admit the truth, but all the doctors had forbidden it. I must realise the fearful problem they had, and not blame them, and, above all I must not blame my husband, who had been in their hands in the matter."

"How stupid men are! As if that would excuse him!"

"I'm afraid I showed the little man how poor an impression he had made--both for himself and for his patron. But I had suffered all there was to suffer, and I was tired of pretending. I told him it would have been far better for them if they had told me the truth at the beginning."

"Ah, yes!" I said. "That is what I tried to make them see; but all I got for it was a sentence of deportation!"

11. When Sylvia's train arrived at the station of her home town, the whole family was waiting upon the platform for her, and a good part of the town besides. The news that she had arrived in New York, and was coming home on account of her father's illness, had, of course, been reproduced in all the local papers, with the result that the worthy major had been deluged with telegrams and letters concerning his health. Notwithstanding, he had insisted upon coming to the train to meet his daughter. He was not going to be shut up in a sickroom to please all the gossips of two hemispheres. In his best black broad-cloth, his broad, black hat newly brushed, and his old-fashioned, square-toed shoes newly shined, he paced up and down the station platform for half an hour, and it was to his arms that Sylvia flew when she alighted from the train.

There was "Miss Margaret," who had squeezed her large person and fluttering draperies out of the family automobile, and was waiting to shed tears over her favourite daughter; there was Celeste, radiant with a wonderful piece of news which she alone was to impart to her sister; there were Peggy and Maria, shot up suddenly into two amazingly-gawky girls; there was Master Castleman Lysle, the only son of the house, with his black-eyed and bad-tempered French governess. And finally there was Aunt Varina, palpitating with various agitations, not daring to whisper to anyone else the fears which this sudden home-coming inspired in her. Bishop Chilton and his wife were away, but a delegation of cousins had come; also Uncle Mandeville Castleman had sent a huge bunch of roses, which were in the family automobile, and Uncle Barry Chilton had sent a pair of wild turkeys, which were soon to be in the family.

Behind Sylvia stalked her cold and haughty husband, and behind him tripped the wonderful nursemaid, with her wonderful blue streamers, and her wonderful bundle of ruffles and lace. All the huge family had to fall upon Sylvia and kiss and embrace her rapturously, and shake the hand of the cold and haughty husband, and peer into the wonderful bundle, and go into ecstasies over its contents. Rarely, indeed, did the great ones of this earth condescend to spread so much of their emotional life before the public gaze; and was it any wonder that the town crowded about, and the proprieties were temporarily repealed?

It had never been published, but it was generally known throughout the State that Sylvia's child was blind, and it was whispered that this portended something strange and awful. So there hung about the young mother and the precious bundle an atmosphere of mystery and melancholy. How had she taken her misfortune? How had she taken all the great events that had befallen her--her progress through the courts and camps of Europe? Would she still condescend to know her fellow-townsmen? Many were the hearts that beat high as she bestowed her largess of smiles and friendly words. There were even humble old negroes who went off enraptured to tell the town that "Mi' Sylvia" had actually shaken hands with them. There was almost a cheer from the crowd as the string of automobiles set out for Castleman Hall.

12. There was a grand banquet that evening, at which the turkeys entered the family. Not in years had there been so many people crowded into the big dining-room, nor so many servants treading upon each other's toes in the kitchen.

Such a din of chatter and laughter! Sylvia was her old radiant self, and her husband was quite evidently charmed by the patriarchal scene. He was affable, really genial, and won the hearts of everybody; he told the good major, amid a hush which almost turned his words into a speech, that he was able to understand how they of the South loved their own section so passionately; there was about the life an intangible something--a spell, an elevation of spirit, which set it quite apart by itself. And since this was the thing which they of the South most delighted to believe concerning themselves, they listened enraptured, and set the speaker apart as a rare and discerning spirit.

Afterwards came the voice of Sylvia: "You must beware of Douglas, Papa; he is an inveterate flatterer." She laughed as she said it; and of those present it was Aunt Varina alone who caught the ominous note, and saw the bitter curl of her lips as she spoke. Aunt Varina and her niece were the only persons there who knew Douglas van Tuiver well enough to appreciate the irony of the term "inveterate flatterer."

Sylvia realized at once that her husband was setting out upon a campaign to win her family to his side. He rode about the major's plantations, absorbing information about the bollweevil. He rode back to the house, and exchanged cigars, and listened to stories of the major's boyhood during the war. He went to call upon Bishop Chilton, and sat in his study, with its walls of faded black volumes on theology. Van Tuiver himself had had a Church of England tutor, and was a punctilious high churchman; but he listened respectfully to arguments for a simpler form of church organization, and took away a voluminous _exposé_ of the fallacies of "Apostolic Succession." And then came Aunt Nannie, ambitious and alert as when she had helped the young millionaire to find a wife; and the young millionaire made the suggestion that Aunt Nannie's third daughter should not fail to visit Sylvia at Newport.

There was no limit, apparently, to what he would do. He took Master Castleman Lysle upon his knee, and let him drop a valuable watch upon the floor. He got up early in the morning and went horse-back riding with Peggy and Maria. He took Celeste automobiling, and helped by his attentions to impress the cocksure young man with whom Celeste was in love. He won "Miss Margaret" by these attentions to all her children, and the patience with which he listened to accounts of the ailments which had afflicted the precious ones at various periods of their lives. To Sylvia, watching all these proceedings, it was as if he were binding himself to her with so many knots.

She had come home with a longing to be quiet, to avoid seeing anyone. But this could not be, she discovered. There was gossip about the child's blindness, and the significance thereof; and to have gone into hiding would have meant an admission of the worst. The ladies of the family had prepared a grand "reception," at which all Castleman County was to come and gaze upon the happy mother. And then there was the monthly dance at the Country Club, where everybody would come, in the hope of seeing the royal pair. To Sylvia it was as if her mother and aunts were behind her every minute of the day, pushing her out into the world. "Go on, go on! Show yourself! Do not let people begin to talk!"

13. She bore it for a couple of weeks; then she went to her cousin, Harley Chilton. "Harley," she said, "my husband is anxious to go on a hunting-trip. Will you go with him?"

"When?" asked the boy.

"Right away; to-morrow or the next day."

"I'm game," said Harley.

After which she went to her husband. "Douglas, it is time for you to go."

He sat studying her face. "You still have that idea?" he said, at last.

"I still have it."

"I was hoping that here, among your home-people, your sanity would partially return."

"I know what you have been hoping, Douglas. And I am sorry--but I am quite unchanged."

"Have we not been getting along happily here?" he demanded.

"No, I have not--I have been wretched. And I cannot have any peace until you no longer haunt me. I am sorry for you, but I must be alone--and so long as you are here the entertainments will continue."

"We could make it clear that we did not care for entertainments. We could find some quiet place near your people, where we could live in peace."

"Douglas," she said, "I have spoken to Cousin Harley. He is ready to go hunting with you. Please call him up and make arrangements to start to-morrow. If you are still here the following day, I shall leave for one of Uncle Mandeville's plantations."

There was a long silence. "Sylvia," he said, at last, "how long do you imagine this behaviour of yours can continue?"

"It will continue forever. My mind is made up. It is necessary that you make up yours."

Again he waited, while he made sure of his self-control. "You propose to keep the baby with you?" he asked, at last.

"For the present, yes. The baby cannot get along without me."

"And for the future?"

"We will make a fair arrangement as to that. Give me a little time to get myself together, and then I will come and live somewhere near you in New York, and I will arrange it so that you can see the child as often as you please. I have no desire to take her from you--I only want to take myself from you."

"Sylvia," he said, "have you realized all the unhappiness this course of yours is going to bring to your people?"

"Oh, don't begin that now!" she pleaded.

"I know," he said, "how determined you are to punish me. But I should think you would try to find some way to spare them."

"Douglas," she replied, "I know exactly what you have been doing. I have watched your change of character since you came here. You may be able to make my people so unhappy that I must be unhappy also. You see how deeply I love them, how I yield everything for love of them. But let me make it clear, I will not yield this. It was for their sake I went into this marriage, but I have come to see that it was wrong, and no power on earth can induce me to stay in it. My mind is made up--I will not live with a man I do not love. I will not even pretend to do it. Now do you understand me, Douglas?"

There was a silence, while she waited for some word from him. When none came, she asked, "You will arrange to go to-morrow?"

He answered calmly, "I see no reason why I, your husband, should permit you to pursue this insane course. You propose to leave me; and the reason you give is one that would, if it were valid, break up two-thirds of the homes in the country. Your own family will stand by me in my effort to prevent your ruin."

"What do you expect to do?" she asked in a suppressed voice.

"I have to assume that my wife is insane; and I shall look after her till she comes to her senses."

She sat watching him for a few moments, wondering at him. Then she said, "You are willing to stay on here, day after day, pursuing me in the only refuge I have. Well then, I shall not consider your feelings. I have a work to do here--and I think that when I begin it, you will want to be far away."

"What do you mean?" he asked--and he looked at her as if she were really a maniac.

"You see my sister Celeste is about to marry. That was the wonderful news she had to tell me at the depot. It happens that I have known Roger Peyton all my life, and know he has the reputation of being one of the 'fastest' boys in the town."

"Well?" he asked.

"Just this, Douglas--I do not intend to leave my sister unprotected as I was. I am going to tell her about Elaine. I am going to tell her all that she needs to know. It is bound to mean arguments with the old people, and in the end the whole family will be discussing the subject. I feel sure you will not care to be here under such circumstances."

"And may I ask when this begins?" he inquired, with intense bitterness in his tone.

"Right away," she said. "I have merely been waiting until you should go."

He said not a word, but she knew by the expression on his face that she had carried her point at last. He turned and left the room; and that was the last word she had with him, save for their formal parting in the presence of the family.

14. Roger Peyton was the son and heir of one of the oldest families in Castleman County. I had heard of this family before--in a wonderful story that Sylvia told of the burning of "Rose Briar," their stately mansion, some years previously: how the neighbours had turned out to extinguish the flames, and failing, had danced a last whirl in the ball-room, while the fire roared in the stories overhead. The house had since been rebuilt, more splendid than ever, and the prestige of the family stood undiminished. One of the sons was an old "flame" of Sylvia's, and another was married to one of the Chilton girls. As for Celeste, she had been angling for Roger the past year or two, and she stood now at the apex of happiness.

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 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 _fiancée_ 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 _fiancée_ 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!" _

Read next: Book 3. Sylvia As Rebel - Part 3

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