§ 1
At the railroad station in Boston, on an afternoon in May, Sylvia Castleman and Mrs. Tuis were arriving from New York. You must picture Sylvia in a pale grey cloak, with a pale blue blouse; also a grey hat with broad brim and “bluets” on top. You can imagine, perhaps, how her colors shone from under it. She was meeting Frank for the first time in eight months.
The host of the occasion was Cousin Harley Chilton, now also a student at Harvard. It was mid-afternoon, and he had borrowed a motor-car to show her something of Cambridge. Their bags were sent to their hotel in the city, and Frank took his place by Sylvia’s side. They had to talk about commonplaces, but he could feel her delight and eagerness like an electric radiance. As they flew over the long bridge, he wrapped a robe about her. What a thrill went through him as he touched her! “Oh, I’m so happy! so happy!” she exclaimed, her eyes shining into his. He had given her a new name in his letters, and he whispered it now into her ear: “Lady Sunshine! Lady Sunshine!”
They came to a vista of dark stone buildings, buried in the foliage of enormous elms. “Here are the grounds,” he said; and Sylvia cried, “Oh Harley, go slowly. I want to see them.” Her cousin complied, and Frank began pointing out the various buildings by name.
But suddenly the car drew in by the curb and stopped. Harley leaned forward, remarking, “Spark-plug loose, I think.”
Now the sparking seemed to be all right, so far as Frank could judge, but he did not know very much about automobiles. In general he was a guileless nature, and did not understand that this was the beginning of Sylvia’s social career at Harvard. But Sylvia, who knew about automobiles, and still more about human nature, saw two men strolling in her direction, and now about twenty yards away—upper-classmen, clad in white flannel trousers, blue coats, huge straw hats like baskets, and ties knotted with that elaborately studied carelessness which means that the wearer has spent fifteen minutes before the mirror prior to emerging from his room.
Naturally Sylvia looked at them, for they were interesting figures; and naturally they looked back, for Sylvia was an interesting figure too. One could not hear, but could almost see them exclaiming: “By Jove! Who is she?” They went by—almost, but not quite. They stopped, half turned and stood hesitating.
Harley looked up from his spark-plugs, a frown of annoyance on his face. He glanced toward the two men. “Hello, Harmon,” he said.
“Hello, Chilton,” was the reply. “Something wrong?”
“Yes,” said Harley. “Can’t make it out.”
The two approached, lifting their hats, the one who had spoken a trifle in advance. “Can I help?” he asked, solicitously.
“I think I can manage it,” answered Harley; but the men did not move on. “Whose car?” asked the one called Harmon.
“Bert Wilson’s,” said Harley. “I don’t know its tricks.”
The other’s eyes swept the car, and of course rested on Sylvia, who was in the seat nearest the curb. That made an awkward moment—as he intended it should. “Mr. Harmon,” said Harley, “let me present you to my cousin, Miss Castleman.”
The man brightened instantly and made a bow. “I am delighted to meet you, Miss Castleman,” he said, and introduced his companion. “You have just arrived?” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Sylvia.
“But you’ve been here before?”
“Never befo-ah,” said Sylvia; whereupon he knew from what part of the world she had come. There began an animated conversation—Harley and his spark-plugs being forgotten entirely.
All this Frank watched, sitting back in his seat in silence. He knew these men to be Seniors, high and mighty swells from the “Gold Coast;” but he had never been introduced to them, and so he was technically as much a stranger to them as if he had just arrived from the far South himself. Sylvia, who was new to the social customs of Harvard, never dreamed of this situation, and so left him to watch the comedy undisturbed.
There came along a couple of Freshmen; classmates of Harley’s and members of his set. He was buried in his labors, but they were not to be put off. “What’s the matter, old man?” they asked; and when he answered, “Don’t know,” they stood, and waited for him to find out, stealing meantime fascinated glances at the vision in the car.
Next came two street-boys; and of course street-boys always stop and stare when there is a car out of order. Then came an old gentleman, who paused, smiling benevolently, as he might have paused to survey a florist’s window. So there was Sylvia, quite by accident, and in perfect innocence, holding a levee on the sidewalk, with two men whose ties proclaimed them members of an ineffable and awe-inspiring “final” club doing homage to her.
“My cousin’s a Freshman,” she was saying. “So I’ll have three years more to come here.”
“Oh, but think of us!” exclaimed the basket-hats together. “We go out next month!”
“Can’t you manage to fail in your exams?” she inquired. “Or is that impossible at Harvard?” She looked from one to another, and in the laugh that followed even the street-boys and the benevolent old gentleman joined.
By that time the gathering was assuming the proportions of a scandal. Men were coming from the “Yard” to see what was the matter.
“Hello, Frank Shirley,” called a voice. “Anybody hurt?” And Sylvia answered in a low voice, “Yes, several.” She looked straight into Harmon’s eyes, and she got his answer—that she had not spoken too rashly.
The séance came to a sudden end, because Harley realized that he was subjecting club-men to an ordeal on the street. He straightened up from his spark-plug. “I think she’s all right now,” he said—and to one of the street-boys, “Crank her up, there.”
“Where are you stopping?” asked Harmon.
Harley named the hotel, but did not take the hint—which was presumptuous in a Freshman.
“Good-bye, Miss Castleman,” said the Senior, wistfully; and the crowd parted and the car went on.
After which Sylvia sank back in her seat and looked at Frank and laughed. “Isn’t it wonderful,” she exclaimed, “what a woman can do with her eyes!”