§ 18
Sylvia was making her plans to leave in a couple of days. It was close to Commencement, and she would have liked to stay, but there had come a disturbing letter from home—the Major was not well, and there had been an overflow, entailing serious damage to the crops and still more serious cares. At such a time the family reached out blindly to Sylvia—no matter what was going wrong, they were sure it would go right if she were present.
And besides, her work at Harvard was done. This was duly certified to by Harley, who came to see her the next morning, in such a state of bliss as is not often vouchsafed to Freshmen. “It’s all right, old girl,” he said, “you can go whenever you get ready. You surely are a witch, Sylvia!”
“What has happened?” she asked.
“I had a call from Douglas van Tuiver last night.”
“You don’t mean it, Harley!”
“Yes. Did you ask him to do it?”
“I should think I did not!”
“Well, whatever the reason was, he was as nice as could be. Said he was interested in me, and that he’d back me for one of the earlier tens.”
“How perfectly contemptible of him!” exclaimed Sylvia.
Needless to say, this was a turn not expected by Harley. “See here,” he protested, “it seems to me you’re taking a little too high a line with van Tuiver. There’s really no need to go so far——”
“Now please,” said Sylvia, “don’t concern yourself with that. I came up here to help you, and I’ve done it, and that’s all you can ask.”
“Oh, very well,” he said, and there was a sulky pause. Finally, however, the sun of his delight broke through the clouds again. “Say, Sylvia!” he exclaimed. “Do you know, the whole college is talking about what happened at that dance. Tell me, honestly—did you know anything about what they meant to do?”
“I think that’s a question you’d know better than to ask, Harley.”
“I was ready to knock a fellow down because he hinted it. But Bates is square—he takes it all on himself. They say Mrs. Winthrop will never forgive him.”
Sylvia pondered. “Won’t it make Edith angry with you?” she asked.
“I’ll keep away from her for a few days,” laughed Harley. “If I get my social position established, she’ll get over her anger, never fear. By the way, would you like to know what Edith thinks about you?”
“Why—did she tell you?”
“No, but there’s a chap in my class who knows her. He told me what she said—only of course one can’t be sure.”
“Tell me what it was,” said Sylvia, “and I’ll know if she said it.”
“That you were shallow; that with the arts you used any woman could snare a man. But she would scorn to use them.”
“Yes,” laughed the other, “she said it.”
“Are you really as bad as that?” asked Harley. “What arts does she mean?”
“This is a woman’s affair, Harley. What else did she say?”
“She said her mother was disappointed in you. She thought you had a beautiful soul, but you’d let it be spoiled by flattery. She said you had no real understanding of a character like van Tuiver, or the responsibilities of his position.”
Sylvia said nothing, but sat considering the matter. She had no philosophy about these affairs; she was following her instincts, and sometimes she was assailed by doubts and troubled by new points of view. She was surprised to realize how very revolutionary a standpoint she had come to take in the matter of Mrs. Winthrop’s favorite. Why should she, Sylvia Castleman, a descendant of Lady Lysle, be trying to pull down the pillars of the social temple?
That was still her mood when, after Harley’s departure, the telephone rang and she found herself voice to voice with “Queen Isabella.” “Won’t you come and have luncheon with me, Sylvia?” asked the latter. “I’ve sent Edith away, so that we can be to ourselves. I want to have a long talk with you.” And Sylvia, in a penitent state, answered that she would come.