§ 2
By the time that Sylvia’s train reached home, she had gotten herself together. Although still anxious, she no longer showed it. Whatever the tragedy might be, she was ready to face it, not asking for help, but giving help to others. It was surely for that that they had summoned her.
She was on the car platform as the train slowed up; and there before her eyes stood her father. He was haggard, and gray, and old-looking—but alive, thank God!
She flew to his arms. “Papa! What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, my child,” he answered.
“But who is ill?”
“Nobody is ill, Sylvia.”
“Tell me the truth!”
“No one,” he insisted.
“But then, why did you send for me?”
“We wanted you home.”
“But, Papa! In this fashion—surely you wouldn’t—” She stopped, and the Major turned to greet his sister.
Sylvia got into the motor, and they started. “Is Mamma well?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“And the baby?”
“Everybody is well.”
“And you, Papa?”
“I have not been so very fine, but I am better now.” Sylvia suspected he had got up from his sick-bed to come and meet her, and so her sense of dread increased. But she put no more questions—she knew she would have to wait. The Major had begun to talk about the state of the crops.
The car reached home; and there on the steps were her mother, and the baby shouting a lusty welcome, and Peggy and Maria dancing with glee—to say nothing of troops of servants, inside the house and out, grinning and waiting to be noticed. There was noise and excitement, so much that for several minutes Sylvia forgot her anxiety. Then everybody wanted to know if she had brought them presents; she had to stop and think what she had purchased, and what she had delayed to purchase, and what she had left behind in the rush of departure. Aunt Varina said something about the special train, and there were questions about that, and about Douglas van Tuiver, who had provided it. And still not a word about the mystery.
“But, Mamma,” cried Sylvia, at last, “why did you bring me home like this?”
“Hush, dear,” said “Miss Margaret.” “Not now.”
And so more delay. Aunt Nannie was expected shortly—she had said she would run over to greet the returning voyagers. Sylvia scented trouble in this, and would no longer be put off, but took her mother aside. “Mamma,” she pleaded, “please tell me what’s the matter!”
The other colored. “It isn’t time now, my child.”
“But why not, Mamma?”
“Wait, Sylvia, please. It is nothing——”
“But, Mamma, did you send me such a telegram for nothing? Don’t you realize that I have been almost beside myself? I was sure that somebody was dead.”
“Sylvia, dear,” pleaded “Miss Margaret,” “please wait—I will tell you by and by. There are people here now——”
“But there’ll always be people here. Come into the library with me.”
“I beg you to calm yourself——”
“But, Mamma, I want to know! Why should I be tormented with delay? Can’t I see by the manner of all of you that something is wrong? What is it?” She dragged her mother off to the library, and shut the door. “Now, Mamma, tell me!”
The other looked towards the door, as if she wished to make her escape. Something about her attitude reminded Sylvia of that “talk” she had had before her departure for school. “My dear Sylvia,” began the mother, “it is something—it is very difficult——”
“For heaven’s sake, go on!”
“My child, you are going to be dreadfully distressed, I fear. I wish that I could help you—oh, Sylvia, dear, I’d rather die than have to tell you this!”
Sylvia clutched her hands to her bosom in sudden fear. Her mother stretched out her arms to her. “Oh, my child,” she exclaimed, “you must believe that we love you, and you must let our love help! We tried to save you from this—from this——”
“Tell me!” cried the girl. “Tell me!”
“Oh, my poor child!” wailed “Miss Margaret” again, “Why did you have to love him? We were sure he would turn out to be bad! We——”
Sylvia sprang towards her and shook her by the arm.
“Mamma, answer me! What is it?”
“Miss Margaret” began searching in the bosom of her dress. She drew out a crumpled piece of paper—a telegram. Sylvia took it with trembling fingers, and spreading it out, read these words:
“Frank Shirley arrested in disorderly house in Boston, held to await result of assault on another student. Possibly fatal. Get Sylvia home at once. Harley.”
She stood perfectly rigid, staring at her mother. She could not realize the words, they swam before her in a maze. The paper fluttered from her fingers. “It’s false!” she cried. “Do you expect me to believe that? It’s a plot! It’s some trick they’ve played on Frank!”
Her mother, frightened by the pallor of her face, put her arms around her. “My daughter—” she began.
“What have you done about this? I mean—to find out if it is true?”
“We telegraphed Harley to write us full particulars.”
“Oh, why did you send for me?” the girl exclaimed, passionately. “If Frank is arrested, I ought to be there!”
“Sylvia!” cried her mother, aghast. “Have you read the message? Don’t you see where he was arrested?”
Yes, Sylvia had read, but what could she make of it? In her mind was a medley of emotions: horror at what Frank had done, disbelief that he had done it, shame of a subject of which she had been taught not to think, anxiety for her lover in trouble—all these contended within her.
“The wretch!” exclaimed “Miss Margaret.” “To drag my child’s name in the mire!”
“Hush!” cried Sylvia, between her teeth. “It is not true! It’s somebody trying to ruin him! It’s a horrible, horrible lie!”
“But, Sylvia! The telegram came from your cousin!”
“I don’t care! It’s some tale they’ve told to Harley!”
“But—he says Frank is arrested!”
“Oh, I ought to go to him! I ought to find out the truth! Frank is not that kind of man!”
“My child,” ventured “Miss Margaret,” “how much do you know about men?”
Sylvia stared at her mother. Vague questions trembled on her lips; but she saw there was no help in that quarter. “I have always kept my daughter innocent!” the other was saying. “He ought to be killed for coming into our home and dragging you into such shame!”
Sylvia stood silent, utterly bewildered. She knew that there were dreadful things in the world, of which she had gathered only the vaguest hints. “A disorderly house!” She had heard the name—she had heard other such names; she knew that these were unmentionable places, where wicked women lived and vile things were done; also she knew that men went there—but surely not the men she knew, surely not gentlemen, not those who ventured to ask for her love!
But why should she torment herself with such thoughts now? This charge against Frank could not be true! “How long will it be,” she demanded, “before we can have the letter from Harley?”
“At least another day, your father says.”
“And there is nothing else we can do?” She tried to think. “We might telephone to Harley.”
“Your Aunt Nannie suggested that, but your father would not have such a matter talked about over the ’phone.”
Sylvia racked her brains, but there was no other plan she could suggest. She saw that she had at least one day of torment and suspense before her. “Very well, Mamma,” she said. “Let me go to my room now. I’ll try to be calm. But don’t let anybody come, please—I want to be alone.”
She could hardly endure to go out into the hall, because of her shame, and the fear of meeting some member of the family. But there was no need of that—they all knew what was happening, and went about on tiptoe, as in a house of mourning. Everyone kept out of her way, and she went up to her room and shut herself in and locked the door. There passed twenty-four hours of agony, during which she by turns paced the floor, or lay upon the bed and wept, or sat in a chair, staring into space with unseeing eyes. They brought her food, but she would not touch it; they tempted her with wine, with coffee, but for nothing would she open the door. “Bring me Harley’s letter when it comes,” was all she would say.