§ 20
Sylvia judged that it was about time for the cat to come out of the bag. And now she observed him emerging—with a grave and stately tread, as became a feline of New England traditions. Said Mrs. Winthrop: “I have just had a talk with Douglas van Tuiver. Of course, you must know, Sylvia, that he has conceived an intense admiration for you. And you must know that when a man so intensely admires a woman, she has a great influence upon him—an influence which she can use either for good or for evil.”
“Yes, Mrs. Winthrop,” said Sylvia.
“I gather that his admiration for you is—is not entirely reciprocated, Sylvia.”
“Er—no,” said the girl, “not entirely.”
“He has come to me in great distress. You have criticized him, and he has felt your disapproval keenly. I won’t need to repeat what he said—no doubt you understand. The point is that you have brought Douglas to a state of distraction; he wants to please you, and he doesn’t know how to do it. You have put ideas into his head—really, Sylvia, you will ruin the man—you will utterly destroy him. I cannot but feel that you have acted without fully realizing the gravity of the situation—the full import of the demands you have made upon him.”
“Really,” protested Sylvia, “I have made no demands upon him.”
“Not formally, perhaps. But you must understand, the man is beside himself, and he takes them as demands.”
There was an awkward silence. “I have tried earnestly to avoid Mr. van Tuiver,” said Sylvia. “I would prefer never to see him again.”
“But that is not what I want. You can’t help seeing him—he is determined to see you. My point is that your advice to him should take another form—you should realize the peculiar position of a man like Douglas, the immense responsibilities he carries, and which he cannot lay aside. If you could sympathize with him——”
There was again a pause. “I hope you won’t think it obstinate of me,” said the girl, “but I know that I could never change my attitude—that unless Mr. van Tuiver changed his way of life, he could never be a friend of mine.”
“But, Sylvia dear,” remonstrated the other, gently, “he has been a friend of mine.”
And so the real battle was on. There have been defences of the Divine Right of Kings, composed by eminent and learned men; there have been treatises composed upon the upbringing of statesmen and princes—from Machiavelli and Castiglione on; Sylvia was ignorant of their very existence, and so she was in no way a match for a scholarly person like Mrs. Winthrop. But one thing she knew, and knew it with overwhelming certainty, and repeated it with immovable obstinacy—she did not like van Tuiver as he was, she could not tolerate him as he was. Mrs. Winthrop argued and pleaded, apologized and philosophized, interpreting most eloquently the privileges and immunities incidental to the possession of fifty millions of dollars. But Sylvia did not like van Tuiver, she could not tolerate van Tuiver.
At last Mrs. Winthrop stopped, the edges of her temper somewhat frayed. She gazed at Sylvia intently. “May I ask you one thing?” she said.
“What is it?” inquired the girl.
“Has Douglas asked you to marry him?”
“No, he has not.”
“Do you think that he will ask you?”
“I really don’t know; but I can assure you that he will not if I can prevent it.”
There was a long pause, while the other weighed this utterance. “Sylvia,” she said, at last, “he has a great deal of money.”
“I have heard that fact mentioned,” responded the girl.
“But have you realized, my dear, how much money he has?”
To which Sylvia answered, “We are not taught to think so deliberately about money in the South.”
Again there was a silence. She divined that Mrs. Winthrop was struggling desperately to be noble. “Do I understand you to mean, Sylvia, that you would really refuse to marry him if he asked you?”
“I most certainly mean it,” was her reply—and it was given convincingly.
The other drew a breath of relief. She had found the struggle exhausting. “My dear child,” she said, “I appreciate your fineness of character.” She paused. “But tell me this—if you do not intend to marry Douglas, ought you to permit him to compromise himself for you?”
“Compromise himself, Mrs. Winthrop? I don’t understand you.”
“I mean, Sylvia, that he is exposing himself to the ridicule of his friends—he is making a spectacle of himself to the whole University. And then, after he has done this, you propose to cap the climax of his humiliation by refusing to marry him!”
Sylvia had so far been most decorous; but at this point her sense of fun was too much for her, and merriment broke out upon her countenance. “Mrs. Winthrop,” she declared, “there is but one way out—you must keep Mr. van Tuiver from proposing to me!”
The other’s pose became haughty and full of rebuke; but Sylvia was not to be frightened. “See the dilemma I am in!” she exclaimed. “If I refuse him, I humiliate him and compromise him. But if I marry him—what becomes of my fineness of character?” She paused for a moment, then added, “You must do this, Mrs. Winthrop; you must take the responsibility of forbidding me to see him again. You must make it so emphatic that I’ll simply have to obey you.”
“Queen Isabella’s” feelings were approaching a state of turmoil; but the girl urged her proposition seriously, finding a quite devilish amusement in plaguing her hostess with it. The other protested that she would not, she could not, she dared not take the responsibility of interfering with Mr. van Tuiver’s love affairs; and all without having the least idea of the abysses of malice which were hidden within the circumference of the pale green Quaker bonnet in front of her!