§ 21
Frank came again two days later; and then Mrs. Castleman made her first remark. “Sylvia,” she said, “you mustn’t flirt with that man.”
“Why not, Mother?”
“Because he’d probably take it seriously. And he’s had a hard time, you know. We can’t treat the Shirleys quite as we do other people.”
“All right,” said Sylvia. “I’ll be careful.”
Frank wanted the engagement made known at once—at least to the family. Such was his direct way. But Sylvia had an instinct against telling; she wanted a little time to watch and study and plan.
It was hard, however; she was absolutely shining with happiness—there seemed to be a kind of soul-electricity that came from her and affected everyone she met. It gathered the men about her thicker than ever—and at the very time that she wanted to be alone with Frank and the thought of Frank!
One evening when the Young Matrons’ Club gave its monthly cotillion, Frank, knowing nothing about this event, called unexpectedly. A visit meant to him forty miles on horseback; and so, to the general consternation, Sylvia refused to attend the dance. All evening the telephone rang and the protests poured in. “We won’t stand for it!” the men declared; and the women asked, “Who is it?” She had been to a bridge-party that afternoon, and everyone knew she was not sick. But what man could it be, when all the men were at the cotillion?
So the gossip began; and a week later another incident gave it wings. It was a great occasion, the semi-annual ball of the Country Club, and Frank had been warned that Sylvia would not be at home. But he wanted to see her in her glory, and he galloped his twenty miles in darkness and rain, and turned up at the club-house at midnight, and stood in the doorway to watch. Sylvia, seeing him and realizing what his presence meant, was seized with a sudden impulse to acknowledge him. She stopped dancing, and sent her partner away, and stood talking to Frank. Oh, what a staring, what a wagging of tongues! Frank Shirley! Of all people in the world, Frank Shirley!
Of course, the news came to the Hall. Early in the morning, Aunt Nannie called up, announcing a visit, and there followed a family conclave with Mrs. Castleman, Aunt Varina and Sylvia.
“Sylvia,” said Mrs. Chilton, trying her best to look casual, “I understand that Frank Shirley was at the ball.”
“Yes, Aunt Nannie.”
There was a pause. “What was he doing there?” asked “Miss Margaret,” evidently having been coached.
“Why, I’m sure, Mother, I don’t know.”
“Did you invite him?”
“Indeed, I did not.”
“He isn’t a member of the Club, is he?”
“No; but he knows lots of other people who are.”
“Everybody is saying he came to see you,” broke in Aunt Nannie. “They say you stopped dancing to talk with him.”
“I can’t help what they say, Aunt Nannie.”
“Do you think,” inquired the Bishop’s wife, “that it was altogether wise to get your name associated with his?”
“Isn’t he a gentleman?” asked Sylvia.
“That’s all right, my dear, but you’ve got to remember that you live in the world, and must consider other people’s point of view.”
“Do you mean, Aunt Nannie, that Frank Shirley’s to be excluded from society because of his father’s misfortune?”
“Not excluded, Sylvia. There are shades to such things. The point is that a young girl—a girl conspicuous, like you——”
“But, Aunt Nannie, I asked mother and father, and they were willing to receive him. Isn’t that true, Mother?”
“Why, yes, Sylvia,” said “Miss Margaret,” weakly, “but I didn’t mean——”
“It was all right for him to come here, once or twice,” interrupted Aunt Nannie. “But at a Club ball——”
“The point is, Sylvia dear,” quavered Mrs. Tuis, “you will get yourself a reputation for singularity.”
And the mother added, “You surely don’t have to do that to attract attention!”
So there it was. All that fine sentiment about the unhappy Shirleys went like a film of mist before a single breath of the world’s opinion! They would not say it brutally—“He’s a convict’s son, and you can’t afford to know him too well.” It was not the Southern fashion—at least among the older generation—to be outspoken in worldliness. They had generous ideals, and made their boast of “chivalry;” but here, when it came to a test, they were all in accord with Aunt Nannie, who was said to “talk like a cold-blooded Northern woman.”
Sylvia decided at once that some one must be told; so she went back to lunch with her aunt, and afterwards sought out the Bishop in his study. The walls of this room were lined with ancient theological treatises and sermons in faded greenish-black bindings: an array which never failed to appal the soul of Sylvia, who realized that she had consigned to the scrap-heap all this mass of learning—and had not yet apologized for her temerity.
“Uncle Basil,” she began, “I have something very, very important to tell you.” The Bishop turned from his desk and gazed at her. “I am engaged to be married,” she said.
“Why, Sylvia!” he exclaimed.
“And I—I’m very much in love.”
“Who is the man, my dear?”
“It is Frank Shirley.”
Sylvia was used to watching people and reading their thoughts quickly. She saw that her uncle’s first emotion was one of dismay. “Frank Shirley!”
“Yes, Uncle Basil.”
Then she saw him gather himself together. He was going to try to be fair—the dear soul! But she could not forget that his first emotion had been dismay. “Tell me about it, my child,” he said.
“I met him at the Venable’s,” she replied, “only a couple of weeks ago. He’s an unusual sort of man, lonely and unhappy, very reserved and hard to get at. He fell in love with me—very much in love; but he didn’t want me to know it. He did tell me at last.”
The Bishop was silent. “I love him,” she added.
“Are you sure?”
“As I’ve never loved anybody—as I never dreamed I could love.”
There was a pause. “Uncle Basil—he’s a good man,” she said. “That is why I love him.”
Again there was a pause. “Have you told your father and mother?” asked the Bishop.
“Not yet.”
“You must tell them at once, Sylvia.”
“I know they will make objections, and I want you to meet Frank and talk with him. You see, Uncle Basil, I’m going to marry him—and I want your help.”
The Bishop was silent again, weighing his next words. “Of course, my dear,” he said, “from a worldly point of view it is not a good match, and I fear your parents will regard it as a calamity. But, as you know, I think of nothing but the happiness of my darling Sylvia. I won’t say anything at all until I have met the man. Send him to see me, little girl, and then I will give you the best counsel I can.”