§ 22
Sylvia fought long battles with herself. “Oh, I can’t do it!” she would cry. “I can’t do it!” And then “You’ve promised to do it!” she would say to herself. And every day she spent more money, and met more of van Tuiver’s friends, and read more articles about her Romance.
Then one morning came a hall-boy with a card. She looked at it, and had a painful start. “Tubby” Bates!
He came in, cheerful, jolly, reminding her of so many things—such happy things! She had had a bad night, and now she simply could not talk; her words choked her, and she sat staring at him, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.
“Why, Miss Castleman!” he exclaimed—and saw such a look upon that lovely face that his voice died away to a whisper—“You aren’t happy!”
Still for a while she could not answer. He asked her what was the matter; and then, again, in greater distress, “Why did you do it?” She responded, in a faint voice, “I did it on my father’s account.”
There was a long silence. Then with sudden energy she began, “Mr. Bates, there is something I want to talk to you about. It’s something difficult—almost impossible for me to speak of. And yet—I seem to get more and more desperate about it. I can never be happy in my life until I’ve talked to some one about it.”
“What is it, Miss Castleman?”
“It’s about Frank Shirley.”
“Oh!” he said, in surprise.
“You know that I was engaged to him, Mr. Bates?”
“Yes, I was told that.”
“And you can guess, perhaps, how I have suffered. I know only what the newspapers printed—nothing more. And now—you are a man, and you were at Harvard—you must know. Is it true that Frank—that he did something that would make it wrong for me ever to see him again?”
The blood had pressed into Sylvia’s face, but still she did not lower her eyes. She was gazing intensely at her friend. She must know the truth! The whole truth!
He considered, and then said, gravely, “No, Miss Castleman, I don’t think he did that.”
There was a pause. “But—it was a place——” she could go no further.
“I know,” he said. “But you see, Shirley had a room-mate—Jack Colton. And he was always trying to help him—to keep him out of trouble and get him home sober——”
“Oh, then that was it!” The words came in a tone that frightened Bates by their burden of anguish.
“Yes, Miss Castleman,” he said. “And as to the row—Shirley saw a woman mistreated, and he interfered, and knocked a man down. I know the man, and he’s the sort one has to knock down. The only trouble was that he hit his head as he fell.”
“I see!” whispered Sylvia.
“But even so, there wouldn’t have been any publicity, except that some of the ‘Auburn Street crowd’ were there. They saw their chance to put the candidate of the ‘Yard’ out of the running; and they did it. It was a rotten shame, because everybody knew that Frank Shirley was not that kind of man——”
Bates stopped again. He could not bear the look he saw on Sylvia’s face. She bowed her head in her arms, and silent sobbing shook her. Then she got up and began to pace back and forth distractedly. He knew very well what was going on in her thoughts.
Suddenly she turned upon him. “Mr. Bates,” she exclaimed, “you must help me! You must stay here and help me!”
“Certainly, Miss Castleman. What can I do?”
“In the first place, you must not breathe a word of this to anyone. You understand?”
“Of course.”
“Have you any idea where Frank Shirley is?”
“I heard that he had gone out to Wyoming with Jack Colton.”
“Then you must telegraph to Mr. Colton; and also you must telegraph to Frank Shirley’s home. You must say that Frank is to come to you in New York at once. He mustn’t lose an hour, you understand; my father will be here next week. Then, too, Frank will have heard of my engagement, and you can’t tell what he might do.”
Bates stared at her. “Do you know what you are doing, Miss Castleman?” he asked.
“I do,” she answered.
“Very well, then,” he said, “I will do what you ask.”
“Go, do it now,” she cried, and he went—carrying with him for the rest of his life the memory of her face of agony. He sent the telegrams, and in due course received replies—which he did not dare to bring to Sylvia himself, but sent by messenger. The first, from Frank’s home, was to the effect that his whereabouts were unknown; and the second, from Jack Colton, was to the effect that Frank had gone away a couple of weeks before, saying that he would never return.