§ 4
And so began the second stage of Sylvia’s ordeal. For days she roamed the house like a guilt-haunted ghost. She could hardly be got to speak to any one—she avoided even people’s eyes, so great was her shame. She would not eat, and she could not sleep—at least, not until she had managed to bring herself to the point of utter exhaustion. Knowing this, she would pace the room until she sank upon the bed almost fainting. In their terror they sent for the doctors, but these could do nothing for her. The Major came several times a day, and made timid efforts to talk to her about her roses and the new plants he had got for her. But she could think about nothing but Frank, and sent him away. Once after midnight he crept to her room and found that she was gone, and discovered her in the rose-garden, pacing back and forth distractedly, bare-footed and clad only in her nightgown. He led her in, and found that her feet were cut and full of gravel and thorns; but she did not mind this, she said—the pain was good, it was the only way to distract her mind.
What made the thing so cruel to her was that element of obscenity in it, which was like an extinguisher clapped down upon her mind, making it impossible for her to talk of it, even to think of it. Sylvia had never discussed such things, and now she hated Frank for having forced them upon her. She felt herself degraded—made vile to the whole world, and to her own soul. She knew that everybody she met was thinking one dreadful thing; she felt that she could never face the world again, could never lift up her head again. She had given her heart to a man to keep, and he had taken it to a “high-class house of prostitution!”
On the third day the Major came to her room and knocked. He had a painful duty to perform, he explained. (He did not add that there had been a family council for nearly an hour past, and that he had been assigned to execute the collective decision.) There had come a letter—a letter addressed to Sylvia from Frank Shirley.
The girl sprang to her feet. “Give it to me!”
“My daughter!” exclaimed the Major, with a shocked face.
She waited, looking at him with wondering eyes. “What do you mean, Papa?”
He took the missive from his pocket, and held it in his hand as he spoke. “Do you think,” he asked, “that it would be consistent with my daughter’s dignity to read such a letter? My child, this man has dragged your name in the mire; do you think that you ought to continue in any sort of relationship with him? Is he to be able to boast that he had you so under his thumb, that even after such an outrage as he had inflicted upon you——”
The Major stopped, words failing him. “Papa,” pleaded Sylvia, “might there not be some explanation?”
“Explanation!” cried the other. “What explanation—that my daughter could read?” His voice fell low. “That is the point—I do not wish my daughter’s mind to be soiled with explanations of this subject. Sylvia, you cannot know about it!”
There was a silence. “What do you want me to do, Papa?”
“There is but one thing a proud woman can do, Sylvia. Send back this letter, with a note saying that you cannot receive communications from Mr. Shirley.”
There was a long silence. Sylvia sank down upon the bed, and he heard her sobbing softly to herself. “Sylvia!” he exclaimed, “this man had your affection—he kissed your pure young lips!” He saw her wince, and followed up his advantage—“He kissed you when you were in Boston, did he not?”
She could hardly bring herself to answer. “Yes, Papa.”
“And do you realize that two or three days later he had gone to this—this place?” He paused, while the words sank into her soul. “My daughter,” he cried, “where is your pride?”
There was something commanding in his voice. She looked up at him; his face was white, his eyes blazing. “Sylvia,” he exclaimed, “you are a Castleman! You have wept enough! Rise up, my daughter!”
She rose, like one under a spell. Yes, it was something to be a Castleman. It meant to be capable of bearing any torture for the sake of pride, of facing any danger for the sake of honor. How many tales she had heard of that Castleman honor! Had not the man who stood before her, the captain of a regiment when only a half-grown youth, marched and fought with a broken shoulder-blade, and slept in mud and rain without shelter or even a blanket, living for weeks upon an allowance of six grains of corn a day?
She drew herself up, and her face became cold and set. “Very well, Papa,” she said, “he deserves my scorn.”
“Then write as I say.” And he stood by her desk and dictated:
“Mr. Shirley: I have received the enclosed letter, but do not care to read it. All relationship between us is at an end. Sylvia Castleman.”
And to such a height of resolution had she been lifted by her Castleman pride, that she addressed an envelope, and took Frank’s letter, and folded it and put it inside, and sealed and stamped the envelope, and gave it to her father. Nor did she give a sign of pain or grief until after she had dismissed him, and closed and locked the door.