§ 8
The next afternoon came Harriet Atkinson, to bid Sylvia farewell, and incidentally to congratulate her upon her triumph. After they had chatted for a while, she put her hand upon her friend’s, and remarked in a serious tone, “Sunny, I’ve had a letter from Frank Shirley.”
She felt the hand quiver in hers, and she pressed it more firmly. “He wanted to explain things to me,” she said.
“What did he say?” asked Sylvia, in a faint voice.
But Harriet did not answer. “I wrote to him,” she continued, “that I declined to have anything to do with the matter.” Seeing her friend’s lip beginning to tremble, she added, “Sunny, I did it for your own good—believe me. I don’t want you to open up things with that man again.”
“Why not, Harriet?”
“After what’s happened, you ought to know that your people would never stand for it—there’d surely be some kind of a shooting-scrape. And even supposing that you got away with him—what sort of an existence would you have? Frank Shirley is no money-maker, and somehow I don’t seem to feel that you were cut out for cottage-life.”
She stopped and fixed her gaze upon her friend. “Sunny,” she said, “I want you to marry the other man.” Then, as Sylvia started—“Don’t ask me what other man. I’m no Mabel Taylor.”
Sylvia perceived that her words were being cherished these days. “Harriet,” she exclaimed in an agitated voice, “I can’t endure Douglas van Tuiver.”
“Now, Sunny, I want you to listen to me. This may be the last chance I’ll have to talk to you—I’m going off to-morrow, to settle down to domestic virtue. I want to give it to you straight—to take the place of your Aunt Lady in this crisis. You fall in love at first sight, and it brings you wonderful thrills, and you marry on the strength of it—and then in a year or two the thrills are gone, and where are you? Take my advice, Sunny, there’s a whole lot more in life than this young-love business. Try to look ahead a little and realize the truth about yourself. If ever there was a creature born to be a sky-lark, it’s you; and here’s a man who could take you out and give you a chance to spread your wings. For God’s sake, Sunny, don’t throw the chance away, and settle down to be a barnyard fowl here in Castleman County.”
“Harriet!” cried Sylvia, frantically, “I tell you I can’t endure the man!”
“I know, Sunny—but that’s just nonsense. You’re in love with one man, and of course it sets you wild to think of another. But women can get used to things; and one doesn’t have to be too intimate with one’s husband. The man is dead in love with you, and so you’d always be able to manage him. I told you that about Beau—and I can assure you I’ve found it a convenient arrangement. From what I can make out, Mr. van Tuiver isn’t a bad sort at all—he seems to have charmed everybody down here. He’s not bad-looking, and he certainly has wonderful manners. He can go anywhere in the world, and if he had you to manage him and do things with him—really, Sunny, I can’t see what more you could want! Certainly it’s what your family wants—and after all, you’ll find it’s nice to be able to please your people when you marry. I know how you despise money, and all that—but, Sylvia, there aren’t many fortunes made out of cotton planting these days, and if you could hear poor Beau tell about what his folks have been through, you’d understand that family pride without cash is like mustard without meat!”
So Harriet went on. She was a sprightly young lady, and generally able to hold her audience; but after several minutes of this exhortation, she stopped and asked, “Sunny, what are you thinking about?”
And Sylvia, her face grown suddenly old with grief, caught her by the hand. “Oh, Harriet,” she whispered, “tell me the truth—do you think I ought to hear his explanation?”