“Frank Shirley arrested in disorderly house in Boston, held to await result of assault on another student. Possibly fatal. Get Sylvia home at once. Harley.”
She stood perfectly rigid, staring at her mother. She could not realize the words, they swam before her in a maze. The paper fluttered from her fingers. “It’s false!” she cried. “Do you expect me to believe that? It’s a plot! It’s some trick they’ve played on Frank!”
Her mother, frightened by the pallor of her face, put her arms around her. “My daughter—” she began.
“What have you done about this? I mean—to find out if it is true?”
“We telegraphed Harley to write us full particulars.”
“Oh, why did you send for me?” the girl exclaimed, passionately. “If Frank is arrested, I ought to be there!”
“Sylvia!” cried her mother, aghast. “Have you read the message? Don’t you see where he was arrested?”
Yes, Sylvia had read, but what could she make of it? In her mind was a medley of emotions: horror at what Frank had done, disbelief that he had done it, shame of a subject of which she had been taught not to think, anxiety for her lover in trouble—all these contended within her.
“The wretch!” exclaimed “Miss Margaret.” “To drag my child’s name in the mire!”
“Hush!” cried Sylvia, between her teeth. “It is not true! It’s somebody trying to ruin him! It’s a horrible, horrible lie!”