In the fall the Major’s health weakened under the strain, and the doctor insisted that he must go away at all hazards. Uncle Mandeville had taken a place at one of the Gulf Coast resorts, and Sylvia and her father were urged to come there—just in time for the yachting regatta, wrote the host. They came; and about two weeks later a great ocean-going yacht steamed majestically into the harbor, and the dismayed Sylvia read in the next morning’s paper that Mr. Douglas van Tuiver, who had been cruising in the Gulf with a party of friends, had come to attend the races!
“I won’t see him!” she declared; and Uncle Mandeville, who was in command here, backed her up, and offered to shoot the fellow if he molested her. This, of course, was in fun, but Uncle Mandeville was serious in his support of his niece, maintaining that the Castlemans needed no Yankee princeling to buttress their fortunes.
She fully meant not to see him. But he had brought allies to make sure of her. That afternoon an automobile drew up at the door, and Sylvia, who was on the gallery, saw a lady descending, waving a hand to her. She stared, dumb-founded. It was Mrs. Winthrop!
Mrs. Winthrop—clad in spotless white from hat to shoetips, looking sunburned and picturesque, and surprisingly festive. No one was in sight but Sylvia, and so she had a free field for her wizardry. She came slowly up the gallery-steps, and took the outstretched hands in hers, and gazed. How much she read in the pale, thin face—and what deeps of feeling welled up in her!
“Oh, let me help you!” she murmured. And nothing more.
“Thank you!” said Sylvia at last.
“My dryad!” Quick tears of sympathy started in the great lady’s eyes, and came running down her sunburned cheeks, and had to be brushed away with a tiny Irish lace handkerchief.
“Believe me, Sylvia, I too have known grief!” she began, after a minute. Sylvia was deeply touched; for what grief could be more fascinating than that which lurked in the dream-laden eyes before her? She found herself suddenly recalling an irreverent phrase of “Tubby” Bates’: “The beautiful unhappy wife of a railroad-builder!”
They sat down. “Sylvia,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “you need diversion. Come out on the yacht!”
“No,” she replied, “I don’t want to meet Mr. van Tuiver again.”