A few of these acquaintances were kindly people, whom she could imagine making into friends, if only there had been time. But she wondered how anybody ever found time for friendship in this restless and expensive and highly ornamental life. Such a whirl of dinner-parties and supper-parties, dances and luncheons and teas! Such august and imposing splendor, such dignified and even sombre dissipation! The Major had provided abundant credit for this last splurge; and van Tuiver’s aunt was also on hand, conspiring with her nephew to smother Sylvia under loads of gifts. The girl wondered sometimes, was it that van Tuiver had suspicions of her wavering, and sought to bind her by forcing these luxuries upon her? Or would she be expected always to live this kind of Arabian Nights’ existence?
There came old friends, to bask in the sunlight of her success. Miss Abercrombie came, effulgent with delight, assured of a lifetime’s prosperity by this demonstration of her system. With her came Celeste, playing her difficult part with bitter pride. Harley Chilton ran down from Boston, bringing the tidings that he had made the “Dickey” and saw his way clear to the top of the Harvard pyramid. Last of all, two or three days before the wedding came “Queen Isabella,” distributing her largess of blessings to all concerned.
First she met “Miss Margaret” and the Major, and addressed them with such mystical eloquence that the agitated pair had not a dry eye between them. After which she sought the prospective bride and bridegroom; and not even the most reverend millionaire bishop who was to perform the ceremony could have been more pontifical and impressive than our great lady in this solemn hour. We live in a cynical world, which affords but poor soil for the nurture of the finer flowers of the spirit. But Mrs. Winthrop was one really capable of experiencing the more exalted emotions, and of giving them ungrudging utterance. She was thrilled now by the vistas which she saw unfolding; not since the day of her espousal of the celebrated railroad-builder had the wings of the seraphim rustled so loudly about her head. She might have been compared to a creative artist who labors for long in solitude, and who at last, when he reveals his masterpiece, is startled by the clamor of the world’s applause.
“Sylvia,” she said, and put both her hands upon the girl’s—“Sylvia, you have before you a great career, a career of service. You will be happy—I know you must be happy, dear, when once you have come to realize what an inspiration you are to others. Such fortune as yours falls but rarely to a woman, but you will be worthy of it—I believe you will be worthy of everything that has come to you.”
“I hope so, Mrs. Winthrop,” answered Sylvia, humbly.
And then, as van Tuiver discreetly moved away, the other went on, in a low and deeply-moved voice: “Don’t imagine, dear girl, that I fail to realize all your doubts and perplexities. I know just how you feel, for I had to go through with it myself. Every woman does—but believe me, such tremors are as nothing compared to all the rest of one’s life. We learn to subordinate our personal feelings, our personal preferences. That is one of the duties of those who have greatness as their lot—who have to live what one might call public lives.”
Now, Sylvia might have her doubts as to the soundness of this doctrine, but she had none as to the genuineness of the speaker’s feelings; so she was a trifle shocked when Mrs. Winthrop went away, and she discovered that her future husband was laughing.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, “it’s all right—only when you are Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver, you will receive Isabella’s ecstasies with a trifle more reserve. You will realize that she has her own axes to grind.”
“Axes—what do you mean?”