The mermaid imagined that she noticed a slight agitation underneath the cordiality of her hostess. The next person to greet her was Mrs. Armistead; and Sylvia was sure that she did not imagine the suppressed excitement in that lady’s manner. But even while she was speculating and suspecting, she was led toward the drawing-room. It was late, her hostess explained; the other guests were waiting, so if they did not mind, the play would start at once. Celeste was to sit at that table over there, with Mr. Witherspoon’s crippled brother, and old Mr. Perkins, who was deaf; and Sylvia was to come this way—the table in the corner. Sylvia moved toward it, and Dolly Witherspoon and her sister, Emma, greeted her cordially, and then stepped out of the way to let her to her seat; and Sylvia gave one glance—and found herself face to face with Frank Shirley!
22. Frank’s face was scarlet; and Sylvia had a moment of blind terror, when she wanted to turn and fly. But there about her was the circle of her enemies; a whole roomful of people, breathless with curiosity, drinking in with eyes and ears every hint of distress that she might give. And the next morning the whole town would, in imagination, attend the scene!
“Good-evening, Julia,” said Sylvia, to Mrs. Witherspoon’s youngest daughter, the other lady at the table. “Good-evening, Malcolm”—to Malcolm McCallum, an old “beau” of hers. And then, taking the seat which Malcolm sprang to move out for her, “How do you do, Frank?”
Frank’s eyes had fallen to his lap. “How do you do?” he murmured. The sound of his voice, low and trembling, full of pain, was like the sound of some old funeral bell to Sylvia; it sent the blood leaping in torrents to her forehead. Oh, horrible, horrible!
For a moment her eyes fell like his, and she shuddered, and was beaten. But there was the roomful of people, watching; there was Mrs. Armistead, there were the Witherspoon women gloating. She forced a tortured smile to her lips, and asked, “What are we playing?”
“Oh, didn’t you know that?” said Julia. “Progressive whist.”
“Thank-you,” said Sylvia. “When do we begin?” And she looked about—anywhere but at Frank Shirley, with his face grown so old in four years.
No one said anything, no one made a move. Was everybody in the room conspiring to break her down? “I thought we were late,” she said, desperately; and then, with another effort—“Shall I cut?” she asked, of Julia.
“If you please,” said the girl; but she did not make a motion to pass the cards. Her manner seemed to say, You may cut all night, but it won’t help you to rob me of this satisfaction.
Sylvia made a still more determined effort. If the game was to be postponed indefinitely, so that people might watch her and Frank—well, she would have to find something to talk about.