Sylvia's Marriage

by Upton Sinclair

offices seemed shabbier after one had made the "grand tour," but

  they were none the less dear to her for that. She would spend the

  rest of her days in Castleman County, and the sunshine and peace

  would gradually enfold her.

  Such were her thoughts when the unforeseen event befel. A man on

  horse-back rode down a side-street, crossing Main Street a little

  way in front of her; a man dressed in khaki, with a khaki riding hat

  pulled low over his face. He rode rapidly--appearing and vanishing,

  so that Sylvia scarcely saw him--really did not see him with her

  conscious mind at all. Her thoughts were still busy with dreams, and

  the clatter of boys and girls; but deep within her had begun a

  tumult--a trembling, a pounding of the heart, a clamouring under the

  floors of her consciousness.

  And slowly this excitement mounted. What was the matter, what had

  happened? A man had ridden by, but why should a man--. Surely it

  could not have been--no. There were hundreds of men in Castleman

  County who wore khaki and rode horse-back, and had sturdy, thick-set

  figures! But then, how could she make a mistake? How could her

  instinct have betrayed her so? It was that same view of him as he

  sat on a horse that had first thrilled her during the hunting party

  years ago!

  He had gone West, and had said that he would never return. He had

  not been heard from in years. What an amazing thing, that a mere

  glimpse of a man who looked and dressed and rode like him should be

  able to set her whole being into such a panic! How futile became her

  dreams of peace!

  She heard the sound of a vehicle close beside her carriage, and

  turned and found herself looking into the sharp eyes of Mrs.

  Armistead. It happened that Sylvia was on the side away from the

  curb, and there was no one talking to her; so Mrs. Armistead ran her

  electric alongside, and had the stirring occasion to herself. Sylvia

  looked into her face, so full of malice, and knew two things in a

  flash: First, it really had been Frank Shirley riding by; and

  second, Mrs. Armistead had seen him!

  "Another candidate for your eugenics class!" said the lady.

  Sylvia glanced at the young people and made sure they were paying no

  attention. She might have made some remark that would have brought

  them into the conversation, and delivered her from the torments of

  this devil. But no, she had never quailed from Mrs. Armistead in her

  life, and she would not now give her the satisfaction of driving off

  to tell the town that Sylvia van Tuiver had seen Frank Shirley, and

  had been overcome by it, and had taken refuge behind the skirts of

  her little sisters!

  "You can see I have my carriage full of pupils" she said, smilingly.

  "How happy it must make you, Sylvia--coming home and meeting all

  your old friends! It must set you trembling with ecstasy--angels

  singing in the sky above you--little golden bells ringing all over

  you!"

  Sylvia recognised these phrases. They were part of an effort she had

  made to describe the raptures of young love to her bosom friend,

  Harriet Atkinson. And so Harriet had passed them on to the town! And

  they had been cherished all these years.

  She could not afford to recognise these illegitimate children of

  romance. "Mrs. Armistead," she said, "I had no idea you had so much

  poetry in you!"

  "I am simply improvising, my dear--upon the colour in your cheeks at

  present!"

  There was no way save to be bold. "You couldn't expect me not to be

  excited, Mrs. Armistead. You see, I had no idea he had come back

  from the West."

  "They say he left a wife there." remarked the lady, innocently.

  "Ah!" said Sylvia. "Then he will not be staying long, presumably."

  There was a pause; all at once Mrs. Armistead's voice became gentle

  and sympathetic. "Sylvia," she said, "don't imagine that I fail to

  appreciate what is going on in your heart. I know a true romance

  when I see one. If only you could have known in those days what you

  know now, there might have been one beautiful love story that did

  not end as a tragedy."

  You would have thought the lady's better self had suddenly been

  touched. But Sylvia knew her; too many times she had seen this

  huntress trying to lure a victim out of his refuge.

  "Yes, Mrs. Armistead," she said, gently. "But I have the consolation

  at least of being a martyr to science."

  "In what way?"

  "Have you forgotten the new medical term that I have given to the

  world?"

  And Mrs. Armistead looked at her for a moment aghast. "My God,

  Sylvia!" she whispered; and then--an honest tribute: "You certainly

  can take care of yourself!"

  "Yes," said Sylvia. "Tell that to my other friends in town." And so,

  at last, Mrs. Armistead started her machine, and this battle of

  hell-cats came to an end.

  21. Sylvia rode home in a daze, answering without hearing the

  prattle of the children. She was appalled at the emotions that

  possessed her--that the sight of Frank Shirley riding down the

  street could have affected her so! She forgot Mrs. Armistead, she

  forgot the whole world, in her dismay over her own state of mind.

  Having dismissed Frank from her life and her thoughts forever, it

  seemed to her preposterous that she should be at the mercy of such

  an excitement.

  She found herself wondering about her family. Did they know that

  Frank Shirley had returned? Would they have failed to mention it to

  her? For a moment she told herself it would not have occurred to

  them she could have any interest in the subject. But no--they were

  not so _naive_--the Castleman women--as their sense of propriety

  made them pretend to be! But how stupid of them not to give her

  warning! Suppose she had happened to meet Frank face to face, and in

  the presence of others! She must certainly have betrayed her

  excitement; and just at this time, when the world had the Castleman

  family under the microscope!

  She told herself that she would avoid such difficulty in future; she

  would stay at home until Frank had gone away. If he had a wife in

  the West, presumably he had merely come for a visit to his mother

  and sisters. And then Sylvia found herself in an argument with

  herself. What possible difference could it make that Frank Shirley

  had a wife? So long as she, Sylvia, had a husband, what else

  mattered? Yet she could not deny it--it brought her a separate and

  additional pang that Frank Shirley should have married. What sort of

  wife could he have found--he, a stranger in the far West? And why

  had he not brought his wife home to his people?

  When she stepped out of the carriage, it was with her mind made up

  that she would stay at home until all danger was past. But the next

  afternoon a neighbour called up to ask Sylvia and Celeste to come

  and play cards in the evening. It was not a party, Mrs. Witherspoon

  explained to "Miss Margaret," who answered the 'phone; just a few

  friends and a good time, and she did so hope that Sylvi
a was not

  going to refuse. The mere hint of the fear that Sylvia might refuse

  was enough to excite Mrs. Castleman. Why should Sylvia refuse? So

  she accepted the invitation, and then came to plead with her

  daughter--for Celeste's sake, and for the sake of all her family, so

  that the world might see that she was not crushed by misfortune!

  There were reasons why the invitation was a difficult one to

  decline. Mrs. Virginia Witherspoon was the daughter of a Confederate

  general whose name you read in every history-book; and she had a

  famous old home in the country which was falling about her ears--her

  husband being seldom sober enough to know what was happening. She

  had also three blossoming daughters, whom she must manage to get out

  of the home before the plastering of the drawing-room fell upon the

  heads of their suitors; so that the ardour of her husband-hunting

  was one of the jokes of the State. Naturally, under such

  circumstances, the Witherspoons had to be treated with consideration

  by the Castlemans. One might snub rich Yankees, and chasten the

  suddenly-prosperous; but a family with an ancient house in ruins,

  and with faded uniforms and battle-scarred sabres in the

  cedar-chests in its attic--such a family can with difficulty

  overdraw its social bank account.

  Dolly Witherspoon, the oldest daughter, had been Sylvia's rival for

  the palm as the most beautiful girl in Castleman County. And Sylvia

  had triumphed, and Dolly had failed. So, in her secret heart she

  hated Sylvia, and the mother hated her; and yet--such was the social

  game--they had to invite Sylvia and her sister to their

  card-parties, and Sylvia and her sister had to go. They had to go

  and be the most striking figures there: Celeste, slim and pale from

  sorrow, virginal, in clinging white chiffon; and Sylvia, regal and

  splendid, shimmering like a mermaid in a gown of emerald green.

  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.

  "It is a surprise to see you again, Frank Shirley!" she exclaimed.

  "Yes," he said. His voice was a mumble, and he did not lift his

  eyes.

  "You have been in the West, I understand?"

  "Yes," again; but still he did not lift his eyes.

  Sylvia managed to lift hers as far as his cravat; and she saw in it

  an old piece of imitation jewelry which she had picked up once on

  the street, and had handed to him in jest. He had worn it all these

  years! He had not thrown it away--not even when she had thrown him

  away!

  Again came a surge of emotion; and out of the mist she looked about

  her and saw the faces of tormenting demons, leering. "Well," she

  demanded, "are we going to play?"

  "We were waiting for you to cut," said Julia, graciously; and

  Sylvia's fury helped to restore her self-posession. She cut the

  cards; and fate was kind, sparing both her and Frank the task of

  dealing.

  But then a new difficulty arose. Julia dealt, and thirteen cards lay

  in front of Frank Shirley; but he did not seem to know that he ought

  to pick them up. And when the opposing lady called him to time, in

  what seemed an unnecessarily penetrating voice, he found that he was

  physically unable to get the cards from the table. And when with his

  fumbling efforts he got them into a bunch, he could not straighten

  them out--to say nothing of the labour of sorting them according to

  suit, which all whist-players know to be an indispensable

  preliminary to the game. When the opposing lady prodded him again,

  Frank's face changed from vivid scarlet to a dark and alarming

  purple.

  Miss Julia led the tray of clubs; and Frank, whose turn came next,

  spilled three cards upon the table, and finally selected from them

  the king of hearts to play--hearts being trumps. "But you have a

  club there, Mr. Shirley," said his opponent; something that was

  pardonable, inasmuch as the nine of clubs lay face up where he had

  shoved it aside.

  "Oh--I beg pardon," he stammered, and took back his king, and

  reached into his hand and pulled out the six of clubs, and a diamond

  with it.

  It was evident that this could not go on. Sylvia might be equal to

  the emergency, but Frank was not. He was too much
of a human being

  and too little of a social automaton. Something must be done.

  "Don't they play whist out West, Mr. Shirley," asked Julia, still

  smiling benevolently.

  And Sylvia lowered her cards. "Surely, my dear, you must

  understand," she said, gently. "Mr. Shirley is too much embarrassed

  to think about cards."

  "Oh!" said the other, taken aback. (_L'audace, touljours l'audace!_

  runs the formula!)

  "You see," continued Sylvia, "this is the first time that Frank has

  seen me in more than three years. And when two people have been as

  much in love as he and I were, they are naturally disturbed when

  they meet, and cannot put their minds upon a game of cards."

  Julia was speechless. And Sylvia let her glance wander casually

  about the room. She saw her hostess and her daughters standing

  watching; and near the wall at the other side of the room stood the

  head-devil, who had planned this torment.

  "Mrs. Armistead," Sylvia called, "aren't you going to play

  to-night?" Of course everybody in the room heard this; and after it,

  anyone could have heard a pin drop.

  "I'm to keep score," said Mrs. Armistead.

  "But it doesn't need four to keep score," objected Sylvia--and

  looked at the three Witherspoon ladies.

  "Dolly and Emma are staying out," said Mrs. Witherspoon. "Two of our

  guests did not come."

  "Well," Sylvia exclaimed, "that just makes it right! Please let them

  take the place of Mr. Shirley and myself. You see, we haven't seen

  each other for three or four years, and it's hard for us to get

  interested into a game of cards."

  The whole room caught its breath at once; and here and there one

  heard a little squeak of hysteria, cut short by some one who was not

  sure whether it was a joke or a scandal. "Why--Sylvia!" stammered

  Mrs. Witherspoon, completely staggered.

  Then Sylvia perceived that she was mistress of the scene. There came

  the old rapture of conquest, that made her social genius. "We have

  so much that we want to talk about," she said, in her most winning

  voice. "Let Dolly and Emma take our places, and we will sit on the

  sofa in the other room and chat. You and Mrs. Armistead come and

  chaperone us. Won't you do that, please?"

  "Why--why----" gasped the bewildered lady.

  "I'm sure that you will both be interested to hear what we have to

  say to each other; and you can tell everybody about it

  afterwards--and that will be so much better than having the

  card-game delayed any more."

  And with this side-swipe Sylvia arose. She stood and waited, to make

  sure that her ex-fianc� was not too paralysed to follow. She led him

  out through the tangle of card-tables; and in the door-way she

  stopped and waited for Mrs. Armistead and Mrs. Witherspoon, and

  literally forced these two ladies to come with her out of the room.

  23. Do you care to hear the details of the punishment which Sylvia

  administered to the two conspirators? She took them to the sofa, and

  made Frank draw up chairs for them, and when she had got comfortably

  seated, she proceeded to talk to Frank just as gently and sincerely

  and touchingly as she would have talked if there had been nobody

  present. She asked about all that had befallen him, and when she

  discovered that he was still not able to chat, she told him about

  herself, about her baby, who was beautiful and dear, even if she was

  blind, and about all the interesting things she had seen in Europe.

  When presently the old ladies showed signs of growing restless, she

  put hand cuffs on them and chained them to their chairs.

  "You see," she said, "it would never do for Mr. Shirley and myself

  to talk without a chaperon. You got me into this situation, you

  know, and papa and mamma would never forgive you."

  "You are mistaken, Sylvia!" cried Mrs. Witherspoon. "Mr. Shirley so

  seldom goes out, and he had said he didn't think he would come!"