And Sylvia turned and gazed at them with her sad eyes.  “From now on,” she said, “that is the way I am going to talk.  You are a lot of ignorant children.  I was one too, but now I know.  And I say to you:  Look at Elaine!  Look at my little one, and see what the worship of Mammon has done to one of the daughters of your family!”

18.  After this, Sylvia had her people reduced to a state of terror.  She was an avenging angel, sent by the Lord to punish them for their sins.  How could one rebuke the unconventionality of an avenging angel?  On the other hand, of course, one could not help being in agony, and letting the angel see it in one’s face.  Outside, there were the tongues of gossip clattering, as Aunt Nannie had said; quite literally everyone in Castleman County was talking about the blindness of Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver’s baby, and how, because of it, the mother was setting out on a campaign to destroy the modesty of the State.  The excitement, the curiosity, the obscene delight of the world came rolling back into Castleman Hall in great waves, that picked up the unfortunate inmates and buffeted them about.

Family consultations were restricted, because it was impossible for the ladies of the family to talk to the gentlemen about these horrible things; but the ladies talked to the ladies, and the gentlemen talked to the gentlemen, and each came separately to Sylvia with their distress.  Poor, helpless “Miss Margaret” would come wringing her hands, and looking as if she had buried all her children.  “Sylvia!  Sylvia!  Do you realise that you are being DISCUSSED?” That was the worst calamity that could befal a woman in Castleman County—­it summed up all possible calamities that could befal her—­to be “discussed.”  “They were discussing you once when you wanted to marry Frank Shirley!  And now—­oh, now they will never stop discussing you!”

Then would come the dear major.  He loved his eldest daughter as he loved nothing else in the world, and he was a just man at heart.  He could not meet her arguments—­yes, she was right, she was right.  But then he would go away, and the waves of scandal and shame would come rolling.

“My child,” he pleaded, “have you thought what this thing is doing to your husband?  Do you realise that while you talk about protecting other people, you are putting upon Douglas a brand that will follow him through life?”

Uncle Mandeville came up from New Orleans to see his favourite niece; and the wave smote him as he alighted from the train, and he became so much excited that he went to the club and got drunk, and then could not see his niece, but had to be carried off upstairs and given forcible hypodermics.  Cousin Clive told Sylvia about it afterwards—­how Uncle Mandeville refused to believe the truth, and swore that he would shoot some of these fellows if they didn’t stop talking about his niece.  Said Clive, with a grim laugh:  “I told him:  ’If Sylvia had her way, you’d shoot a good part of the men in the town.’” He answered:  “Well, by God, I’ll do it—­it would serve the scoundrels right!” And he tried to get out of bed and get his pants and his pistols—­so that in the end it was necessary to telephone for the major, and then for Barry Chilton and two of his gigantic sons from their plantation.