"My duty?"
"Make yourself fit, and take your husband to see his baby."
"Oh, I can't!" cried Sylvia. "I don't want to be there when he sees
her! If I loved him--" Then, seeing her aunt's face of horror, she
was seized with a sudden impulse of pity, and caught the poor old
lady in her arms. "Aunt Varina," she said, "I am making you suffer,
I know--I am making everyone suffer! But if you only knew how I am
suffering myself! How can I know what to do."
Mrs. Tuis was weeping; but quickly she got herself together, and
answered in a firm voice, "Your old auntie can tell you what to do.
You must come to your senses, my child--you must let your reason
prevail. Get your face washed, make yourself presentable, and come
and take your husband to see your baby. Women have to suffer, dear;
we must not shirk our share of life's burdens."
"There is no danger of my shirking," said Sylvia, bitterly.
"Come, dear, come," pleaded Mrs. Tuis. She was trying to lead the
girl to the mirror. If only she could be made to see how distraught
and disorderly she looked! "Let me help you to dress, dear--you know
how much better it always makes you feel."
Sylvia laughed, a trifle wildly--but Mrs. Tuis had dealt with
hysteria before. "What would you like to wear?" she demanded. And
then, without waiting for an answer, "Let me choose something. One
of your pretty frocks."
"A pretty frock, and a seething volcano underneath! That is your
idea of a woman's life!"
The other responded very gravely, "A pretty frock, my dear, and a
smile--instead of a vulgar scene, and ruin and desolation
afterwards."
Sylvia made no reply. Yes, that was the life of woman--her old aunt
knew! And her old aunt knew also the psychology of her sex. She did
not go on talking about pretty frocks in the abstract; she turned at
once to the clothes-closet, and began laying pretty frocks upon the
bed!
3. Sylvia emerged upon the "gallery," clad in dainty pink muslin,
her beautiful shiny hair arranged under a semi-invalid's cap of pink
maline. Her face was pale, and the big red-brown eyes were hollow;
but she was quiet, and apparently mistress of herself again. She
even humoured Aunt Varina by leaning slightly upon her feeble arm,
while the maid hastened to place her chair in a shaded spot.
Her husband came, and the doctors; the tea-things were brought, and
Aunt Varina poured tea, a-flutter with excitement. They talked about
the comparative temperatures of New York and the Florida Keys, and
about hedges of jasmine to shade the gallery from the evening sun.
And after a while, Aunt Varina arose, explaining that she would
prepare Elaine for her father's visit. In the doorway she stood for
a moment, smiling upon the pretty picture; it was all settled
now--the outward forms had been observed, and the matter would end,
as such matters should end between husband and wife--a few tears, a
few reproaches, and then a few kisses.
The baby was made ready, with a new dress, and a fresh silk bandage
to cover the pitiful, lifeless eyes. Aunt Varina had found pleasure
in making these bandages; she made them soft and pretty--less
hygienic, perhaps, but avoiding the suggestion of the hospital.
When Sylvia and her husband came into the room, the faces of both of
them were white. Sylvia stopped near the door-way; and poor Aunt
Varina fluttered about, in agony of soul. When van Tuiver went to
the cradle, she hurried to his side, and sought to awaken the little
one with gentle nudges. Quite unexpectedly to her, van Tuiver sought
to pick up the infant; she helped him, and he stood, holding it
awkwardly, as if afraid it might go to pieces in his arms.
So any man might appear, with his first infant; but to Sylvia it
seemed the most tragic sight she had ever seen in her life. She gave
a low cry, "Douglas!" and he turned, and she saw his face was
working with the feeling he was ashamed for anyone to see. "Oh,
Douglas," she whispered, "I'm so _sorry_ for you!" At which Aunt
Varina decided that it was time for her to make her escape.
4. But the trouble between these two were not such as could be
settled by any burst of emotion. The next day they were again in a
dispute, for he had come to ask her word of honour that she would
never see me again, and would give him my letters to be returned
unopened. This last was what she had let her father do in the case
of Frank Shirley; and she had become certain in her own mind that
she had done wrong.
But he was insistent in his demand; declaring that it should be
obvious to her there could be no peace of mind for him so long as my
influence continued in her life.
"But surely," protested Sylvia, "to hear Mary Abbott's
explanation----"
"There can be no explanation that is not an insult to your husband,
and to those who are caring for you. I am speaking in this matter
not merely for myself, but for your physicians, who know this woman,
heard her menaces and her vulgarity. It is their judgment that you
should be protected at all hazards from further contact with her."
"Douglas," she argued, "you must realize that I am in distress of
mind about this matter----"
"I certainly realize that."
"And if you are thinking of my welfare, you should choose a course
that would set my mind at rest. But when you come to me and ask me
that I should not even read a letter from my friend--don't you
realize what you suggest to me, that there is something you are
afraid for me to know?"
"I do not attempt to deny my fear of this woman. I have seen how she
has been able to poison your mind with suspicions----"
"Yes, Douglas--but now that has been done. What else is there to
fear from her?"
"I have no idea what. She is a bitter, jealous woman, with a mind
full of hatred; and you are an innocent girl, who cannot judge about
these matters. What idea have you of the world in which you live, of
the slanders to which a man in your husband's position is exposed?"
"I am not quite such a child as that----"
"You have simply no idea, I tell you. I remember your consternation
when we first met, and I told you about the woman who had written me
a begging letter, and got an interview with me, and then started
screaming, and refused to leave the house till I had paid her a lot
of money. You had never heard such stories, had you? Yet it is the
kind of thing that is happening to rich men continually; it was one
of the first rules I was taught, never to let myself be alone with a
strange woman, no matter of what age, or under what circumstances."
"But, I assure you, I would not listen to such people----"
"You are asking right now to listen! And you would be influenced by
her--you could not help it, any more than you can help being
distressed about what she has already said. She intimated to Dr.
Perrin that she believed that I had been a man of depraved life, and
that my wife and ch
ild were now paying the penalty. How can I tell
what vile stories concerning me she may not have heard? How could I
have any peace of mind while I knew that she was free to pour them
into your ear?"
Sylvia sat dumb with questions she would not utter, hovering on the
tip of her tongue.
He took her silence for acquiesence, and went on, quickly, "Let me
give you an illustration. A friend of mine whom you know well--I
might as well tell you his name, it was Freddie Atkins--was at
supper with some theatrical women; and one of them, not having any
idea that Freddie knew me, proceeded to talk about me, and how she
had met me, and where we had been together--about my yacht, and my
castle in Scotland, and I don't know what all else. It seems that
this woman had been my mistress for several years; she told quite
glibly about me and my habits. Freddie got the woman's picture, on
some pretext or other, and brought it to me; I had never laid eyes
on her in my life. He could hardly believe it, and to prove it to
him I offered to meet the woman, under another name. We sat in a
restaurant, and she told the tale to Freddie and myself
together--until finally he burst out laughing, and told her who I
was."
He paused, to let this sink in. "Now, suppose your friend, Mary
Abbott, had met that woman! I don't imagine she is particularly
careful whom she associates with; and suppose she had come and told
you that she knew such a woman--what would you have said? Can you
deny that the tale would have made an impression on you? Yet, I've
not the least doubt there are scores of women who made such tales
about me a part of their stock in trade; there are thousands of
women whose fortunes would be made for life if they could cause such
a tale to be believed. And imagine how well-informed they would be,
if anyone were to ask them concerning my habits, and the reason why
our baby is blind! I tell you, when the rumour concerning our child
has begun to spread, there will be ten thousand people in New York
city who will know of first-hand, personal knowledge exactly how it
happened, and how you took it, and everything that I said to you
about it. There will be sneers in the society-papers, from New York
to San Francisco; and smooth-tongued gentlemen calling, to give us
hints that we can stop these sneers by purchasing a de-luxe edition
of a history of our ancestors for six thousand dollars. There will
be well-meaning and beautiful-souled people who will try to get you
to confide in them, and then use their knowledge of your domestic
unhappiness to blackmail you; there will be threats of law-suits
from people who will claim that they have contracted a disease from
you or your child--your laundress, perhaps, or your maid, or one of
these nurses----"
"Oh, stop! stop!" she cried.
"I am quite aware," he said, quietly, "that these things are not
calculated to preserve the peace of mind of a young mother. You are
horrified when I tell you of them--yet you clamour for the right to
have Mrs. Abbott tell you of them! I warn you, Sylvia--you have
married a rich man, who is exposed to the attacks of cunning and
unscrupulous enemies. You, as his wife, are exactly as much
exposed--possibly even more so. Therefore when I see you entering
into what I know to be a dangerous intimacy, I must have the right
to say to you, This shall stop, and I tell you, there can never be
any safety or peace of mind for either of us, so long as you attempt
to deny me that right."
5. Dr. Gibson took his departure three or four days later; and
before he went, he came to give her his final blessing; talking to
her, as he phrased it, "like a Dutch uncle." "You must understand,"
he said, "I am almost old enough to be your grandfather. I have four
sons, anyone of whom might have married you, if they had had the
good fortune to be in Castleman County at the critical time. So you
must let me be frank with you."
Sylvia indicated that she was willing.
"We don't generally talk to women about these matters; because
they've no standard by which to judge, and they almost always fly
off and have hysterics. Their case seems to them exceptional and
horrible, their husbands the blackest criminals in the whole tribe."
He paused for a moment. "Now, Mrs. van Tuiver, the disease which has
made your baby blind is probably what we call gonorrhea. When it
gets into the eyes, it has very terrible results. But it doesn't
often get into the eyes, and for the most part it's a trifling
affair, that we don't worry about. I know there are a lot of
new-fangled notions, but I'm an old man, with experience of my own,
and I have to have things proven to me. I know that with as much of
this disease as we doctors see, if it was a deadly disease, there'd
be nobody left alive in the world. As I say, I don't like to discuss
it with women; but it was not I who forced the matter upon your
attention----"
"Pray go on, Dr. Gibson," she said. "I really wish to know all that
you will tell me."
"The question has come up, how was this disease brought to your
child? Dr. Perrin suggested that possibly he--you understand his
fear; and possibly he is correct. But it seems to me an illustration
of the unwisdom of a physician's departing from his proper duty,
which is to cure people. If you wish to find out who brought a
disease, what you need is a detective. I know, of course, that there
are people who can combine the duties of physician and
detective--and that without any previous preparation or study of
either profession."
He waited for this irony to sink in; and Sylvia also waited,
patiently.
At last he resumed, "The idea has been planted in your mind that
your husband brought the trouble; and that idea is sure to stay
there and fester. So it becomes necessary for someone to talk to you
straight. Let me tell you that eight men out of ten have had this
disease at some time in their lives; also that very few of them were
cured of it when they thought they were. You have a cold: and then
next month, you say the cold is gone. So it is, for practical
purposes. But if I take a microscope, I find the germs of the cold
still in your membranes, and I know that you can give a cold, and a
bad cold, to some one else who is sensitive. It is true that you may
go through all the rest of your life without ever being entirely rid
"Yes," said Sylvia, in a low voice.
"I say eight out of ten. Estimates would differ. Some doctors would
say seven out of ten--and some actual investigations have shown nine
out of ten. And understand me, I don't mean bar-room loafers and
roustabouts. I mean your brothers, if you have any, your cousins,
your best friends, the men who came to make love to you, and whom
you thought of marrying. If you had found it out about any one of
them, of course you'd have cut the acquaintance; yet you'd have been
doing an injustice--for if you had done that to all who'd ever had
the disease, you might as well have retired to a nunnery at once."
The old gentleman paused again; then frowning at her under his bushy
eye-brows, he exclaimed, "I tell you, Mrs. van Tuiver, you're doing
your husband a wrong. Your husband loves you, and he's a good
man--I've had some talks with him, and I know he's not got nearly so
much on his conscience as the average husband. I'm a Southern man,
and I know these gay young bloods you've danced and flirted with all
your young life. Do you think if you went probing into their secret
affairs, you'd have had much pleasure in their company afterwards? I
tell you again, you're doing your husband a wrong! You're doing
something that very few men would stand, as patiently as he has
stood it so far."
All this time Sylvia had given no sign. So the old gentleman began
to feel a trifle uneasy. "Mind you," he said, "I'm not saying that
men ought to be like that. They deserve a good hiding, most of
them--they're very few of them fit to associate with a good woman.
I've always said that no man is really good enough for a good woman.
But my point is that when you select one to punish, you select not
the guiltiest one, but simply the one who's had the misfortune to
fall under suspicion. And he knows that's not fair; he'd have to be
more than human if deep in his soul he did not bitterly resent it.
You understand me?"
"I understand," she replied, in the same repressed voice.
And the doctor rose and laid his hand on her shoulder. "I'm going
home," he said--"very probably we'll never meet each other again. I
see you making a great mistake, laying up unhappiness for yourself
in the future; and I wish to prevent it if I can. I wish to persuade
you to face the facts of the world in which we live. So I am going
to tell you something that I never expected I should tell to a
lady."
He was looking her straight in the eye. "You see me--I'm an old man,
and I seem fairly respectable to you. You've laughed at me some, but
even so, you've found it possible to get along with me without too
great repugnance. Well, I've had this disease; I've had it, and
nevertheless I've raised six fine, sturdy children. More than that--
I'm not free to name anybody else, but I happen to know positively
that among the men your husband employs on this island there are two
who have the disease right now. And the next charming and well-bred
gentleman you are introduced to, just reflect that there are at
least eight chances in ten that he has had the disease, and perhaps
three or four in ten that he has it at the minute he's shaking hands
with you. And now you think that over, and stop tormenting your poor
husband!"
6. One of the first things I did when I reached New York was to send
a little love-letter to Sylvia. I said nothing that would distress
her; I merely assured her that she was in my thoughts, and that I
should look to see her in New York, when we could have a good talk.
I put this in a plain envelope, with a typewritten address, and
registered it in the name of my stenographer. The receipt came back,
signed by an unknown hand, probably the secretary's. I found out
later that the letter never got to Sylvia.
No doubt it was the occasion of renewed efforts upon her husband's
part to obtain from her the promise he desired. He would not be put
off with excuses; and at last he got her answer, in the shape of a
letter which she told him she intended to mail to me. In this letter
she announced her decision that she owed it to her baby to avoid all
excitement and nervous strain during the time that she was nursing
it. Her husband had sent for the yacht, and they were going to
Scotland, and in the winter to the Mediterranean and the Nile.
Meantime she would not correspond with me; but she wished me to know
that there was to be no break in our friendship, and that she would