SYLVIA'S MARRIAGE 

SOME PRESS NOTICES 

"The importance of the theme cannot be doubted, and no one hithertoignorant of the ravages of the evil and therefore, by implication, in need of being convinced can refuse general agreement with Mr. Sinclair upon the question as he argues it. The character thatmatters most is very much alive and most entertaining. "--_The Times. _ 

"Very severe and courageous. It would, indeed, be difficult to denyor extenuate the appalling truth of Mr. Sinclair's indictment. "--_The Nation. _

"There is not a man nor a grown woman who would not be better forreading Sylvia's Marriage. "--_The Globe_ 

"Those who found Sylvia charming on her first appearance will findher as beautiful and fascinating as ever. "--_The Pall Mall. 

"A novel that frankly is devoted to the illustration of the dangersthat society runs through the marriage of unsound men withunsuspecting women. The time has gone by when any objection waslikely to be taken to a perfectly clean discussion of a nastysubject. "--_T. P. 's Weekly. _

SYLVIA'S MARRIAGE 

A NOVEL 

BY 

UPTON SINCLAIR 

AUTHOR OF "THE JUNGLE, " ETC. , ETC. 

LONDON 

CONTENTS 

BOOK I SYLVIA AS WIFE 

BOOK II SYLVIA AS MOTHER 

BOOK III SYLVIA AS REBEL 

SYLVIA'S MARRIAGE 

BOOK I 

SYLVIA AS WIFE 

1. I am telling the story of Sylvia Castleman. I should prefer totell it without mention of myself; but it was written in the book offate that I should be a decisive factor in her life, and so herstory pre-supposes mine. I imagine the impatience of a reader, whois promised a heroine out of a romantic and picturesque "society"world, and finds himself beginning with the autobiography of afarmer's wife on a solitary homestead in Manitoba. But then Iremember that Sylvia found me interesting. Putting myself in herplace, remembering her eager questions and her exclamations, I amable to see myself as a heroine of fiction. 

I was to Sylvia a new and miraculous thing, a self-made woman. Imust have been the first "common" person she had ever knownintimately. She had seen us afar off, and wondered vaguely about us, consoling herself with the reflection that we probably did not knowenough to be unhappy over our sad lot in life. But here I was, actually a soul like herself; and it happened that I knew more thanshe did, and of things she desperately needed to know. So all theluxury, power and prestige that had been given to Sylvia Castlemanseemed as nothing beside Mary Abbott, with her modern attitude andher common-sense. 

My girlhood was spent upon a farm in Iowa. My father had eightchildren, and he drank. Sometimes he struck me; and so it came aboutthat at the age of seventeen I ran away with a boy of twenty whoworked upon a neighbour's farm. I wanted a home of my own, and Tomhad some money saved up. We journeyed to Manitoba, and took out ahomestead, where I spent the next twenty years of my life in ahand-to-hand struggle with Nature which seemed simply incredible toSylvia when I told her of it. 

The man I married turned out to be a petty tyrant. In the first fiveyears of our life he succeeded in killing the love I had for him;but meantime I had borne him three children, and there was nothingto do but make the best of my bargain. I became to outward view abeaten drudge; yet it was the truth that never for an hour did Igive up. When I lost what would have been my fourth child, and thedoctor told me that I could never have another, I took this for mycharter of freedom, and made up my mind to my course; I would raisethe children I had, and grow up with them, and move out into lifewhen they did. 

This was when I was working eighteen hours a day, more than half ofit by lamp-light, in the darkness of our Northern winters. When theaccident came, I had been doing the cooking for half a dozen men, who were getting in the wheat upon which our future depended. I fellin my tracks, and lost my child; yet I sat still and white while themen ate supper, and afterwards I washed up the dishes. Such was mylife in those days; and I can see before me the face of horror withwhich Sylvia listened to the story. But these things are common inthe experience of women who live upon pioneer farms, and toil as theslave-woman has toiled since civilization began. 

We won out, and my husband made money. I centred my energies upongetting school-time for my children; and because I had resolved thatthey should not grow ahead of me, I sat up at night, and studiedtheir books. When the oldest boy was ready for high-school, we movedto a town, where my husband had bought a granary business. By thattime I had become a physical wreck, with a list of ailments toopainful to describe. But I still had my craving for knowledge, andmy illness was my salvation, in a way--it got me a hired girl, andtime to patronize the free library. 

I had never had any sort of superstition or prejudice, and when Igot into the world of books, I began quickly to find my way. Itravelled into by-paths, of course; I got Christian Science badly, and New Thought in a mild attack. I still have in my mind what thesober reader would doubtless consider queer kinks; for instance, Istill practice "mental healing, " in a form, and I don't always tellmy secret thoughts about Theosophy and Spiritualism. But almost atonce I worked myself out of the religion I had been taught, and awayfrom my husband's politics, and the drugs of my doctors. One of thefirst subjects I read about was health; I came upon a book onfasting, and went away upon a visit and tried it, and came back homea new woman, with a new life before me. 

In all of these matters my husband fought me at every step. Hewished to rule, not merely my body, but my mind, and it seemed as ifevery new thing that I learned was an additional affront to him. Idon't think I was rendered disagreeable by my culture; my onlyobstinacy was in maintaining the right of the children to do theirown thinking. But during this time my husband was making money, andfilling his life with that. He remained in his every idea themoney-man, an active and bitter leader of the forces of greed in ourcommunity; and when my studies took me to the inevitable end, and Ijoined the local of the Socialist party in our town, it was to himlike a blow in the face. He never got over it, and I think that ifthe children had not been on my side, he would have claimed theEnglishman's privilege of beating me with a stick not thicker thanhis thumb. As it was, he retired into a sullen hypochondria, whichwas so pitiful that in the end I came to regard him as notresponsible. 

I went to a college town with my three children, and when they weregraduated, having meantime made sure that I could never do anythingbut torment my husband, I set about getting a divorce. I had helpedto lay the foundation of his fortune, cementing it with my blood, Imight say, and I could fairly have laid claim to half what he hadbrought from the farm; but my horror of the parasitic woman hadcome to be such that rather than even seem to be one, I gave upeverything, and went out into the world at the age of forty-five toearn my own living. My children soon married, and I would not be aburden to them; so I came East for a while, and settled down quiteunexpectedly into a place as a field-worker for a child-labourcommittee. 

You may think that a woman so situated would not have been apt tomeet Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver, _née_ Castleman, and to be chosen forher bosom friend; but that would only be because you do not know themodern world. We have managed to get upon the consciences of therich, and they invite us to attend their tea-parties and disturbtheir peace of mind. And then, too, I had a peculiar hold uponSylvia; when I met her I possessed the key to the great mystery ofher life. How that had come about is a story in itself, the thing Ihave next to tell. 

2. It happened that my arrival in New York from the far Westcoincided with Sylvia's from the far South; and that both fell at atime when there were no wars or earthquakes or football games tocompete for the front page of the newspapers. So everybody wastalking about the prospective wedding. The fact that the Southernbelle had caught the biggest prize among the city's youngmillionaires was enough to establish precedence with the city'ssubservient newspapers, which had proceeded to robe the grave andpunctilious figure of the bridegroom in the garments of KingCophetua. The fact that the bride's father was the richest man inhis own section did not interfere with this--for how couldmetropolitan editors be expected to have heard of the glories ofCastleman Hall, or to imagine that there existed a section ofAmerica so self-absorbed that its local favourite would not feelherself exalted in becoming Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver? 

What the editors knew about Castleman Hall was that they wired forpictures, and a man was sent from the nearest city to "snap" thisunknown beauty; whereupon her father chased the presumptuousphotographer and smashed his camera with a cane. So, of course, whenSylvia stepped out of the train in New York, there was a wholebattery of cameras awaiting her, and all the city beheld her imagethe next day. 

The beginning of my interest in this "belle" from far South was whenI picked up the paper at my breakfast table, and found her gazing atme, with the wide-open, innocent eyes of a child; a child who hadcome from some fairer, more gracious world, and brought the memoryof it with her, trailing her clouds of glory. She had stepped fromthe train into the confusion of the roaring city, and she stood, startled and frightened, yet, I thought, having no more real idea ofits wickedness and horror than a babe in arms. I read her soul inthat heavenly countenance, and sat looking at it, enraptured, dumb. There must have been thousands, even in that metropolis of Mammon, who loved her from that picture, and whispered a prayer for herhappiness. 

I can hear her laugh as I write this. For she would have it that Iwas only one more of her infatuated lovers, and that her clouds ofglory were purely stage illusion. She knew exactly what she wasdoing with those wide-open, innocent eyes! Had not old Lady Dee, most cynical of worldlings, taught her how to use them when she wasa child in pig-tails? To be sure she had been scared when shestepped off the train, and strange men had shoved cameras under hernose. It was almost as bad as being assassinated! But as to herheavenly soul--alas, for the blindness of men, and of sentimentalold women, who could believe in a modern "society" girl! 

I had supposed that I was an emancipated woman when I came to NewYork. But one who has renounced the world, the flesh and the devil, knowing them only from pictures in magazines and Sunday supplements;such a one may find that he has still some need of fasting andpraying. The particular temptation which overcame me was thispicture of the bride-to-be. I wanted to see her, and I went andstood for hours in a crowd of curious women, and saw the weddingparty enter the great Fifth Avenue Church, and discovered that mySylvia's hair was golden, and her eyes a strange and wonderfulred-brown. And this was the moment that fate had chosen to throwClaire Lepage into my arms, and give me the key to the future ofSylvia's life. 

3. I am uncertain how much I should tell about Claire Lepage. It isa story which is popular in a certain sort of novel, but I have nowish for that easy success. Towards Claire herself I had no trace ofthe conventional attitude, whether of contempt or of curiosity. Shewas to me the product of a social system, of the great New Ninevehwhich I was investigating. And later on, when I knew her, she was aweak sister whom I tried to help. 

It happened that I knew much more about such matters than theaverage woman--owing to a tragedy in my life. When I was abouttwenty-five years old, my brother-in-law had moved his family to ourpart of the world, and one of his boys had become very dear to me. This boy later on had got into trouble, and rather than tell anyoneabout it, had shot himself. So my eyes had been opened to thingsthat are usually hidden from my sex; for the sake of my own sons, Ihad set out to study the underground ways of the male creature. Ideveloped the curious custom of digging out every man I met, andmaking him lay bare his inmost life to me; so you may understandthat it was no ordinary pair of woman's arms into which ClaireLepage was thrown. 

At first I attributed her vices to her environment, but soon Irealized that this was a mistake; the women of her world do not as arule go to pieces. Many of them I met were free and independentwomen, one or two of them intellectual and worth knowing. For themost part such women marry well, in the worldly sense, and live ascontented lives as the average lady who secures her life-contract atthe outset. If you had met Claire at an earlier period of hercareer, and if she had been concerned to impress you, you might havethought her a charming hostess. She had come of good family, andbeen educated in a convent--much better educated than many societygirls in America. She spoke English as well as she did French, andshe had read some poetry, and could use the language of idealismwhenever necessary. She had even a certain religious streak, andcould voice the most generous sentiments, and really believe thatshe believed them. So it might have been some time before youdiscovered the springs of her weakness. 

In the beginning I blamed van Tuiver; but in the end I concludedthat for most of her troubles she had herself to thank--or perhapsthe ancestors who had begotten her. She could talk more nobly andact more abjectly than any other woman I have ever known. She wantedpleasant sensations, and she expected life to furnish themcontinuously. Instinctively she studied the psychology of the personshe was dealing with, and chose a reason which would impress thatperson. 

At this time, you understand, I knew nothing about Sylvia Castlemanor her fiancé, except what the public knew. But now I got an insideview--and what a view! I had read some reference to Douglas vanTuiver's Harvard career: how he had met the peerless Southernbeauty, and had given up college and pursued her to her home. I hadpictured the wooing in the rosy lights of romance, with all theglamour of worldly greatness. But now, suddenly, what a glimpse intothe soul of the princely lover! "He had a good scare, let me tellyou, " said Claire. "He never knew what I was going to do from oneminute to the next. " 

"Did he see you in the crowd before the church door?" I inquired. 

"No, " she replied, "but he thought of me, I can promise you. " 

"He knew you were coming?" 

She answered, "I told him I had got an admission card, just to makesure he'd keep me in mind!" 

4. I did not have to hear much more of Claire's story before makingup my mind that the wealthiest and most fashionable of New York'syoung bachelors was a rather self-centred person. He had fallendesperately in love with the peerless Southern beauty, and when shehad refused to have anything to do with him, he had come back to theother woman for consolation, and had compelled her to pretend tosympathize with his agonies of soul. And this when he knew that sheloved him with the intensity of a jealous nature. 

Claire had her own view of Sylvia Castleman, a view for which Inaturally made due reservations. Sylvia was a schemer, who had knownfrom the first what she wanted, and had played her part withmasterly skill. As for Claire, she had striven to match her moves, plotting in the darkness against her, and fighting desperately withsuch weak weapons as she possessed. It was characteristic that shedid not blame herself for her failure; it was the baseness of vanTuiver, his inability to appreciate sincere devotion, hisunworthiness of her love. And this, just after she had been naivelytelling me of her efforts to poison his mind against Sylvia whilepretending to admire her! But I made allowances for Claire at thismoment--realizing that the situation had been one to overstrain anywoman's altruism. 

She had failed in her subtleties, and there had followed scenes ofbitter strife between the two. Sylvia, the cunning huntress, havingpretended to relent, van Tuiver had gone South to his wooing again, while Claire had stayed at home and read a book about the poisonersof the Italian renaissance. And then had come the announcement ofthe engagement, after which the royal conqueror had come back in apanic, and sent embassies of his male friends to plead with Claire, alternately promising her wealth and threatening her withdestitution, appealing to her fear, her cupidity, and even to herlove. To all of which I listened, thinking of the wide-open, innocent eyes of the picture, and shedding tears within my soul. Somust the gods feel as they look down upon the affairs of mortals, seeing how they destroy themselves by ignorance and folly, seeinghow they walk into the future as a blind man into a yawning abyss. 

I gave, of course, due weight to the sneers of Claire. Perhaps theinnocent one really had set a trap--had picked van Tuiver out andmarried him for his money. But even so, I could hope that she hadnot known what she was doing. Surely it had never occurred to herthat through all the days of her triumph she would have to eat andsleep with the shade of another woman at her side! 

Claire said to me, not once, but a dozen times, "He'll come back tome. She'll never be able to make him happy. " And so I picturedSylvia upon her honeymoon, followed by an invisible ghost whosevoice she would never hear, whose name she would never know. Allthat van Tuiver had learned from Claire, the sensuality, the_ennin_, the contempt for woman--it would rise to torment andterrify his bride, and turn her life to bitterness. And then beyondthis, deeps upon deeps, to which my imagination did not go--and ofwhich the Frenchwoman, with all her freedom of tongue, gave me nomore than a hint which I could not comprehend. 

5. Claire Lepage at this time was desperately lonely and unhappy. Having made the discovery that my arms were sturdy, used to doing aman's work, she clung to them. She begged me to go home with her, tovisit her--finally to come and live with her. Until recently anelderly companion, had posed as her aunt, and kept her respectablewhile she was upon van Tuiver's yacht, and at his castle inScotland. But this companion had died, and now Claire had no onewith whom to discuss her soul-states. 

She occupied a beautiful house on the West Side, not far fromRiverside Drive; and in addition to the use of this she had anincome of eight thousand a year--which was not enough to makepossible a chauffeur, nor even to dress decently, but only enough tokeep in debt upon. Such as the income was, however, she was willingto share it with me. So there opened before me a new profession--and a new insight into the complications of parasitism. 

I went to see her frequently at first, partly because I wasinterested in her and her associates, and partly because I reallythought I could help her. But I soon came to realize thatinfluencing Claire was like moulding water; it flowed back roundyour hands, even while you worked. I would argue with her about thephysiological effects of alcohol, and when I had convinced her, shewould promise caution; but soon I would discover that my argumentshad gone over her head. I was at this time feeling my way towards mywork in the East. I tried to interest her in such things as socialreform, but realized that they had no meaning for her. She wasliving the life of the pleasure-seeking idlers of the greatmetropolis, and every time I met her it seemed to me that hercharacter and her appearance had deteriorated. 

Meantime I picked up scraps of information concerning the vanTuivers. There were occasional items in the papers, their yacht, the"Triton, " had reached the Azores; it had run into a tender in theharbour of Gibraltar; Mr. And Mrs. Van Tuiver had received thehonour of presentation at the Vatican; they were spending the seasonin London, and had been presented at court; they had been royalguests at the German army-manoeuvres. The million wage-slaves of themetropolis, packed morning and night into the roaring subways andwhirled to and from their tasks, read items such as these and werethrilled by the triumphs of their fellow-countrymen. 

At Claire's house I learned to be interested in "society" news. Froma weekly paper of gossip about the rich and great she would readparagraphs, explaining subtle allusions and laying bare veiledscandals. Some of the men she knew well, referring to them for mybenefit as Bertie and Reggie and Vivie and Algie. She also knew nota little about the women of that super-world--information sometimesof an intimate nature, which these ladies would have been startledto hear was going the rounds. 

This insight I got into Claire's world I found useful, needless tosay, in my occasional forays as a soap-box orator of Socialism. Iwould go from the super-heated luxury of her home to visittenement-dens where little children made paper-flowers twelve andfourteen hours a day for a trifle over one cent an hour. I wouldspend the afternoon floating about in the park in the automobile ofone of her expensive friends, and then take the subway and visit oneof the settlements, to hear a discussion of conditions which doomeda certain number of working-girls to be burned alive every year infactory fires. 

As time went on, I became savage concerning such contrasts, and thespeeches I was making for the party began to attract attention. During the summer, I recollect, I had begun to feel hostile eventowards the lovely image of Sylvia, which I had framed in my room. While she was being presented at St. James's, I was studying theglass-factories in South Jersey, where I found little boys of tenworking in front of glowing furnaces until they dropped ofexhaustion and sometimes had their eyes burned out. While she andher husband were guests of the German Emperor, I was playing thepart of a Polish working-woman, penetrating the carefully guardedsecrets of the sugar-trust's domain in Brooklyn, where human livesare snuffed out almost every day in noxious fumes. 

And then in the early fall Sylvia came home, her honeymoon over. Shecame in one of the costly suites in the newest of the _de luxe_steamers; and the next morning I saw a new picture of her, and reada few words her husband had condescended to say to a fellowtraveller about the courtesy of Europe to visiting Americans. Thenfor a couple of months I heard no more of them. I was busy with mychild-labour work, and I doubt if a thought of Sylvia crossed mymind, until that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon at Mrs. Allison'swhen she came up to me and took my hand in hers. 

6. Mrs. Roland Allison was one of the comfortable in body who hadbegun to feel uncomfortable in mind. I had happened to meet her atthe settlement, and tell her what I had seen in the glass factories;whereupon she made up her mind that everybody she knew must hear metalk, and to that end gave a reception at her Madison Avenue home. 

I don't remember much of what I said, but if I may take the evidenceof Sylvia, who remembered everything, I spoke effectively. I toldthem, for one thing, the story of little Angelo Patri. Little Angelowas of that indeterminate Italian age where he helped to support adrunken father without regard to the child-labour laws of the Stateof New Jersey. His people were tenants upon a fruit-farm a couple ofmiles from the glass-factory, and little Angelo walked to and fromhis work along the railroad-track. It is a peculiarity of theglass-factory that it has to eat its children both by day and bynight; and after working six hours before midnight and six moreafter midnight, little Angelo was tired. He had no eye for the birdsand flowers on a beautiful spring morning, but as he was walkinghome, he dropped in his tracks and fell asleep. The driver of thefirst morning train on that branch-line saw what he took to be anold coat lying on the track ahead, and did not stop to investigate. 

All this had been narrated to me by the child's mother, who hadworked as a packer of "beers, " and who had loved little Angelo. As Irepeated her broken words about the little mangled body, I saw someof my auditors wipe away a surreptitious tear. 

After I had stopped, several women came up to talk with me at thelast, when most of the company was departing, there came one more, who had waited her turn. The first thing I saw was her loveliness, the thing about her that dazzled and stunned people, and then camethe strange sense of familiarity. Where had I met this girl before? 

She said what everybody always says; she had been so muchinterested, she had never dreamed that such conditions existed inthe world. I, applying the acid test, responded, "So many peoplehave said that to me that I have begun to believe it. " 

"It is so in my case, " she replied, quickly. "You see, I have livedall my life in the South, and we have no such conditions there. " 

"Are you sure?" I asked. 

"Our negroes at least can steal enough to eat, " she said. 

I smiled. Then--since one has but a moment or two to get in one'swork in these social affairs, and so has to learn to thrust quickly:"You have timber-workers in Louisiana, steel-workers in Alabama. Youhave tobacco-factories, canning-factories, cotton-mills--have youbeen to any of them to see how the people live?" 

All this I said automatically, it being the routine of the agitator. But meantime in my mind was an excitement, spreading like a flame. The loveliness of this young girl; the eagerness, the intensity offeeling written upon her countenance; and above all, the strangesense of familiarity! Surely, if I had met her before, I shouldnever have forgotten her; surely it could not be--not possibly--

My hostess came, and ended my bewilderment. "You ought to get Mrs. Van Tuiver on your child-labour committee, " she said. 

A kind of panic seized me. I wanted to say, "Oh, it is SylviaCastleman!" But then, how could I explain? I couldn't say, "I haveyour picture in my room, cut out of a newspaper. " Still less could Isay, "I know a friend of your husband. " 

Fortunately Sylvia did not heed my excitement. (She had learned bythis time to pretend not to notice. ) "Please don't misunderstandme, " she was saying. "I really _don't_ know about these things. AndI would do something to help if I could. " As she said this shelooked with the red-brown eyes straight into mine--a gaze so clearand frank and honest, it was as if an angel had come suddenly toearth, and learned of the horrible tangle into which we mortals havegot our affairs. 

"Be careful what you're saying, " put in our hostess, with a laugh. "You're in dangerous hands. " 

But Sylvia would not be warned. "I want to know more about it, " shesaid. "You must tell me what I can do. " 

"Take her at her word, " said Mrs. Allison, to me. "Strike while theiron is hot!" I detected a note of triumph in her voice; if shecould say that she had got Mrs. Van Tuiver to take upchild-labour--that indeed would be a feather to wear! 

"I will tell you all I can, " I said. "That's my work in the world. " 

"Take Mrs. Abbott away with you, " said the energetic hostess, toSylvia; and before I quite understood what was happening, I hadreceived and accepted an invitation to drive in the park with Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver. In her role of _dea ex machina_ the hostessextricated me from the other guests, and soon I was established in abig new motor, gliding up Madison Avenue as swiftly and silently asa cloud-shadow over the fields. As I write the words there liesupon my table a Socialist paper with one of Will Dyson's vividcartoons, representing two ladies of the great world at a reception. Says the first, "These social movements are becoming _quite_ worthwhile!" "Yes, indeed, " says the other. "One meets such goodsociety!" 

7. Sylvia's part in this adventure was a nobler one than mine, Seated as I was in a regal motor-car, and in company with onefavoured of all the gods in the world, I must have had an intenseconviction of my own saintliness not to distrust my excitement. ButSylvia, for her part, had nothing to get from me but pain. I talkedof the factory-fires and the horrors of the sugar-refineries, and Isaw shadow after shadow of suffering cross her face. You may say itwas cruel of me to tear the veil from those lovely eyes, but in sucha matter I felt myself the angel of the Lord and His vengeance. 

"I didn't know about these things!" she cried again. And I found itwas true. It would have been hard for me to imagine anyone soignorant of the realities of modern life. The men and women she hadmet she understood quite miraculously, but they were only two kinds, the "best people" and their negro servants. There had been a wholeregiment of relatives on guard to keep her from knowing anybodyelse, or anything else, and if by chance a dangerous fact broke intothe family stockade, they had formulas ready with which to kill it. 

"But now, " Sylvia went on, "I've got some money, and I can help, soI dare not be ignorant any longer. You must show me the way, and myhusband too. I'm sure he doesn't know what can be done. " 

I said that I would do anything in my power. Her help would beinvaluable, not merely because of the money she might give, butbecause of the influence of her name; the attention she could drawto any cause she chose. I explained to her the aims and the methodsof our child-labour committee. We lobbied to get new legislation;we watched officials to compel them to enforce the laws alreadyexisting; above all, we worked for publicity, to make people realisewhat it meant that the new generation was growing up withouteducation, and stunted by premature toil. And that was where shecould help us most--if she would go and see the conditions with herown eyes, and then appear before the legislative committee thiswinter, in favour of our new bill! 

She turned her startled eyes upon me at this. Her ideas of doinggood in the world were the old-fashioned ones of visiting andalmsgiving; she had no more conception of modern remedies than shehad of modern diseases. "Oh, I couldn't possibly make a speech!" sheexclaimed. 

"Why not?" I asked. 

"I never thought of such a thing. I don't know enough. " 

"But you can learn. " 

"I know, but that kind of work ought to be done by men. " 

"We've given men a chance, and they have made the evils. Whosebusiness is it to protect the children if not the women's?" 

She hesitated a moment, and then said: "I suppose you'll laugh atme. " 

"No, no, " I promised; then as I looked at her I guessed. "Are yougoing to tell me that woman's place is the home?" 

"That is what we think in Castleman County, " she said, smiling inspite of herself. 

"The children have got out of the home, " I replied. "If they areever to get back, we women must go and fetch them. " 

Suddenly she laughed--that merry laugh that was the April sunshineof my life for many years. "Somebody made a Suffrage speech in ourState a couple of years ago, and I wish you could have seen thehorror of my people! My Aunt Nannie--she's Bishop Chilton'swife--thought it was the most dreadful thing that had happened sinceJefferson Davis was put in irons. She talked about it for days, andat last she went upstairs and shut herself in the attic. The youngerchildren came home from school, and wanted to know where mamma was. Nobody knew. Bye and bye, the cook came. 'Marse Basil, what we gwinehave fo' dinner? I done been up to Mis' Nannie, an' she say g'wayan' not pester her--she busy. ' Company came, and there was dreadfulconfusion--nobody knew what to do about anything--and still AuntNannie was locked in! At last came dinner-time, and everybody elsecame. At last up went the butler, and came down with the messagethat they were to eat whatever they had, and take care of thecompany somehow, and go to prayer-meeting, and let her alone--shewas writing a letter to the Castleman County _Register_ on thesubject of 'The Duty of Woman as a Homemaker'!" 

8. This was the beginning of my introduction to Castleman County. Itwas a long time before I went there, but I learned to know itsinhabitants from Sylvia's stories of them. Funny stories, tragicstories, wild and incredible stories out of a half-barbaric age! Shewould tell them and we would laugh together; but then a wistful lookwould come into her eyes, and a silence would fall. So very soon Imade the discovery that my Sylvia was homesick. In all the yearsthat I knew her she never ceased to speak of Castleman Hall as"home". All her standards came from there, her new ideas werereferred there. 

We talked of Suffrage for a while, and I spoke about the lives ofwomen on lonely farms--how they give their youth and health to theirhusband's struggle, yet have no money partnership which they canenforce in case of necessity. "But surely, " cried Sylvia, "you don'twant to make divorce more easy!" 

"I want to make the conditions of it fair to women, " I said. 

"But then more women will get it! And there are so many divorcedwomen now! Papa says that divorce is a greater menace thanSocialism!" 

She spoke of Suffrage in England, where women were just beginning tomake public disturbances. Surely I did not approve of their leavingtheir homes for such purposes as that! As tactfully as I could, Isuggested that conditions in England were peculiar. There was, forexample, the quaint old law which permitted a husband to beat hiswife subject to certain restrictions. Would an American woman submitto such a law? There was the law which made it impossible for awoman to divorce her husband for infidelity, unless accompanied bydesertion or cruelty. Surely not even her father would consider thata decent arrangement! I mentioned a recent decision of the highestcourt in the land, that a man who brought his mistress to live inhis home, and compelled his wife to wait upon her, was notcommitting cruelty within the meaning of the English law. I heardSylvia's exclamation of horror, and met her stare of incredulity;and then suddenly I thought of Claire, and a little chill ran overme. It was a difficult hour, in more ways than one, that of my firsttalk with Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver! 

I soon made the discovery that, childish as her ignorance was, therewas no prejudice in it. If you brought her a fact, she did not saythat it was too terrible to be true, or that the Bible saidotherwise, or that it was indecent to know about it. Nor, when youmet her next, did you discover that she had forgotten it. On thecontrary, you discovered that she had followed it to its remoteconsequences, and was ready with a score of questions as to these. Iremember saying to myself, that first automobile ride: "If this girlgoes on thinking, she will get into trouble! She will have to stop, for the sake of others!" 

"You must meet my husband some time, " she said; and added, "I'llhave to see my engagement-book. I have so much to do, I never knowwhen I have a moment free. " 

"You must find it interesting, " I ventured. 

"I did, for a while; but I've begun to get tired of so much goingabout. For the most part I meet the same people, and I've found outwhat they have to say. " 

I laughed. "You have caught the society complaint already--_ennui_!"

"I had it years ago, at home. It's true I never would have gone outat all if it hadn't been for the sake of my family. That's why Ienvy a woman like you--" 

I could not help laughing. It was too funny, Mrs. Douglas van Tuiverenvying me! 

"What's the matter?" she asked. 

"Just the irony of life. Do you know, I cut you out of thenewspaper, and put you in a little frame on my bureau. I thought, here is the loveliest face I've ever seen, and here is themost-to-be-envied of women. " 

She smiled, but quickly became serious. "I learned very early inlife that I was beautiful; and I suppose if I were suddenly to ceasebeing beautiful, I'd miss it; yet I often think it's a nuisance. Itmakes one dependent on externals. Most of the beautiful women I'veknown make a sort of profession of it--they live to shine and belooked at. 

"And you don't enjoy that?" I asked. 

"It restricts one's life. Men expect it of you, they resent yourhaving any other interest. " 

"So, " I responded, gravely, "with all your beauty and wealth, youaren't perfectly happy?" 

"Oh, yes!" she cried--not having meant to confess so much. "I toldmyself I would be happy, because I would be able to do so much goodin the world. There must be some way to do good with money! But nowI'm not sure; there seem to be so many things in the way. Just whenyou have your mind made up that you have a way to help, someonecomes and points out to you that you may be really doing harm. " 

She hesitated again, and I said, "That means you have been lookinginto the matter of charity. " 

She gave me a bright glance. "How you understand things!" sheexclaimed. 

"It is possible, " I replied, "to know modern society so well thatwhen you meet certain causes you know what results to look for. " 

"I wish you'd explain to me why charity doesn't do any good!" 

"It would mean a lecture on the competitive wage-system, " Ilaughed--" too serious a matter for a drive!" 

This may have seemed shirking on my part. But here I was, wrapped inluxurious furs, rolling gloriously through the park at twilight on abrilliant autumn evening; and the confiscation of property seems somuch more startling a proposition when you are in immediate contactwith it! This principle, which explains the "opportunism" ofSocialist cabinet-ministers and Labour M. P. S may be used to accountfor the sudden resolve which I had taken, that for this afternoon atleast Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver should not discover that I was eithera divorced woman, or a soap-box orator of the revolution. 

9. Sylvia, in that first conversation, told me much about herselfthat she did not know she was telling. I became fairly certain, forinstance, that she had not married Mr. Douglas van Tuiver for love. The young girl who has so married does not suffer from ennui in thefirst year, nor does she find her happiness depending upon herability to solve the problem of charity in connection with herhusband's wealth. 

She would have ridden and talked longer, she said, but for a dinnerengagement. She asked me to call on her, and I promised to come somemorning, as soon as she set a day. When the car drew up before thedoor of her home, I thought of my first ride about the city in the"rubber-neck wagon, " and how I had stared when the lecturer pointedout this mansion. We, the passengers, had thrilled as one soul, imagining the wonderful life which must go on behind those massiveportals, the treasures outshining the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, which required those thick, bronze bars for their protection. Andhere was the mistress of all the splendour, inviting me to come andsee it from within! 

She wanted to send me home in the car, but I would not have that, onaccount of the push-cart men and the babies in my street; I got outand walked--my heart beating fast, my blood leaping with exultation. I reached home, and there on the bureau was the picture--but behold, how changed! It was become a miracle of the art ofcolour-photography; its hair was golden, its eyes a wonderfulred-brown, its cheeks aglow with the radiance of youth! And yet moreamazing, the picture spoke! It spoke with the most delicious ofSouthern drawls--referring to the "repo't" of my child-labourcommittee, shivering at the cold and bidding me pull the "fu-uzz" upround me. And when I told funny stories about the Italians and theHebrews of my tenement-neighbourhood, it broke into silverylaughter, and cried: "Oh, de-ah me! How que-ah!" Little had Idreamed, when I left that picture in the morning, what a miracle wasto be wrought upon it. 

I knew, of course, what was the matter with me; the symptoms wereunmistakable. After having made up my mind that I was an old woman, and that there was nothing more in life for me save labour--here thelittle archer had come, and with the sharpest of his golden arrows, had shot me through. I had all the thrills, the raptures anddelicious agonies of first love; I lived no longer in myself, but inthe thought of another person. Twenty times a day I looked at mypicture, and cried aloud: "Oh, beautiful, beautiful!" 

I do not know how much of her I have been able to give. I have toldof our first talk--but words are so cold and dead! I stop and ask:What there is, in all nature, that has given me the same feeling? Iremember how I watched the dragon-fly emerging from its chrysalis. It is soft and green and tender; it clings to a branch and dries itswings in the sun, and when the miracle is completed, there for abrief space it poises, shimmering with a thousand hues, quiveringwith its new-born ecstasy. And just so was Sylvia; a creature fromsome other world than ours, as yet unsoiled by the dust and heat ofreality. It came to me with a positive shock, as a terrifying thing, that there should be in this world of strife and wickedness anyyoung thing that took life with such intensity, that was sopalpitating with eagerness, with hope, with sympathy. Such was theimpression that one got of her, even when her words most denied it. She might be saying world-weary and cynical things, out of themaxims of Lady Dee; but there was still the eagerness, the sympathy, surging beneath and lifting her words. 

The crown of her loveliness was her unconsciousness of self. Eventhough she might be talking of herself, frankly admitting herbeauty, she was really thinking of other people, how she could getto them to help them. This I must emphasize, because, apart fromjesting, I would not have it thought that I had fallen under thespell of a beautiful countenance, combined with a motor-car and apatrician name. There were things about Sylvia that werearistocratic, that could be nothing else; but she could be her samelovely self in a cottage--as I shall prove to you before I finishwith the story of her life. 

I was in love. At that time I was teaching myself German, and I satone day puzzling out two lines of Goethe: 

"Oden and Thor, these two thou knowest; Freya, the heavenly, knowestthou not. " 

And I remember how I cried aloud in sudden delight: _"I know her!"_For a long time that was one of my pet names--"Freya disHimmlische!" I only heard of one other that I preferred--when incourse of time she told me about Frank Shirley, and how she hadloved him, and how their hopes had been wrecked. He had called her"Lady Sunshine"; he had been wont to call it over and over in hishappiness, and as Sylvia repeated it to me--"Lady Sunshine! LadySunshine!" I could imagine that I caught an echo of the very tonesof Frank Shirley's voice. 

10. For several days I waited upon the postman, and when the summonscame I dodged a committee-meeting, and ascended the marble stairswith trepidation, and underwent the doubting scrutiny of an Englishlackey, sufficiently grave in deportment and habiliments to havewaited upon a bishop in his own land. I have a vague memory of anentrance-hall with panelled paintings and a double-staircase with asnow-white carpet, about which I had read in the newspapers that itwas woven in one piece, and had cost an incredible sum. One did nothave to profane it with his feet, as there was an elevator provided. 

I was shown to Sylvia's morning-room, which had been "done" in pinkand white and gold by some decorator who had known her colours. Itwas large enough to have held half-a-dozen of my own quarters, andthe sun was allowed to flood it. Through a door at one side cameSylvia, holding out her hands to me. 

She was really glad to see me! She began to apologize at once forthe time she had taken to write. It was because she had so much todo. She had married into a world that took itself seriously: the"idle rich, " who worked like slaves. "You know, " she said, while wesat on a pink satin couch, and a footman brought us coffee: "youread that Mrs. So-and-so is a 'social queen, ' and you think it's anewspaper phrase, but it isn't; she really feels that she's a queen, and other people feel it, and she goes through her ceremonies assolemnly as the Lord's anointed. " 

She went on to tell me some of her adventures. She had a keen senseof fun, and was evidently suffering for an outlet for it. She sawthrough the follies and pretences of people in a flash, but theywere all such august and important people that, out of regard forher husband, she dared not let them suspect her clairvoyant power. 

She referred to her experiences abroad. She had not likedEurope--being quite frankly a provincial person. To Castleman Countya foreigner was a strange, dark person who mixed up his consonants, and was under suspicion of being a fiddler or an opera-singer. Thepeople she had met under her husband's charge had been sociallyindubitable, but still, they were foreigners, and Sylvia could neverreally be sure what they meant. 

There was, for instance, the young son of a German steel-king, aperson of amazing savoir faire, who had made bold to write books andexhibit pictures, and had travelled so widely that he had even heardof Castleman County. He had taken Sylvia to show her the sights ofBerlin, and had rolled her down the "Sieges Allée, " makingoutrageous fun of his Kaiser's taste in art, and coming at last to agreat marble column, with a female figure representing Victory uponthe top. "You will observe, " said the cultured young plutocrat, "that the Grecian lady stands a hundred meters in the air, and hasno stairway. There is a popular saying about her which isdelightful--that she is the only chaste woman in Berlin!" 

I had been through the culture-seeking stage, and knew my HenryJames; so I could read between the lines of Sylvia's experiences. Ifigured her as a person walking on volcanic ground, not knowing herperil, but vaguely disquieted by a smell of sulphur in the air. Andonce in a while a crack would open in the ground! There was the Dukeof Something in Rome, for example, a melancholy young man, with whomshe had coquetted, as she did, in her merry fashion, with every manshe met. Being married, she had taken it for granted that she mightbe as winsome as she chose; but the young Italian had misunderstoodthe game, and had whispered words of serious import, which had sohorrified Sylvia that she flew to her husband and told him thestory--begging him incidentally not to horse-whip the fellow. Inreply it had to be explained to her she had laid herself liable tothe misadventure. The ladies of the Italian aristocracy were severeand formal, and Sylvia had no right to expect an ardent young duketo understand her native wildness. 

11. Something of that sort was always happening--something in eachcountry to bewilder her afresh, and to make it necessary for herhusband to remind her of the proprieties. In France, a cousin of vanTuiver's had married a marquis, and they had visited the chateau. The family was Catholic, of the very oldest and strictest, and thebrother-in-law, a prelate of high degree, had invited the guests tobe shown through his cathedral. "Imagine my bewilderment!" saidSylvia. "I thought I was going to meet a church dignitary, grave andreverent; but here was a wit, a man of the world. Such speeches younever heard! I was ravished by the grandeur of the building, and Isaid: 'If I had seen this, I would have come to you to be married. ''Madame is an American, ' he replied. 'Come the next time!' When Iobjected that I was not a Catholic, he said: 'Your beauty is its ownreligion!' When I protested that he would be doing me too great anhonour, 'Madame, ' said he, 'the _honneur_ would be all to the church!'And because I was shocked at all this, I was considered to be aprovincial person!"

Then they had come to London, a dismal, damp city where you "neversaw the sun, and when you did see it it looked like a poached egg";where you had to learn to eat fish with the help of a knife, andwhere you might speak of bitches, but must never on any accountspeak of your stomach. They went for a week-end to "Hazelhurst, " thehome of the Dowager Duchess of Danbury, whose son van Tuiver, hadentertained in America, and who, in the son's absence, claimed theright to repay the debt. The old lady sat at table with two fatpoodle dogs in infants' chairs, one on each side of her, feeding outof golden trays. There was a visiting curate, a frightened littleman at the other side of one poodle; in an effort to be at ease heoffered the wheezing creature a bit of bread. "Don't feed my dogs!"snapped the old lady. "I don't allow anybody to feed my dogs!" 

And then there was the Honourable Reginald Annersley, the youngestson of the family, home from Eton on vacation. The HonourableReginald was twelve years of age, undersized and ill-nourished. ("They feed them badly, " his mother had explained, "an' theteachin's no good either, but it's a school for gentlemen. ")"Honestly, " said Sylvia, "he was the queerest little mannikin--likethe tiny waiter's assistants you see in hotels on the Continent. Hewore his Eton suit, you understand--grown-up evening clothes minusthe coat-tails, and a top hat. He sat at tea and chatted with themincing graces of a cotillion-leader; you expected to find some ofhis hair gone when he took off his hat! He spoke of his brother, theduke, who had gone off shooting seals somewhere. 'The jolly rotterhas nothing to do but spend his money; but we younger sons have towork like dogs when we grow up!' I asked what he'd do, and he said'I suppose there's nothin' but the church. It's a beastly bore, butyou do get a livin' out of it. ' 

"That was too much for me, " said Sylvia. "I proceeded to tell thepoor, blasé infant about my childhood; how my sister Celeste and Ihad caught half-tamed horses and galloped about the pasture on them, when we were so small that our little fat legs stuck outhorizontally; how we had given ourselves convulsions in the greenapple orchard, and had to be spanked every day before we had ourhair combed. I told how we heard a war-story about a "train ofgunpowder, " and proceeded to lay such a train about the attic ofCastleman Hall, and set fire to it. I might have spent the afternoonteaching the future churchman how to be a boy, if I hadn't suddenlycaught a glimpse of my husband's face!" 

12. I did not hear these stories all at once. I have put themtogether here because they make a little picture of her honeymoon, and also because they show how, without meaning it, she was givingme an account of her husband. 

There had been even fewer adventures in the life of young Douglasvan Tuiver than in the life of the Honourable Reginald Annersley. When one heard the details of the up-bringing of this "millionairebaby, " one was able to forgive him for being self-centred. He hadgrown into a man who lived to fulfil his social duties, and he hadtaken to wife a girl who was reckless, high-spirited, with a streakof almost savage pride in her. 

Sylvia's was the true aristocratic attitude towards the rest of theworld. It could never have occurred to her to imagine that anywhereupon the whole earth there were people superior to the Castlemans ofCastleman County. If you had been ignorant enough to suggest such anidea, you would have seen her eyes flash and her nostrils quiver;you would have been enveloped in a net of bewilderment andtransfixed with a trident of mockery and scorn. That was what shehad done in her husband-hunt. The trouble was that van Tuiver wasnot clever enough to realise this, and to trust her prowess againstother beasts in the social jungle. 

Strange to me were such inside glimpses into the life of these twofavourites of the gods! I never grew weary of speculating aboutthem, and the mystery of their alliance. How had Sylvia come to makethis marriage? She was not happy with him; keen psychologist thatshe was, she must have foreseen that she would not be happy withhim. Had she deliberately sacrificed herself, because of the goodshe imagined she could do to her family? 

I was beginning to believe this. Irritated as she was by the solemnsnobberies of van Tuiver's world, it was none the less true that shebelieved in money; she believed in it with a faith which appalled meas I came to realise it. Everybody had to have money; the socialgraces, the aristocratic virtues were impossible without it. Therich needed it--even the poor needed it! Could it be that the proudCastlemans of Castleman County had needed it also? 

If that guess at her inmost soul was correct, then what a drama washer meeting with me! A person who despised money, who had proven itby grim deeds--and this a person of her own money-worshipping sex!What was the meaning of this phenomenon--this new religion that waschallenging the priesthood of Mammon? So some Roman consul'sdaughter might have sat in her father's palace, and questioned inwonder a Christian slave woman, destined ere long to face the lionsin the arena. 

The exactness of this simile was not altered by the fact that inthis case the slave woman was an agnostic, while the patrician girlhad been brought up in the creed of Christ. Sylvia had long sincebegun to question the formulas of a church whose very pews wererented, and whose existence, she declared, had to be justified bycharity to the poor. As we sat and talked, she knew this one thingquite definitely--that I had a religion, and she had none. That wasthe reason for the excitement which possessed her. 

Nor was that fact ever out of my own mind for a moment. As she satthere in her sun-flooded morning-room, clad in an exquisiteembroidered robe of pink Japanese silk, she was such a lovely thingthat I was ready to cry out for joy of her; and yet there wassomething within me, grim and relentless, that sat on guard, warningme that she was of a different faith from mine, and that betweenthose two faiths there could be no compromise. Some day she mustfind out what I thought of her husband's wealth, and the work it wasdoing in the world! Some day she must hear my real opinion of thereligion of motor-cars and hand-woven carpets! 

13. Nor was the day so very far off. She sat opposite me, leaningforward in her eagerness, declaring: "You must help to educate me. Ishall never rest until I'm of some real use in the world. " 

"What have you thought of doing?" I inquired. 

"I don't know yet. My husband has an aunt who's interested in aday-nursery for the children of working-women. I thought I mighthelp this, but my husband says it does no good whatever--it onlymakes paupers of the poor. Do you think so?" 

"I think more than that, " I replied. "It sets women free to competewith men, and beat down men's wages. " 

"Oh, what a puzzle!" she exclaimed, and then: "Is there any way ofhelping the poor that wouldn't be open to the same objection?" 

That brought us once more to the subject I had put aside at our lastmeeting. She had not forgotten it, and asked again for anexplanation. What did I mean by the competitive wage system? 

My purpose in this writing is to tell the story of SylviaCastleman's life, to show, not merely what she was, but what shebecame. I have to make real to you a process of growth in her soul, and at this moment the important event is her discovery of theclass-struggle and her reaction to it. You may say, perhaps, thatyou are not interested in the class-struggle, but you cannot alterthe fact that you live in an age when millions of people are havingthe course of their lives changed by the discovery of it. Here, forinstance, is a girl who has been taught to keep her promises, andhas promised to love, honour and obey a man; she is to find the taskmore difficult, because she comes to understand the competitivewage-system while he does not understand it and does not wish to. If that seems to you strange material out of which to make adomestic drama, I can only tell you that you have missed some of thevital facts of your own time. 

I gave her a little lesson in elementary economics. I showed herhow, when a capitalist needed labour, he bought it in the openmarket, like any other commodity. He did not think about the humanside of it, he paid the market-price, which came to be what thelabourer had to have in order to live. No labourer could get more, because others would take less. 

"If that be true, " I continued, "one of the things that follows isthe futility of charity. Whatever you do for the wage-worker on ageneral scale comes sooner or later out of his wages. If you takecare of his children all day or part of the day, he can work forless; if he doesn't discover that someone else does, and underbidshim and takes his place. If you feed his children at school, if youbury him free, if you insure his life, or even give him a dinner onChristmas Day, you simply enable his landlord to charge him more, orhis employer to pay him less. " 

Sylvia sat for a while in thought, and then asked: "What can be doneabout such a fact?" 

"The first thing to be done is to make sure that you understand it. Nine-tenths of the people who concern themselves with socialquestions don't, and so they waste their time in futilities. Forinstance, I read the other day an article by a benevolent oldgentleman who believed that the social problem could be solved byteaching the poor to chew their food better, so that they would eatless. You may laugh at that, but it's not a bit more absurd than theidea of our men of affairs, that the thing to do is to increase theefficiency of the workers, and so produce more goods. " 

"You mean the working-man doesn't get more, even when he producesmore?" 

"Take the case of the glass factories. Men used to get eight dollarsa day there, but someone invented a machine that did the work of adozen men, and that machine is run by a boy for fifty cents a day. " 

A little pucker of thought came between her eyes. "Might there notbe a law forbidding the employer to reduce wages?" 

"A minimum wage law. But that would raise the cost of the product, and drive the trade to another state. " 

She suggested a national law, and when I pointed out that the tradewould go to other countries, she fell back on the tariff. I feltlike an embryologist--watching the individual repeating the historyof the race! 

"Protection and prosperity!" I said, with a smile. "Don't you seethe increase in the cost of living? The working-man gets more moneyin his pay envelope, but he can't buy more with it because prices goup. And even supposing you could pass a minimum wage law, and stopcompetition in wages, you'd only change it to competition inefficiency--you'd throw the old and the feeble and the untrainedinto pauperism. " 

"You make the world seem a hard place to live in, " protested Sylvia. 

"I'm simply telling you the elementary facts of business. You canforbid the employer to pay less than a standard wage, but you can'tcompel him to employ people who aren't able to earn that wage. Thebusiness-man doesn't employ for fun, he does it for the profit thereis in it. " 

"If that is true, " said Sylvia, quickly, "then the way of employingpeople is cruel. " 

"But what other way could you have?" 

She considered. "They could be employed so that no one would make aprofit. Then surely they could be paid enough to live decently!" 

"But whose interest would it be to employ them without profit?" 

"The State should do it, if no one else will. " 

I had been playing a game with Sylvia, as no doubt you haveperceived. "Surely, " I said, "you wouldn't approve anything likethat!" 

"But why not?" 

"Because, it would be Socialism. " 

She looked at me startled. "Is that Socialism?" 

"Of course it is. It's the essence of Socialism. " 

"But then--what's the harm in it?" 

I laughed. "I thought you said that Socialism was a menace, likedivorce!" 

I had my moment of triumph, but then I discovered how fond was theperson who imagined that he could play with Sylvia. "I suspect youare something of a Socialist yourself, " she remarked. 

She told me a long time afterwards what had been her emotions duringthese early talks. It was the first time in her life that she hadever listened to ideas that were hostile to her order, and she didso with tremblings and hesitations, combating at every step animpulse to flee to the shelter of conventionality. She was moreshocked by my last revelation than she let me suspect. It countedfor little that I had succeeded in trapping her in proposing forherself the economic programme of Socialism, for what terrifies herclass is not our economic programme, it is our threat ofslave-rebellion. I had been brought up in a part of the world wheredemocracy is a tradition, a word to conjure with, and I supposedthat this would be the case with any American--that I would onlyhave to prove that Socialism was democracy applied to industry. Howcould I have imagined the kind of "democracy" which had been taughtto Sylvia by her Uncle Mandeville, the politician of the family, whobelieved that America was soon to have a king, to keep the "foreignriff-raff" in its place! 

14. At this time I was living in a three-roomed apartment in one ofthe new "model tenements" on the East Side. I had a saying about theplace, that it was "built for the proletariat and occupied bycranks. " What an example for Sylvia of the futility of charity--theeffort on the part of benevolent capitalists to civilise the poor byputting bath-tubs in their homes, and the discovery that thegraceless creatures were using them for the storage of coals! 

Having heard these strange stories, Sylvia was anxious to visit me, and I was, of course, glad to invite her. I purchased a fancy brandof tea, and some implements for the serving of it, and she came, andwent into raptures over my three rooms and bath, no one of whichwould have made more than a closet in her own apartments. Isuspected that this was her Southern _noblesse oblige_, but I knewalso that in my living room there were some rows of books, whichwould have meant more to Sylvia van Tuiver just then than thecontents of several clothes-closets. 

I was pleased to discover that my efforts had not been wasted. Shehad been thinking, and she had even found time, in the midst of herdistractions, to read part of a book. In the course of our talks Ihad mentioned Veblen, and she had been reading snatches of his workon the Leisure Class, and I was surprised, and not a little amused, to observe her reaction to it. 

When I talked about wages and hours of labour, I was dealing withthings that were remote from her, and difficult to make real; butVeblen's theme, the idle rich, and the arts and graces whereby theydemonstrate their power, was the stuff of which her life was made. The subtleties of social ostentation, the minute distinctionsbetween the newly-rich and the anciently-rich, the solemncertainties of the latter and the quivering anxieties of theformer--all those were things which Sylvia knew as a bird knows theway of the wind. To see the details of them analysed in learned, scientific fashion, explained with great mouthfuls of words whichone had to look up in the dictionary--that was surely a newdiscovery in the book-world! "Conspicuous leisure!" "Vicariousconsumption of goods!" "Oh, de-ah me, how que-ah!" exclaimed Sylvia. 

And what a flood of anecdotes it let loose! A flood that bore usstraight back to Castleman Hall, and to all the scenes of her youngladyhood! If only Lady Dee could have revised this book of Veblen's, how many points she could have given to him! No details had been toominute for the technique of Sylvia's great-aunt--the differencebetween the swish of the right kind of silk petticoats and the wrongkind; and yet her technique had been broad enough to take in alandscape. "Every girl should have a background, " had been one ofher maxims, and Sylvia had to have a special phaeton to drive, aspecial horse to ride, special roses which no one else was allowedto wear. 

"Conspicuous expenditure of time, " wrote Veblen. It was curious, said Sylvia, but nobody was free from this kind of vanity. There wasdear old Uncle Basil, a more godly bishop never lived, and yet hehad a foible for carving! In his opinion the one certain test of agentleman was the ease with which he found the joints of all kindsof meat, and he was in arms against the modern tendency to turn suchaccomplishments over to butlers. He would hold forth on the subject, illustrating his theories with an elegant knife, and Sylviaremembered how her father and the Chilton boys had wired up thejoints of a duck for the bishop to work on. In the struggle thebishop had preserved his dignity, but lost the duck, and thebishop's wife, being also high-born, and with a long line oftraditions behind her, had calmly continued the conversation, whilethe butler removed the smoking duck from her lap! 

Such was the way of things at Castleman Hall! The wild, care-freepeople--like half-grown children, romping their way through life!There was really nothing too crazy for them to do, if the whimstruck them. Once a visiting cousin had ventured the remark that shesaw no reason why people should not eat rats; a barn-rat was cleanin its person, and far choicer in its food than a pig. Thereupon"Miss Margaret" had secretly ordered the yard-man to secure abarn-rat; she had had it broiled, and served in a dish of squirrels, and had sat by and watched the young lady enjoy it! And this, mindyou, was Mrs. Castleman of Castleman Hall, mother of five children, and as stately a dame as ever led the grand march at the Governor'sinaugural ball! "Major Castleman, " she would say to her husband, "you may take me into my bedroom, and when you have locked the doorsecurely, you may spit upon me, if you wish; but don't you dare evento _imagine_ anything undignified about me in public!" 

15. In course of time Sylvia and I became very good friends. Proudas she was, she was lonely, and in need of some one to open hereager mind to. Who was there safer to trust than this plain Westernwoman, who lived so far, both in reality and in ideas, from thegreat world of fashion? 

Before we parted she considered it necessary to mention myrelationship to this world. She had a most acute social conscience. She knew exactly what formalities she owed to everyone, just whenshe ought to call, and how long she ought to stay, and what sheought to ask the other person to do in return; she assumed that theother knew it all exactly as well, and would suffer if she failed inthe slightest degree. 

So now she had to throw herself upon my mercy. "You see, " sheexplained, "my husband wouldn't understand. I may be able to changehim gradually, but if I shock him all at once--" 

"My dear Mrs. Van Tuiver--" I smiled. 

"You can't really imagine!" she persisted. "You see, he takes hissocial position so seriously! And when you are conspicuous--wheneverybody's talking about what you do--when everything that's theleast bit unusual is magnified--" 

"My dear girl!" I broke in again. "Stop a moment and let me talk!" 

"But I hate to have to think--" 

"Don't worry about my thoughts! They are most happy ones! You mustunderstand that a Socialist cannot feel about such things as you do;we work out our economic interpretation of them, and after that theyare simply so much data to us. I might meet one of your greatfriends, and she might snub me, but I would never think she hadsnubbed _me_--it would be my Western accent, and my forty-cent hat, and things like that which had put me in a class in her mind. Myreal self nobody can snub--certainly not until they've got at it. " 

"Ah!" said Sylvia, with shining eyes. "You have your own kind ofaristocracy, I see!" 

"What I want, " I said, "is you. I'm an old hen whose chickens havegrown up and left her, and I want something to mother. Yourwonderful social world is just a bother to me, because it keeps mefrom gathering you into my arms as I'd like to. So what you do is tothink of some role for me to play, so that I can come to see you;let me be advising you about your proposed day-nursery, or let mebe a tutor of something, or a nice, respectable sewing-woman whodarns the toes of your silk stockings!" 

She laughed. "If you suppose that I'm allowed to wear my stockingsuntil they have holes in them, you don't understand the perquisitesof maids. " She thought a moment, and then added: "You might come totrim hats for me. " 

By that I knew that we were really friends. If it does not seem toyou a bold thing for Sylvia to have made a joke about my hat, it isonly because you do not yet know her. I have referred to hermoney-consciousness and her social-consciousness; I would beidealizing her if I did not refer to another aspect of her whichappalled me when I came to realise it--her clothes-consciousness. She knew every variety of fabric and every shade of colour and everystyle of design that ever had been delivered of the frenziedsartorial imagination. She had been trained in all the infiniteminutiae which distinguished the right from the almost right; shewould sweep a human being at one glance, and stick him in a pigeonhole of her mind for ever--because of his clothes. When later on shehad come to be conscious of this clothes-consciousness, she told methat ninety-nine times out of a hundred she had found this method ofappraisal adequate for the purposes of society life. What a curiouscomment upon our civilization--that all that people had to ask ofone another, all they had to give to one another, should beexpressible in terms of clothes! 

16. I had set out to educate Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver in the things Ithought she needed to know. A part of my programme was to find somepeople of modern sympathies whom she might meet without offence toher old prejudices. The first person I thought of was Mrs. JessieFrothingham, who was the head of a fashionable girls' school, justaround the corner from Miss Abercrombie's where Sylvia herself hadreceived the finishing touch. Mrs. Frothingham's was as exclusiveand expensive a school as the most proper person could demand, andgreat was Sylvia's consternation when I told her that its principalwas a member of the Socialist party, and made no bones aboutspeaking in public for us. 

How in the world did she manage it? For one thing, I answered, sheran a good school--nobody had ever been heard to deny that. Foranother, she was an irresistibly serene and healthy person, whowould look one of her millionaire "papas" in the eye and tell himwhat was what with so much decision; it would suddenly occur to thegreat man that if his daughter could be made into so capable awoman, he would not care what ticket she might vote. 

Then too, it was testimony to the headway we are making that we areceasing to be dangerous, and getting to be picturesque. In thesedays of strenuous social competition, when mammas are almost attheir wits' end for some new device, when it costs incredible sumsto make no impression at all--here was offered a new and inexpensiveway of being unique. There could be no question that men weregetting to like serious women; the most amazing subjects were comingup at dinner-parties, and you might hear the best people speakdisrespectfully of their own money, which means that the newRevolution will have not merely its "Egalité Orleans, " but also someof the ladies of his family! 

I telephoned from Sylvia's house to Mrs. Frothingham, who answered:"Wouldn't you like Mrs. Van Tuiver to hear a speech? I am to speaknext week at the noon-day Wall Street meeting. " I passed thequestion on, and Sylvia answered with an exclamation of delight:"Would a small boy like to attend a circus?" 

It was arranged that Sylvia was to take us in her car. You maypicture me with my grand friends--an old speckled hen in the companyof two golden pheasants. I kept very quiet and let them getacquainted, knowing that my cause was safe in the hands of one soperfectly tailored as Mrs. Frothingham. 

Sylvia expressed her delight at the idea of hearing a Socialistspeech, and her amazement that the head of Mrs. Frothingham's shouldbe so courageous, and meantime we threaded our way through thetangle of trucks and surface-cars on Broadway, and came to thecorner of Wall Street. Here Mrs. Frothingham said she would get outand walk; it was quite likely that someone might recognise Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver, and she ought not to be seen arriving with thespeaker. Sylvia, who would not willingly have committed a breach ofetiquette towards a bomb-throwing anarchist, protested at this, butMrs. Frothingham laughed good-naturedly, saying that it would betime enough for Mrs. Van Tuiver to commit herself when she knew whatshe believed. 

The speaking was to be from the steps of the Sub-treasury. We made a_détour, _ and came up Broad Street, stopping a little way from thecorner. These meetings had been held all through the summer andfall, so that people had learned to expect them; although it lackedsome minutes of noon, there was already a crowd gathered. A group ofmen stood upon the broad steps, one with a red banner and severalothers with armfuls of pamphlets and books. With them was ourfriend, who looked at us and smiled, but gave no other sign ofrecognition. 

Sylvia pushed back the collar of her sable coat, and sat erect inher shining blue velvet, her eyes and her golden hair shiningbeneath the small brim of a soft velvet hat. As she gazed eagerly atthe busy throngs of men hurrying about this busy corner, shewhispered to me: "I haven't been so excited since my _début_ party!"

The crowd increased until it was difficult to get through WallStreet. The bell of Old Trinity was tolling the hour of noon, andthe meeting was about to begin, when suddenly I heard an exclamationfrom Sylvia, and turning, saw a well-dressed man pushing his wayfrom the office of Morgan and Company towards us. Sylvia clutched myhand where it lay on the seat of the car, and half gasped: "Myhusband!" 

17. Of course I had been anxious to see Douglas van Tuiver. I hadheard Claire Lepage's account of him, and Sylvia's, also I had seenpictures of him in the newspapers, and had studied them with somecare, trying to imagine what sort of personage he might be. I knewthat he was twenty-four, but the man who came towards us I wouldhave taken to be forty. His face was sombre, with large features andstrongly marked lines about the mouth; he was tall and thin, andmoved with decision, betraying no emotion even in this moment ofsurprise. "What are you doing here?" were his first words. 

For my part, I was badly "rattled"; I knew by the clutch of Sylvia'shand that she was too. But here I got a lesson in the nature of"social training. " Some of the bright colour had faded from herface, but she spoke with the utmost coolness, the words comingnaturally and simply: "We can't get through the crowd. " And at thesame time she looked about her, as much as to say: "You can see foryourself. " (One of the maxims of Lady Dee had set forth that a ladynever told a lie if she could avoid it. ) 

Sylvia's husband looked about, saying: "Why don't you call anofficer?" He started to follow his own suggestion, and I thoughtthen that my friend would miss her meeting. But she had more nervethan I imagined. 

"No, " she said. "Please don't. " 

"Why not?" Still there was no emotion in the cold, grey eyes. 

"Because--I think there's something going on. " 

"What of that?" 

"I'm not in a hurry, and I'd like to see. " 

He stood for a moment looking at the crowd. Mrs. Frothingham hadcome forward, evidently intending to speak. "What is this, Ferris?"he demanded of the chauffeur. 

"I'm not sure, sir, " said the man. "I think it's a Socialistmeeting. " (He was, of course, not missing the little comedy. Iwondered what he thought!) 

"A Socialist meeting?" said van Tuiver; then, to his wife: "Youdon't want to stay for that!" 

Again Sylvia astonished me. "I'd like to very much, " she answeredsimply. 

He made no reply. I saw him stare at her, and then I saw his glancetake me in. I sat in a corner as inconspicuous as I could makemyself. I wondered whether I was a sempstress or a tutor, andwhether either of these functionaries were introduced, and whetherthey shook hands or not. 

Mrs. Frothingham had taken her stand at the base of Washington'sstatue. Had she by any chance identified the tall and immaculategentleman who stood beside the automobile? Before she had said threesentences I made sure that she had done so, and I was appalled ather audacity. 

"Fellow citizens, " she began--"fellow-buccaneers of Wall Street. "And when the mild laughter had subsided: "What I have to say isgoing to be addressed to one individual among you--the Americanmillionaire. I assume there is one present--if no actualmillionaire, then surely several who are destined to be, and notless than a thousand who aspire to be. So hear me, Mr. Millionaire, "this with a smile, which gave you a sense of a reserve fund ofenergy and good humour. She had the crowd with her from thestart--all but one. I stole a glance at the millionaire, and sawthat he was not smiling. 

"Won't you get in?" asked his wife, and he answered coldly: "No, I'll wait till you've had enough. " 

"Last summer I had a curious experience, " said the speaker. "I was aguest at a tennis match, played upon the grounds of a Stateinsane-asylum, the players being the doctors of the institution. Here, on a beautiful sunshiny afternoon, were ladies and gentlemenclad in festive white, enjoying a holiday, while in the backgroundstood a frowning building with iron-barred gates and windows, fromwhich one heard now and then the howlings of the maniacs. Some ofthe less fortunate of these victims of fate had been let loose, andwhile we played tennis, they chased the balls. All afternoon, whileI sipped tea and chatted and watched the games, I said to myself:'Here is the most perfect simile of our civilization that has evercome to me. Some people wear white and play tennis all day, whileother people chase the balls, or howl in dungeons in thebackground!' And that is the problem I wish to put before myAmerican millionaire--the problem of what I will call our lunatic-asylum stage of civilization. Mind you, this condition is all verywell so long as we can say that the lunatics are incurable--thatthere is nothing we can do but shut our ears to their howling, andgo ahead with our tennis. But suppose the idea were to dawn upon usthat it is only because we played tennis all day that the lunatic-asylum is crowded, then might not the howls grow unendurable to us, and the game lose its charm?" 

Stealing glances about me, I saw that several people were watchingthe forty-or-fifty-times-over millionaire; they had evidentlyrecognised him, and were enjoying the joke. "Haven't you had enoughof this?" he suddenly demanded of his wife, and she answered, guilelessly: "No, let's wait. I'm interested. " 

"Now, listen to me, Mr. American Millionaire, " the speaker wascontinuing. "You are the one who plays tennis, and we, who chase theballs for you--we are the lunatics. And my purpose to-day is toprove to you that it is only because you play tennis all day that wehave to chase balls all the day, and to tell you that some time soonwe are going to cease to be lunatics, and that then you will have tochase your own balls! And don't, in your amusement over thisillustration, lose sight of the serious nature of what I am talkingabout--the horrible economic lunacy which is known as poverty, andwhich is responsible for most of the evils we have in this worldto-day--for crime and prostitution, suicide, insanity and war. Mypurpose is to show you, not by any guess of mine, or any appeals toyour faith, but by cold business facts which can be understood inWall Street, that this economic lunacy is one which can be cured;that we have the remedy in our hands, and lack nothing but theintelligence to apply it. " 

18. I do not want to bore you with a Socialist speech. I only wantto give you an idea of the trap into which Mr. Douglas van Tuiverhad been drawn. He stood there, rigidly aloof while the speaker wenton to explain the basic facts of wealth-production in modernsociety. She quoted from Kropotkin: "'Fields, Factories and Work-shops, ' on sale at this meeting for a quarter!"--showing how bymodern intensive farming--no matter of theory, but methods whichwere in commercial use in hundreds of places--it would be possibleto feed the entire population of the globe from the soil of theBritish Isles alone. She showed by the bulletins of the UnitedStates Government how the machine process had increased theproductive power of the individual labourer ten, twenty, a hundredfold. So vast was man's power of producing wealth today, and yet thelabourer lived in dire want just as in the days of crudehand-industry! 

So she came back to her millionaire, upon whom this evil rested. Hewas the master of the machine for whose profit the labourer had toproduce. He could only employ the labourer to produce what could besold at a profit; and so the stream of prosperity was choked at itssource. "It is you, Mr. Millionaire, who are to blame for poverty;it is because so many millions of dollars must be paid to you inprofits that so many millions of men must live in want. In otherwords, precisely as I declared at the outset, it is your playingtennis which is responsible for the lunatics chasing the balls!" 

I wish that I might give some sense of the speaker's mastery of thissituation, the extent to which she had communicated her good-humourto the crowd. You heard ripple after ripple of laughter, you saweverywhere about you eager faces, following every turn of theargument. No one could resist the contagion of interest--save onlythe American millionaire! He stood impassive, never once smiling, never once betraying a trace of feeling. Venturing to watch him moreclosely, however, I could see the stern lines deepening about hismouth, and his long, lean face growing more set. 

The speaker had outlined the remedy--a change from the system ofproduction for profit to one of production for use. She went on toexplain how the change was coming; the lunatic classes werebeginning to doubt the divine nature of the rules of the asylum, andthey were preparing to mutiny, and take possession of the place. Andhere I saw that Sylvia's husband had reached his limit. He turned toher: "Haven't you had enough of this?" 

"Why, no, " she began. "If you don't mind--" 

"I do mind very much, " he said, abruptly. "I think you arecommitting a breach of taste to stay here, and I would be greatlyobliged if you would leave. " 

And without really waiting for Sylvia's reply, he directed, "Backout of here, Ferris. " 

The chauffeur cranked up, and sounded his horn--which naturally hadthe effect of disturbing the meeting. People supposed we were goingto try to get through the crowd ahead--and there was no place whereanyone could move. But van Tuiver went to the rear of the car, saying, in a voice of quiet authority: "A little room here, please. "And so, foot by foot, we backed away from the meeting, and when wehad got clear of the throng, the master of the car stepped in, andwe turned and made our way down Broad Street. 

And now I was to get a lesson in the aristocratic ideal. Of coursevan Tuiver was angry; I believe he even suspected his wife of havingknown of the meeting. I supposed he would ask some questions; Isupposed that at least he would express his opinion of the speech, his disgust that a woman of education should make such a spectacleof herself. Such husbands as I had been familiar with had neverhesitated to vent their feelings under such circumstances. But fromDouglas van Tuiver there came--not a word! He sat, perfectlystraight, staring before him, like a sphinx; and Sylvia, after oneor two swift glances at him, began to gossip cheerfully about herplans for the day-nursery for working-women! 

So for a few blocks, until suddenly she leaned forward. "Stop here, Ferris. " And then, turning to me, "Here is the American TrustCompany. " 

"The American Trust Company?" I echoed, in my dumb stupidity. 

"Yes--that is where the check is payable, " said Sylvia, and gave mea pinch. 

And so I comprehended, and gathered up my belongings and got out. She shook my hand warmly, and her husband raised his hat in a veryformal salute, after which the car sped on up the street. I stoodstaring after it, in somewhat the state of mind of any humble rusticwho may have been present when Elijah was borne into the heavens bythe chariot of fire! 

19. Sylvia had been something less than polite to me; and so I hadnot been home more than an hour before there came a messenger-boywith a note. By way of reassuring her, I promised to come to see herthe next morning; and when I did, and saw her lovely face so full ofconcern, I forgot entirely her worldly greatness, and did what I hadlonged to do from the beginning--put my arms about her and kissedher. 

"My dear girl, " I protested, "I don't want to be a burden in yourlife--I want to help you!'" 

"But, " she exclaimed, "what must you have thought--" 

"I thought I had made a lucky escape!" I laughed. 

She was proud--proud as an Indian; it was hard for her to makeadmissions about her husband. But then--we were like two errantschool-girls, who had been caught m an escapade! "I don't know whatI'm going to do about him, " she said, with a wry smile. "He reallywon't listen--I can't make any impression on him. " 

"Did he guess that you'd come there on purpose?" I asked. 

"I told him, " she answered. 

"You _told_ him!" 

"I'd meant to keep it secret--I wouldn't have minded telling him afib about a little thing. But he made it so very serious!" 

I could understand that it must have been serious after the telling. I waited for her to add what news she chose. 

"It seems, " she said, "that my husband has a cousin, a pupil of Mrs. Frothingham's. You can imagine!" 

"I can imagine Mrs. Frothingham may lose a pupil. " 

"No; my husband says his Uncle Archibald always was a fool. But howcan anyone be so narrow! He seemed to take Mrs. Frothingham as apersonal affront. " 

This was the most definite bit of vexation against her husband thatshe had ever let me see. I decided to turn it into a jest. "Mrs. Frothingham will be glad to know she was understood, " I said. 

"But seriously, why can't men have open minds about politics andmoney?" She went on in a worried voice: "I knew he was like thiswhen I met him at Harvard. He was living in his own house, alooffrom the poorer men--the men who were most worth while, it seemed tome. And when I told him of the bad effect he was having on these menand on his own character as well, he said he would do whatever Iasked--he even gave up his house and went to live in a dormitory. SoI thought I had some influence on him. But now, here is the samething again, only I find that one can't take a stand against one'shusband. At least, he doesn't admit the right. " She hesitated. "Itdoesn't seem loyal to talk about it. " 

"My dear girl, " I said with an impulse of candour, "there isn't muchyou can tell me about that problem. My own marriage went to pieceson that rock. " 

I saw a look of surprise upon her face. "I haven't told you my storyyet, " I said. "Some day I will--when you feel you know me wellenough for us to exchange confidences. " 

There was more than a hint of invitation in this. After a silence, she said: "One's instinct is to hide one's troubles. " 

"Sylvia, " I answered, "let me tell you about us. You must realisethat you've been a wonderful person to me; you belong to a world Inever had anything to do with, and never expected to get a glimpseof. It's the wickedness of our class-civilization that human beingscan't be just human beings to each other--a king can hardly have afriend. Even after I've overcome the impulse I have to be awed byyour luxury and your grandness; I'm conscious of the fact thateverybody else is awed by them. If I so much as mention that I'vemet you, I see people start and stare at me--instantly I become apersonage. It makes me angry, because I want to know _you_. " 

She was gazing at me, not saying a word. I went on: "I'd never havethought it possible for anyone to be in your position and be realand straight and human, but I realise that you have managed to workthat miracle. So I want to love you and help you, in every way Iknow how. But you must understand, I can't ask for your confidence, as I could for any other woman's. There is too much vulgar curiosityabout the rich and great, and I can't pretend to be unaware of thathatefulness; I can't help shrinking from it. So all I can say is--ifyou need me, if you ever need a real friend, why, here I am; you maybe sure I understand, and won't tell your secrets to anyone else. " 

With a little mist of tears in her eyes, Sylvia put out her hand andtouched mine. And so we went into a chamber alone together, and shutthe cold and suspicious world outside. 

20. We knew each other well enough now to discuss the topic whichhas been the favourite of women since we sat in the doorways ofcaves and pounded wild grain in stone mortars--the question of ourlords, who had gone hunting, and who might be pleased to beat us ontheir return. I learned all that Sylvia had been taught on thesubject of the male animal; I opened that amazing unwritten volumeof woman traditions, the maxims of Lady Dee Lysle. 

Sylvia's maternal great-aunt had been a great lady out of a greatage, and incidentally a grim and grizzled veteran of the sex-war. Her philosophy started from a recognition of the physical andeconomic inferiority of woman, as complete as any window-smashingsuffragette could have formulated, but her remedy for it was apurely individualist one, the leisure-class woman's skill in tradingupon her sex. Lady Dee did not use that word, of course--she wouldas soon have talked of her esophagus. Her formula was "charm, " andshe had taught Sylvia that the preservation of "charm" was the endof woman's existence, the thing by which she remained a lady, andwithout which she was more contemptible than the beasts. 

She had taught this, not merely by example and casual anecdote, butby precepts as solemnly expounded as bible-texts. "Remember, mydear, a woman with a husband is like a lion-tamer with a whip!" Andthe old lady would explain what a hard and dangerous life was livedby lion-tamers, how their safety depended upon life-longdistrustfulness of the creatures over whom they ruled. She wouldtell stories of the rending and maiming of luckless ones, who hadforgotten for a brief moment the nature of the male animal! "Yes, mydear, " she would say, "believe in love; but let the man believefirst!" Her maxims never sinned by verbosity. 

The end of all this was not merely food and shelter, a home andchildren, it was the supremacy of a sex, its ability to shape lifeto its whim. By means of this magic "charm"--a sort of perpetualindividual sex-strike--a woman turned her handicaps into advantagesand her chains into ornaments; she made herself a rare and wonderfulcreature, up to whom men gazed in awe. It was "romantic love, " butpreserved throughout life, instead of ceasing with courtship. 

All the Castleman women understood these arts, and employed them. There was Aunt Nannie, when she cracked her whip the dear oldbishop-lion would jump as if he had been shot! Did not the wholeState know the story of how once he had been called upon at abanquet and had risen and remarked: "Ladies and gentlemen, I hadintended to make a speech to you this evening, but I see that mywife is present, so I must beg you to excuse me. " The audienceroared, and Aunt Nannie was furious, but poor dear Bishop Chiltonhad spoken but the literal truth, that he could not spread the wingsof his eloquence in the presence of his "better half. " 

And with Major Castleman, though it seemed different, it was reallythe same. Sylvia's mother had let herself get stout--which seemed adangerous mark of confidence in the male animal. But the major wasfifteen years older than his wife, and she had a weak heart withwhich to intimidate him. Now and then the wilfulness of CastlemanLysle would become unendurable in the house, and his father wouldseize him and turn him over his knee. His screams would bring "MissMargaret" flying to the rescue: "Major Castleman, how dare you spankone of _my_ children?" And she would seize the boy and march off interrible haughtiness, and lock herself and her child in her room, and for hours afterwards the poor major would wander about thehouse, suffering the lonelines of the guilty soul. You would hearhim tapping gently at his lady's door. "Honey! Honey! Are you madwith me?" "Major Castleman, " the stately answer would come, "willyou oblige me by leaving one room in this house to which I mayretire?" 

21. I would give you a wrong idea of Sylvia if I did not make clearthat along with this sophistication as to the play-aspects of sex, there went the most incredible ignorance as to its practicalrealities. In my arguments I had thought to appeal to her byreferring to that feature of wage-slavery which more than evenchild-labour stirs the moral sense of women, but to my utterconsternation I discovered that here was a woman nearly a yearmarried who did not know what prostitution was. A suspicion hadbegun to dawn upon her, and she asked me, timidly: Could it bepossible that that intimacy which was given in marriage could becomea thing of barter in the market-place? When I told her the truth, Ifound her horror so great that it was impossible to go on talkingeconomics. How could I say that women were driven to such things bypoverty? Surely a woman who was not bad at heart would starve, before she would sell her body to a man! 

Perhaps I should have been more patient with her, but I am bitter onthese subjects. "My dear Mrs. Van Tuiver, " I said, "there is a lotof nonsense talked about this matter. There is very little sex-lifefor women without a money-price made clear in advance. " 

"I don't understand, " she said. 

"I don't know about your case, " I replied, "but when I married, itwas because I was unhappy and wanted a home of my own. And if thetruth were told, that is why most women marry. " 

"But what has THAT to do with it?" she cried. She really did notsee! 

"What is the difference--except that such women stand out for amaintenance, while the prostitute takes cash?" I saw that I hadshocked her, and I said: "You must be humble about these things, because you have never been poor, and you cannot judge those whohave been. But surely you must have known worldly women who marriedrich men for their money. And surely you admit that that isprostitution?" 

She fell suddenly silent, and I saw what I had done, and, no doubt, you will say I should have been ashamed of myself. But when one hasseen as much of misery and injustice as I have, one cannot be sopatient with the fine artificial delicacies and sentimentalities ofthe idle rich. I went ahead to tell her some stories, showing herwhat poverty actually meant to women. 

Then, as she remained silent, I asked her how she had managed toremain so ignorant. Surely she must have met with the word"prostitution" in books; she must have heard allusions to the"demi-monde. " 

"Of course, " she said, "I used to see conspicuous-looking women atthe race-track in New Orleans; I've sat near them in restaurants, I've known by my mother's looks and her agitation that they must bebad women. But you see, I didn't know what it meant--I had nothingbut a vague feeling of something dreadful. " 

I smiled. "Then Lady Dee did not tell you everything about thepossibilities of her system of 'charm. '" 

"No, " said Sylvia. "Evidently she didn't!" She sat staring at me, trying to get up the courage to go on with this plain speaking. 

And at last the courage came. "I think it is wrong, " she exclaimed. "Girls ought not to be kept so ignorant! They ought to know whatsuch things mean. Why, I didn't even know what marriage meant!" 

"Can that be true?" I asked. 

"All my life I had thought of marriage, in a way; I had been trainedto think of it with every eligible man I met--but to me it meant ahome, a place of my own to entertain people in. I pictured myselfgoing driving with my husband, giving dinner-parties to his friends. I knew I'd have to let him kiss me, but beyond that--I had a vagueidea of something, but I didn't think. I had been deliberatelytrained not to let myself think--to run away from every image thatcame to me. And I went on dreaming of what I'd wear, and how I'dgreet my husband when he came home in the evening. " 

"Didn't you think about children?" 

"Yes--but I thought of the CHILDREN. I thought what they'd looklike, and how they'd talk, and how I'd love them. I don't know ifmany young girls shut their minds up like that. " 

She was speaking with agitation, and I was gazing into her eyes, reading more than she knew I was reading. I was nearer to solvingthe problem that had been baffling me. And I wanted to take herhands in mine, and say: "You would never have married him if you'dunderstood!" 

22. Sylvia thought she ought to have been taught, but when she cameto think of it she was unable to suggest who could have done theteaching. "Your mother?" I asked, and she had to laugh, in spite ofthe seriousness of her mood. "Poor dear mamma! When they sent me uphere to boarding school, she took me off and tried to tell me not tolisten to vulgar talk from the girls. She managed to make it clearthat I mustn't listen to something, and I managed not to listen. I'msure that even now she would rather have her tongue cut out thantalk to me about such things. " 

"I talked to my children, " I assured her. 

"And you didn't feel embarrassed?" 

"I did in the beginning--I had the same shrinkings to overcome. ButI had a tragedy behind me to push me on. " 

I told her the story of my nephew, a shy and sensitive lad, who usedto come to me for consolation, and became as dear to me as my ownchildren. When he was seventeen he grew moody and despondent; he ranaway from home for six months and more, and then returned and wasforgiven--but that seemed to make no difference. One night he cameto see me, and I tried hard to get him to tell me what was wrong. Hewouldn't, but went away, and several hours later I found a letter hehad shoved under the table-cloth. I read it, and rushed out andhitched up a horse and drove like mad to my brother-in-law's, but Igot there too late, the poor boy had taken a shot-gun to his room, and put the muzzle into his mouth, and set off the trigger with hisfoot. In the letter he told me what was the matter--he had got intotrouble with a woman of the town, and had caught syphilis. He hadgone away and tried to get cured, but had fallen into the hands of aquack, who had taken all his money and left his health worse thanever, so in despair and shame the poor boy had shot his head off. 

I paused, uncertain if Sylvia would understand the story. "Do youknow what syphilis is?" I asked. 

"I suppose--I have heard of what we call a 'bad disease'" she said. 

"It's a very bad disease. But if the words convey to you that it's adisease that bad people get, I should tell you that most men takethe chance of getting it; yet they are cruel enough to despise thoseupon whom the ill-luck falls. My poor nephew had been utterlyignorant--I found out that from his father, too late. An instincthad awakened in him of which he knew absolutely nothing; hiscompanions had taught him what it meant, and he had followed theirlead. And then had come the horror and the shame--and some vile, ignorant wretch to trade upon it, and cast the boy off when he waspenniless. So he had come home again, with his gnawing secret; Ipictured him wandering about, trying to make up his mind to confidein me, wavering between that and the horrible deed he did. " 

I stopped, because even to this day I cannot tell the story withouttears. I cannot keep a picture of the boy in my room, because of theself-reproaches that haunt me. "You can understand, " I said toSylvia, "I never could forget such a lesson. I swore a vow over thepoor lad's body, that I would never let a boy or girl that I couldreach go out in ignorance into the world. I read up on the subject, and for a while I was a sort of fanatic--I made people talk, youngpeople and old people. I broke down the taboos wherever I went, andwhile I shocked a good many, I knew that I helped a good many more. "

All that was, of course, inconceivable to Sylvia. How curious wasthe contrast of her one experience in the matter of venerealdisease. She told me how she had been instrumental in making a matchbetween her friend, Harriet Atkinson and a young scion of an ancientand haughty family of Charleston, and how after the marriage herfriend's health had begun to give way, until now she was an utterwreck, living alone in a dilapidated antebellum mansion, seeing noone but negro servants, and praying for death to relieve her of hermisery. 

"Of course, I don't really know, " said Sylvia. "Perhaps it wasthis--this disease that you speak of. None of my people would tellme--I doubt if they really know themselves. It was just before myown wedding, so you can understand it had a painful effect upon me. It happened that I read something in a magazine, and I thoughtthat--that possibly my fiancée--that someone ought to ask him, youunderstand--" 

She stopped, and the blood was crimson in her cheeks, with thememory of her old excitement, and some fresh excitement added to it. There are diseases of the mind as well as of the body, and one ofthem is called prudery. 

"I can understand, " I said. "It was certainly your right to bereassured on such a point. " 

"Well, I tried to talk to my Aunt Varina about it; then I wrote toUncle Basil, and asked him to write to Douglas. At first herefused--he only consented to do it when I threatened to go to myfather. " 

"What came of it in the end?" 

"Why, my uncle wrote, and Douglas answered very kindly that heunderstood, and that it was all right--I had nothing to fear. Inever expected to mention the incident to anyone again. " 

"Lots of people have mentioned such things to me, " I responded, toreassure her. Then after a pause: "Tell me, how was it, if youdidn't know the meaning of marriage, how could you connect thedisease with it?" 

She answered, gazing with the wide-open, innocent eyes: "I had noidea how people gave it to each other. I thought maybe they got itby kissing. " 

I thought to myself again: The horror of this superstition ofprudery! Can one think of anything more destructive to life than theplacing of a taboo upon such matters? Here is the whole of thefuture at stake--the health, the sanity, the very existence of therace. And what fiend has been able to contrive it that we feel likecriminals when we mention the subject? 

23. Our intimacy progressed, and the time came when Sylvia told meabout her marriage. She had accepted Douglas van Tuiver because shehad lost Frank Shirley, and her heart was broken. She could neverimagine herself loving any other man; and not knowing exactly whatmarriage meant, it had been easier for her to think of her family, and to follow their guidance. They had told her that love wouldcome; Douglas had implored her to give him a chance to teach her tolove him. She had considered what she could do with his money--bothfor her home-people and for those she spoke of vaguely as "thepoor. " But now she was making the discovery that she could not dovery much for these "poor. " 

"It isn't that my husband is mean, " she said. "On the contrary, theslightest hint will bring me any worldly thing I want. I have homesin half a dozen parts of America--I have _carte blanche_ to openaccounts in two hemispheres. If any of my people need money I canget it; but if I want it for myself, he asks me what I'm doing withit--and so I run into the stone-wall of his ideas. " 

At first the colliding with this wall had merely pained andbewildered her. But now the combination of Veblen and myself hadhelped her to realize what it meant. Douglas van Tuiver spent hismoney upon a definite system: whatever went to the maintaining ofhis social position, whatever added to the glory, prestige and powerof the van Tuiver name--that money was well-spent; while money spentto any other end was money wasted--and this included all ideas and"causes. " And when the master of the house knew that his money wasbeing wasted, it troubled him. 

"It wasn't until after I married him that I realized how idle hislife is, " she remarked. "At home all the men have something to do, running their plantations, or getting elected to some office. ButDouglas never does anything that I can possibly think is useful. " 

His fortune was invested in New York City real-estate, she went onto explain. There was an office, with a small army of clerks andagents to attend to it--a machine which had been built up and handedon to him by his ancestors. It sufficed if he dropped in for an houror two once a week when he was in the city, and signed a batch ofdocuments now and then when he was away. His life was spent in thecompany of people whom the social system had similarly deprived ofduties; and they had, by generations of experiment, built up forthemselves a new set of duties, a life which was wholly withoutrelationship to reality. Into this unreal existence Sylvia hadmarried, and it was like a current sweeping her in its course. Solong as she went with it, all was well; but let her try to catchhold of something and stop, and it would tear her loose and almoststrangle her. 

As time went on, she gave me strange glimpses into this world. Herhusband did not seem really to enjoy its life. As Sylvia put it, "Hetakes it for granted that he has to do all the proper things thatthe proper people do. He hates to be conspicuous, he says. I pointout to him that the proper things are nearly always conspicuous, buthe replies that to fail to do them would be even more conspicuous. " 

It took me a long time to get really acquainted with Sylvia, becauseof the extent to which this world was clamouring for her. I used todrop in when she 'phoned me she had half an hour. I would find herdressing for something, and she would send her maid away, and wewould talk until she would be late for some function; and that mightbe a serious matter, because somebody would feel slighted. She wasalways "on pins and needles" over such questions of precedent; itseemed as if everybody in her world must be watching everybody else. There was a whole elaborate science of how to treat the people youmet, so that they would not feel slighted--or so that they wouldfeel slighted, according to circumstances. 

To the enjoyment of such a life it was essential that the personshould believe in it. Douglas van Tuiver did believe in it; it washis religion, the only one he had. (Churchman as he was, his churchwas a part of the social routine. ) He was proud of Sylvia, andapparently satisfied when he could take her at his side; and Sylviawent, because she was his wife, and that was what wives were for. She had tried her best to be happy; she had told herself that she_was_ happy yet all the time realizing that a woman who is reallyhappy does not have to tell herself. 

Earlier in life she had quaffed and enjoyed the wine of applause. Irecollect vividly her telling me of the lure her beauty had been toher--the most terrible temptation that could come to a woman. "Iwalk into a brilliant room, and I feel the thrill of admiration thatgoes through the crowd. I have a sudden sense of my own physicalperfection--a glow all over me! I draw a deep breath--I feel a surgeof exaltation. I say, 'I am victorious--I can command! I have thissupreme crown of womanly grace--I am all-powerful with it--the worldis mine!'" 

As she spoke the rapture was in her voice, and I looked at her--andyes, she was beautiful! The supreme crown was hers! 

"I see other beautiful women, " she went on--and swift anger cameinto her voice. "I see what they are doing with this power!Gratifying their vanity--turning men into slaves of their whim!Squandering money upon empty pleasures--and with the dreadful plagueof poverty spreading in the world! I used to go to my father, 'Oh, papa, why must there be so many poor people? Why should we haveservants--why should they have to wait on me, and I do nothing forthem?' He would try to explain to me that it was the way of Nature. Mamma would tell me it was the will of the Lord--'The poor ye havealways with you'--'Servants, obey your masters'--and so on. But inspite of the Bible texts, I felt guilty. And now I come to Douglaswith the same plea--and it only makes him angry! He has been tocollege and has a lot of scientific phrases--he tells me it's 'thestruggle for existence, ' 'the elimination of the unfit'--and so on. I say to him, 'First we make people unfit, and then we have toeliminate them. ' He cannot see why I do not accept what learnedpeople tell me--why I persist in questioning and suffering. " 

She paused, and then added, "It's as if he were afraid I might findout something he doesn't want me to! He's made me give him a promisethat I won't see Mrs. Frothingham again!" And she laughed. "Ihaven't told him about you!"

I answered, needless to say, that I hoped she would keep the secret!

24. All this time I was busy with my child-labour work. We had animportant bill before the legislature that session, and I was doingwhat I could to work up sentiment for it. I talked at everygathering where I could get a hearing; I wrote letters tonewspapers; I sent literature to lists of names. I racked my mindfor new schemes, and naturally, at such times, I could not helpthinking of Sylvia. How much she could do, if only she would! 

I spared no one, least of all myself, and so it was not easy tospare her. The fact that I had met her was the gossip of the office, and everybody was waiting for something to happen. "How about Mrs. Van Tuiver?" my "chief" would ask, at intervals. "If she would_only_ go on our press committee" my stenographer would sigh. 

The time came when our bill was in committee, a place of peril forbills. I went to Albany to see what could be done. I met half ahundred legislators, of whom perhaps half-a-dozen had some humaninterest in my subject; the rest, well, it was discouraging. Wherewas the force that would stir them, make them forget their ownparticular little grafts, and serve the public welfare in defianceto hostile interests? 

Where was it? I came back to New York to look for it, and after ablue luncheon with the members of our committee, I came away with mymind made up--I would sacrifice my Sylvia to this desperateemergency. 

I knew just what I had to do. So far she had heard speeches aboutsocial wrongs, or read books about them; she had never been face toface with the reality of them. Now I persuaded her to take a morningoff, and see some of the sights of the underworld of toil. Weforeswore the royal car, and likewise the royal furs and velvets;she garbed herself in plain appearing dark blue and went down townin the Subway like common mortals, visiting paper-box factories andflower factories, tenement homes where whole families sat pastingtoys and gimcracks for fourteen or sixteen hours a day, and stillcould not buy enough food to make full-sized men and women of them. 

She was Dante, and I was Virgil, our inferno was an endlessprocession of tortured faces--faces of women, haggard and mournful, faces of little children, starved and stunted, dulled and dumb. Several times we stopped to talk with these people--one littleJewess girl I knew whose three tiny sisters had been roasted alivein a sweatshop fire. This child had jumped from a fourth-storywindow, and been miraculously caught by a fireman. She said thatsome man had started the fire, and been caught, but the police hadlet him get away. So I had to explain to Sylvia that curiousbye-product (sic) of the profit system known as the "Arson Trust. "Authorities estimated that incendiarism was responsible for thedestruction of a quarter of a billion dollars worth of property inAmerica every year. So, of course, the business of starting fireswas a paying one, and the "fire-bug, " like the "cadet" and thedive-keeper, was a part of the "system. " So it was quite a possiblething that the man who had burned up this little girl's threesisters might have been allowed to escape. 

I happened to say this in the little girl's hearing, and I saw herpitiful strained eyes fixed upon Sylvia. Perhaps this lovely, soft-voiced lady was a fairy god-mother, come to free her sistersfrom an evil spell and to punish the wicked criminal! I saw Sylviaturn her head away, and search for her handkerchief; as we gropedour way down the dark stairs, she caught my hand, whispering: "Oh, my God! my God!" 

It had even more effect than I had intended; not only did she saythat she would do something--anything that would be of use--but shetold me as we rode back home that her mind was made up to stop thesquandering of her husband's money. He had been planning a costumeball for a couple of months later, an event which would keep the vanTuiver name in condition, and would mean that he and other peoplewould spend many hundreds of thousands of dollars. As we rode homein the roaring Subway, Sylvia sat beside me, erect and tense, sayingthat if the ball were given, it would be without the presence of thehostess. 

I struck while the iron was hot, and got her permission to put hername upon our committee list. She said, moreover, that she would getsome free time, and be more than a mere name to us. What were theduties of a member of our committee? 

"First, " I said, "to know the facts about child-labour, as you haveseen them to-day, and second, to help other people to know. " 

"And how is that to be done?" 

"Well, for instance, there is that hearing before the legislativecommittee. You remember I suggested that you appear. " 

"Yes, " she said in a low voice. I could almost hear the words thatwere in her mind: "What would _he_ say?" 

25. Sylvia's name went upon our letter-heads and other literature, and almost at once things began to happen. In a day or two therecame a reporter, saying he had noticed her name. Was it true thatshe had become interested in our work? Would I please give him someparticulars, as the public would naturally want to know. 

I admitted that Mrs. Van Tuiver had joined the committee; sheapproved of our work and desired to further it. That was all. Heasked: Would she give an interview? And I answered that I was sureshe would not. Then would I tell something about how she had come tobe interested in the work? It was a chance to assist our propaganda, added the reporter, diplomatically. 

I retired to another room, and got Sylvia upon the 'phone, "The timehas come for you to take the plunge, " I said. 

"Oh, but I don't want to be in the papers!" she cried "Surely, youwouldn't advise it!" 

"I don't see how you can avoid having something appear. Your name isgiven out, and if the man can't get anything else, he'll take ourliterature, and write up your doings out of his imagination. " 

"And they'll print my picture with it!" she exclaimed. I could nothelp laughing. "It's quite possible. " 

"Oh, what will my husband do? He'll say 'I told you so!'" 

It is a hard thing to have one's husband say that, as I knew bybitter experience. But I did not think that reason enough for givingup. 

"Let me have time to think it over, " said Sylvia. "Get him to waittill to-morrow, and meantime I can see you. " 

So it was arranged. I think I told Sylvia the truth when I said thatI had never before heard of a committee member who was unwilling tohave his purposes discussed in the newspapers. To influencenewspapers was one of the main purposes of committees, and I did notsee how she could expect either editors or readers to take any otherview. 

"Let me tell the man about your trip down town, " I suggested, "thenI can go on to discuss the bill and how it bears on the evils yousaw. Such a statement can't possibly do you harm. " 

She consented, but with the understanding that she was not to bequoted directly. "And don't let them make me picturesque!" sheexclaimed. "That's what my husband seems most to dread. " 

I wondered if he didn't think she was picturesque, when she sat in asplendid, shining coach, and took part in a public parade throughCentral Park. But I did not say this. I went off, and swore myreporter to abstain from the "human touch, " and he promised and kepthis word. There appeared next morning a dignified "write-up" of Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver's interest in child-labour reform. Quoting me, itdescribed some of the places she had visited, and some of the sightswhich had shocked her; it went on to tell about our committee andits work, the status of our bill in the legislature, the need ofactivity on the part of our friends if the measure was to be forcedthrough at this session. It was a splendid "boost" for our work, andeveryone in the office was in raptures over it. The socialrevolution was at hand! thought my young stenographer. 

But the trouble with this business of publicity is that, howevercarefully you control your interviewer, you cannot control theothers who use his material. The "afternoon men" came round for moredetails, and they made it clear that it was personal details theywanted. And when I side-stepped their questions, they went off andmade up answers to suit themselves, and printed Sylvia's pictures, together with photographs of child-workers taken from our pamphlets. 

I called Sylvia up while she was dressing for dinner, to explainthat I was not responsible for any of this picturesqueness. "Oh, perhaps I am to blame myself!" she exclaimed. "I think I intervieweda reporter. " 

"How do you mean?" 

"A woman sent up her card--she told the footman she was a friend ofmine. And I thought--I couldn't be sure if I'd met her--so I wentand saw her. She said she'd met me at Mrs. Harold Cliveden's, andshe began to talk to me about child-labour, and this and that planshe had, and what did I think of them, and suddenly it flashed overme: 'Maybe this is a reporter playing a trick on me!'" 

I hurried out before breakfast next morning and got all the papers, to see what this enterprising lady had done. There was nothing, so Ireflected that probably she had been a "Sunday" lady. 

But then, when I reached my office, the 'phone rang, and I heard thevoice of Sylvia: "Mary, something perfectly dreadful has happened!" 

"What?" I cried. 

"I can't tell you over the 'phone, but a certain person is furiouslyangry. Can I see you if I come down right away?" 

26. Such terrors as these were unguessed by me in the days of myobscurity. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, uneasy also, lies the wife of that head, and the best friend of the wife. Idismissed my stenographer, and spent ten or fifteen restless minutesuntil Sylvia appeared. 

Her story was quickly told. A couple of hours ago the acting-managerof Mr. Van Tuiver's office had telephoned to ask if he might callupon a matter of importance. He had come. Naturally, he had the mostextreme reluctance to say anything which might seem to criticise theactivities of Mr. Van Tuiver's wife, but there was something in theaccount in the newspapers which should be brought to her husband'sattention. The articles gave the names and locations of a number offirms in whose factories it was alleged that Mrs. Van Tuiver hadfound unsatisfactory conditions, and it happened that two of thesefirms were located in premises which belonged to the van Tuiverestates! 

A story coming very close to melodrama, I perceived. I sat dismayedat what I had done. "Of course, dear girl, " I said, at last, "youunderstand that I had no idea who owned these buildings. " 

"Oh, don't say that!" exclaimed Sylvia. "I am the one who shouldhave known!" 

Then for a long time I sat still and let her suffer. "Tenementsweat-shops! Little children in factories!" I heard her whisper. 

At last I put my hand on hers. "I tried to put it off for a while, "I said. "But I knew it would have to come. " 

"Think of me!" she exclaimed, "going about scolding other people forthe way they make their money! When I thought of my own, I hadvisions of palatial hotels and office-buildings--everything splendidand clean!" 

"Well, my dear, you've learned now, and you will be able to dosomething--" 

She turned upon me suddenly, and for the first time I saw in herface the passions of tragedy. "Do you believe I will be able to doanything? No! Don't have any such idea!" 

I was struck dumb. She got up and began to pace the room. "Oh, don'tmake any mistake, I've paid for my great marriage in the last houror two. To think that he cares about nothing save the possibility ofbeing found out and made ridiculous! All his friends have been'muckraked, ' as he calls it, and he has sat aloft and smiled overtheir plight; he was the landed gentleman, the true aristrocrat, whom the worries of traders and money-changers didn't concern. Nowperhaps he's caught, and his name is to be dragged in the mire, andit's my flightiness, my lack of commonsense that has done it!" 

"I shouldn't let that trouble me, " I said. "You could not know--" 

"Oh, it's not that! It's that I hadn't a single courageous word tosay to him--not a hint that he ought to refuse to wring blood-moneyfrom sweat-shops! I came away without having done it, because Icouldn't face his anger, because it would have meant a quarrel!" 

"My dear, " I said gently, "it is possible to survive a quarrel. " 

"No, you don't understand! We should never make it up again, Iknow--I saw it in his words, in his face. He will never change toplease me, no, not even a simple thing like the business-methods ofthe van Tuiver estates. " 

I could not help smiling. "My dear Sylvia! A simple thing!" 

She came and sat beside me. "That's what I want to talk about. It istime I was growing up. It it time that I knew about these things. Tell me about them. " 

"What, my dear?" 

"About the methods of the van Tuiver estates, that can't be changedto please me. I made out one thing, we had recently paid a fine forsome infraction of the law in one of those buildings, and my husbandsaid it was because we had refused to pay more money to atenement-house inspector. I asked him: 'Why should we pay any moneyat all to a tenement-house inspector? Isn't it bribery?' Heanswered: 'It's a custom--the same as you give a tip to a hotelwaiter. ' Is that true?"

I could not help smiling. "Your husband ought to know, my dear, " Isaid. 

I saw her compress her lips. "What is the tip for?" 

"I suppose it is to keep out of trouble with him. " 

"But why can't we keep out of trouble by obeying the law?" 

"My dear, sometimes the law is inconvenient, and sometimes it iscomplicated and obscure. It might be that you are violating itwithout knowing the fact. It might be uncertain whether you areviolating it or not, so that to settle the question would mean a lotof expense and publicity. It might even be that the law isimpossible to obey--that it was not intended to be obeyed. " 

"What do you mean by that?" 

"I mean, maybe it was passed to put you at the mercy of thepoliticians. " 

"But, " she protested, "that would be blackmail. " 

"The phrase, " I replied, "is 'strike-legislation. '" 

"But at least, that wouldn't be our fault!" 

"No, not unless you had begun it. It generally happens that thelandlord discovers it's a good thing to have politicians who willwork with him. Maybe he wants his assessments lowered; maybe hewants to know where new car lines are to go, so that he can buyintelligently; maybe he wants the city to improve his neighbourhood;maybe he wants influence at court when he has some heavy damagesuit. " 

"So we bribe everyone!" 

"Not necessarily. You may simply wait until campaign-time, and thenmake your contribution to the machine. That is the basis of the'System. '. " 

"The 'System '?" 

"A semi-criminal police-force, and everything that pays tribute toit; the saloon and the dive, the gambling hell the white-slavemarket, and the Arson trust. " 

I saw a wild look in her eyes. "Tell me, do you _know_ that allthese things are true? Or are you only guessing about them?" 

"My dear Sylvia, " I answered, "you said it was time you grew up. Forthe present I will tell you this: Several months before I met you, Imade a speech in which I named some of the organised forces of evilin the city. One was Tammany Hall, and another was the TractionTrust, and another was the Trinity Church Corporation, and yetanother was the van Tuiver estates. " 

27. The following Sunday there appeared a "magazine story" of aninterview with the infinitely beautiful young wife of the infinitelyrich Mr. Douglas van Tuiver, in which the views of the wife on thesubject of child-labour were liberally interlarded with descriptionsof her reception-room and her morning-gown. But mere picturesquenessby that time had been pretty well discounted in our minds. So longas the article did not say anything about the ownership ofchild-labour tenements! 

I did not see Sylvia for several weeks after that. I took it forgranted that she would want some time to get herself together andmake up her mind about the future. I did not feel anxious; the seedhad sprouted, and I felt sure it would continue to grow. 

Then one day she called me up, asking if I could come to see her. Isuggested that afternoon, and she said she was having tea with somepeople at the Palace Hotel, and could I come there just aftertea-time? I remember the place and the hour, because of the curiousadventure into which I got myself. One hears the saying, whenunexpected encounters take place, "How small the world is!" But Ithought the world was growing really too small when I went into ahotel tea-room to wait for Sylvia, and found myself face to facewith Claire Lepage! 

The place appointed had been the "orange-room"; I stood in thedoor-way, sweeping the place with my eyes, and I saw Mrs. Van Tuiverat the same moment that she saw me. She was sitting at a table withseveral other people and she nodded, and I took a seat to wait. Frommy position I could watch her, in animated conversation; and shecould send me a smile now and then. So I was decidedly startled whenI heard a voice, "Why, how do you do?" and looked up and saw Claireholding out her hand to me. 

"Well, for heaven's sake!" I exclaimed. 

"You don't come to see me any more, " she said. 

"Why, no--no, I've been busy of late. " So much I managed toejaculate, in spite of my confusion. 

"You seem surprised to see me, " she remarked--observant as usual, and sensitive to other people's attitude to her. 

"Why, naturally, " I said. And then, recollecting that it was not inthe least natural--since she spent a good deal of her time in suchplaces--I added, "I was looking for someone else. " 

"May I do in the meantime?" she inquired, taking a seat beside me. "What are you so busy about?" 

"My child-labour work, " I answered. Then, in an instant, I was sorryfor the words, thinking she must have read about Sylvia'sactivities. I did not want her to know that I had met Sylvia, for itwould mean a flood of questions, which I did not want to answer--noryet to refuse to answer. 

But my fear was needless. "I've been out of town, " she said. 

"Whereabouts?" I asked, making conversation. 

"A little trip to Bermuda. " 

My mind was busy with the problem of getting rid of her. It would beintolerable to have Sylvia come up to us; it was intolerable to knowthat they were in sight of each other. 

Even as the thought came to me, however, I saw Claire start. "Look!"she exclaimed. 

"What is it?" 

"That woman there--in the green velvet! The fourth table. " 

"I see her. " 

"Do you know who she is?" 

"Who?" (I remembered Lady Dee's maxim about lying!) 

"Sylvia Castleman!" whispered Claire. (She always referred to herthus--seeming to say, "I'm as much van Tuiver as she is!") 

"Are you sure?" I asked--in order to say something. 

"I've seen her a score of times. I seem to be always running intoher. That's Freddie Atkins she's talking to. " 

"Indeed!" said I. 

"I know most of the men I see her with. But I have to walk by as ifI'd never seen them. A queer world we live in, isn't it?" 

I could assent cordially to that proposition. "Listen, " I broke in, quickly. "Have you got anything to do? If not, come down to theRoyalty and have tea with me. " 

"Why not have it here?" 

"I've been waiting for someone from there, and I have to leave amessage. Then I'll be free. " 

She rose, to my vast relief, and we walked out. I could feelSylvia's eyes following me; but I dared not try to send her amessage--I would have to make up some explanation afterwards. "Whowas your well-dressed friend?" I could imagine her asking; but mymind was more concerned with the vision of what would happen if, infull sight of her companion, Mr. Freddie Atkins, she were to riseand walk over to Claire and myself! 

28. Seated in the palm-room of the other hotel, I sipped a cup oftea which I felt I had earned, while Claire had a little glass ofthe fancy-coloured liquids which the ladies in these places affect. The room was an aviary, with tropical plants and splashingfountains--and birds of many gorgeous hues; I gazed from one toanother of the splendid creatures, wondering how many of them werepaying for their plumage in the same way as my present companion. Itwould have taken a more practiced eye than mine to say which, for ifI had been asked, I would have taken Claire for a diplomat's wife. She had not less than a thousand dollars' worth of raiment upon her, and its style made clear to all the world the fact that it had notbeen saved over from a previous season of prosperity. She was a finecreature, who could carry any amount of sail; with her bold, blackeyes she looked thoroughly competent, and it was hard to believe inthe fundamental softness of her character. 

I sat, looking about me, annoyed at having missed Sylvia, and onlyhalf listening to Claire. But suddenly she brought me to attention. "Well, " she said, "I've met him. " 

"Met whom?" 

"Douglas. " 

I stared at her. "Douglas van Tuiver?" 

She nodded; and I suppressed a cry. 

"I told you he'd come back, " she added, with a laugh. 

"You mean he came to see you?" 

I could not hide my concern. But there was no need to, for itflattered Claire's vanity. "No--not yet, but he will. I met him atJack Taylor's--at a supper-party. " 

"Did he know you were to be there?" 

"No. But he didn't leave when he saw me. " 

There was a pause. I could not trust myself to say anything. ButClaire had no intention of leaving me curious. "I don't think he'shappy with her, " she remarked. 

"What makes you say that?" 

"Oh, several things. I know him, you know. He wouldn't say he was. " 

"Perhaps he didn't want to discuss it with you. " 

"Oh, no--not that. He isn't reserved with me. " 

"I should think it was dangerous to discuss one's wife under suchcircumstances, " I laughed. 

Claire laughed also. "You should have heard what Jack had to sayabout his wife! She's down at Palm Beach. " 

"She'd better come home, " I ventured. 

"He was telling what a dance she leads him; she raises Cain if awoman looks at him--and she damns every woman he meets before thewoman has a chance to look. Jack said marriage was hell--just hell. Reggie Channing thought it was like a pair of old slippers that yougot used to. " Jack laughed and answered, "You're at the stage whereyou think you can solve the marriage problem by deceiving yourwife!" 

I made no comment. Claire sat for a while, busy with her thoughts;then she repeated, "He wouldn't say he was happy! And he misses me, too. When he was going, I held his hand, and said: 'Well, Douglas, how goes it?'"

"And then?" I asked; but she would not say any more. 

I waited a while, and then began, "Claire, let him alone. Give thema chance to be happy. " 

"Why should I?" she demanded, in a voice of hostility. 

"She never harmed you, " I said. I knew I was being foolish, but Iwould do what I could. 

"She took him away from me, didn't she?" And Claire's eyes weresuddenly alight with the hatred of her outcast class. "Why did sheget him? Why is she Mrs. Van Tuiver, and I nobody? Because herfather was rich, because she had power and position, while I had toscratch for myself in the world. Is that true, or isn't it?" 

I could not deny that it might be part of the truth. "But they'remarried now, " I said, "and he loves her. " 

"He loves me, too. And I love him still, in spite of the way he'streated me. He's the only man I ever really loved. Do you think I'mgoing off and hide in a hole, while she spends his money and playsthe princess up and down the Avenue? Not much!" 

I fell silent. Should I set out upon another effort at "mouldingwater"? Should I give Claire one more scolding--tell her, perhaps, how her very features were becoming hard and ugly, as a result ofthe feelings she was harbouring? Should I recall the pretences ofgenerosity and dignity she had made when we first met? I might haveattempted this--but something held me back. After all, the oneperson who could decide this issue was Douglas van Tuiver. 

I rose. "Well, I have to be going. But I'll drop round now and then, and see what success you have. " 

She became suddenly important. "Maybe I won't tell!" 

To which I answered, indifferently, "All right, it's your secret. "But I went off without much worry over that part of it. Claire musthave some one to whom to recount her troubles--or her triumphs, asthe case might be. 

29. I had my talk with Sylvia a day or two later, and made myexcuse--a friend from the West who had been going out of town in afew hours later. 

The seed had been growing, I found. Ever since we had last met, herlife had consisted of arguments over the costume-ball on which herhusband had set his heart, and at which she had refused to play thehostess. 

"Of course, he's right about one thing, " she remarked. "We can'tstay in New York unless we give some big affair. Everyone expectsit, and there is no explanation except one he could not offer. " 

"I've made a big breach in your life, Sylvia, " I said. 

"It wasn't all you. This unhappiness has been in me--it's been likea boil, and you've been the poultice. " (She had four youngerbrothers and sisters, so these domestic similes came naturally. ) 

"Boils, " I remarked, "are disfiguring, when they come to a head. " 

There was a pause. "How is your child-labour bill?" she asked, abruptly. 

"Why, it's all right. " 

"Didn't I see a letter in the paper saying it had been referred to asub-committee, some trick to suppress it for this session?" 

I could not answer. I had been hoping she had not seen that letter. 

"If I were to come forward now, " she said, "I could possibly blockthat move, couldn't I?" 

Still I said nothing. 

"If I were to take a bold stand--I mean if I were to speak at apublic meeting, and denounce the move. " 

"I suppose you could, " I had to admit. 

For a long time she sat with her head bowed. "The children will haveto wait, " she said, at last, half to herself. 

"My dear, " I answered (What else was there to answer?) "the childrenhave waited a long time. " 

"I hate to turn back--to have you say I'm a coward--" 

"I won't say that, Sylvia. " 

"You will be too kind, no doubt, but that will be the truth. " 

I tried to reassure her. But the acids I had used--intended fortougher skins than hers--had burned into the very bone, and now itwas not possible to stop their action. "I must make you understand, "she said, "how serious a thing it seems to me for a wife to standout against her husband. I've been brought up to feel that it wasthe most terrible thing a woman could do. " 

She stopped, and when she went on again her face was set like oneenduring pain. "So this is the decision to which I have come. If Ido anything of a public nature now, I drive my husband from me; onthe other hand, if I take a little time, I may be able to save thesituation. I need to educate myself, and I'm hoping I may be able toeducate him at the same time. If I can get him to read something--ifit's only a few paragraphs everyday--I may gradually change hispoint of view, so that he will tolerate what I believe. At any rate, I ought to try; I am sure that is the wise and kind and fair thingto do. " 

"What will you do about the ball?" I asked. 

"I am going to take him away, out of this rush and distraction, thisdressing and undressing, hurrying about meeting people andchattering about nothing. " 

"He is willing?" 

"Yes; in fact, he suggested it himself. He thinks my mind is turned, with all the things I've been reading, and with Mrs. Frothingham, and Mrs. Allison, and the rest. He hopes that if I go away, I mayquiet down and come to my senses. We have a good excuse. I have tothink of my health just now---" 

She stopped, and looked away from my eyes. I saw the colourspreading in a slow wave over her cheeks; it was like those tints ofearly dawn that are so ravishing to the souls of poets. "In four orfive months from now---" And she stopped again. 

I put my big hand gently over her small one. "I have three childrenof my own, " I said. 

"So, " she went on, "it won't seem so unreasonable. Some people know, and the rest will guess, and there won't be any talk--I mean, suchas there would be if it was rumoured that Mrs. Douglas van Tuiverhad got interested in Socialism, and refused to spend her husband'smoney. " 

"I understand, " I replied. "It's quite the most sensible thing, andI'm glad you've found a way out. I shall miss you, of course, but wecan write each other long letters. Where are you going?" 

"I'm not absolutely sure. Douglas suggests a cruise in the WestIndies, but I think I should rather be settled in one place. He hasa lovely house in the mountains of North Carolina, and wants me togo there; but it's a show-place, with rich homes all round, and Iknow I'd soon be in a social whirl. I thought of the camp in theAdirondacks. It would be glorious to see the real woods in winter;but I lose my nerve when I think of the cold--I was brought up in awarm place. " 

"A 'camp' sounds rather primitive for one in your condition, " Isuggested. 

"That's because you haven't been there. In reality it's a big house, with twenty-five rooms, and steam-heat and electric lights, and halfa dozen men to take care of it when it's empty--as it has been forseveral years. " 

I smiled--for I could read her thought. "Are you going to be unhappybecause you can't occupy all your husband's homes?" 

"There's one other I prefer, " she continued, unwilling to be made tosmile. "They call it a 'fishing lodge, ' and it's down in the FloridaKeys. They're putting a railroad through there, but meantime you canonly get to it by a launch. From the pictures, it's the mostheavenly spot imaginable. Fancy running about those wonderful greenwaters in a motor-boat!" 

"It sounds quite alluring, " I replied. "But isn't it remote foryou?" 

"We're not so very far from Key West; and my husband means to have aphysician with us in any case. The advantage of being in a smallplace is that we couldn't entertain if we wanted to. I can have myAunt Varina come to stay with me, a dear, sweet soul who loves medevotedly; and then if I find I have to have some new ideas, perhapsyou can come---" 

"I don't think your husband would favour that, " I said. 

She put her hand out to me in a quick gesture. "I don't mean to giveup our friendship! I want you to understand, I intend to go onstudying and growing. I am doing what he asked me--it's right that Ishould think of his wishes, and of the health of my child. But thechild will be growing up, and sooner or later my husband must grantme the right to think, to have a life of my own. You must stand byme and help me, whatever happens. " 

I gave her my hand on that, and so we parted--for some time, as itproved. I went up to Albany once more, in a last futile effort tosave our precious bill; and while I was there I got a note from her, saying that she was leaving for the Florida Keys. 

BOOK II 

SYLVIA AS MOTHER 

For three months after this I had nothing but letters from Sylvia. She proved to be an excellent letter-writer, full of verve andcolour. I would not say that she poured out her soul to me, but shegave me glimpses of her states of mind, and the progress of herdomestic drama. 

First, she described the place to which she had come; a ravishingspot, where any woman ought to be happy. It was a little island, fringed with a border of cocoanut-palms, which rustled andwhispered day and night in the breeze. It was covered with tropicalfoliage, and there was a long, rambling bungalow, with screened"galleries, " and a beach of hard white sand in front. The water wasblue, dazzling with sunshine, and dotted with distant green islands;all of it, air, water, and islands, were warm. "I don't realize tillI get here, " she said, "I am never really happy in the North. I wrapmyself against the assaults of a cruel enemy. But here I am at home;I cast off my furs, I stretch out my arms, I bloom. I believe Ishall quite cease to think for a while--I shall forget all stormsand troubles, and bask on the sand like a lizard. 

"And the water! Mary, you cannot imagine such water; why should itbe blue on top, and green when you look down into it? I have alittle skiff of my own in which I drift, and I have been happy forhours, studying the bottom; you see every colour of the rainbow, andall as clear as in an aquarium. I have been fishing, too, and havecaught a tarpon. That is supposed to be a great adventure, and itreally is quite thrilling to feel the monstrous creature strugglingwith you--though, of course, my arms soon gave out, and I had toturn him over to my husband. This is one of the famousfishing-grounds of the world, and I am glad of that, because it willkeep the men happy while I enjoy the sunshine. 

"I have discovered a fascinating diversion, " she wrote, in a secondletter. "I make them take me in the launch to one of the loneliestof the keys; they go off to fish, and I have the whole day tomyself, and am as happy as a child on a picnic! I roam the beach, Itake off my shoes and stockings--there are no newspaper reporterssnapping pictures. I dare not go far in, for there are huge blackcreatures with dangerous stinging tails; they rush away in a cloudof sand when I approach, but the thought of stepping upon one byaccident is terrifying. However, I let the little wavelets washround my toes, and I try to grab little fish, and I pick up lovelyshells; and then I go on, and I see a huge turtle waddling to thewater, and I dash up, and would stop him if I dared, and then I findhis eggs--such an adventure! 

"I am the prey of strange appetites and cravings. I have a deliciousluncheon with me, but suddenly the one thing in the world I want toeat is turtle-eggs. I have no matches with me, and I do not know howto build a fire like the Indians, so I have to hide the eggs back inthe sand until to-morrow. I hope the turtle does not move them--andthat I have not lost my craving in the meantime! 

"Then I go exploring inland. These islands were once the haunts ofpirates, so I may imagine all sorts of romantic things. What I findare lemon-trees. I do not know if they are wild, or if the key wasonce cultivated; the lemons are huge in size, and nearly all skin, but the flavour is delicious. Turtle-eggs with wild lemon-juice! Andthen I go on and come to a mangrove-swamp--dark and forbidding, agrisly place; you imagine the trees are in torment, with limbs androots tangled like writhing serpents. I tiptoe in a little way, andthen get frightened, and run back to the beach. 

"I see on the sand a mysterious little yellow creature, running likethe wind; I make a dash, and get between him and his hole; and so hestands, crouching on guard, staring at me, and I at him. He is somesort of crab, but he stands on two legs like a caricature of a man;he has two big weapons upraised for battle, and staring black eyesstuck out on long tubes. He is an uncanny thing to look at; but thensuddenly the idea comes, How do I seem to him? I realize that he isalive; a tiny mite of hunger for life, of fear and resolution. Ithink, How lonely he must be! And I want to tell him that I lovehim, and would not hurt him for the world; but I have no way to makehim understand me, and all I can do is to go away and leave him. Igo, thinking what a strange place the world is, with so many livingthings, each shut away apart by himself, unable to understand theothers or make the others understand him. This is what is calledphilosophy, is it not? Tell me some books where these things areexplained.... 

"I am reading all you sent me. When I grew tired of exploring thekey, I lay down in the shade of a palm-tree, and read--guess what?'Number Five John Street'! So all this loveliness vanished, and Iwas back in the world's nightmare. An extraordinary book! I decidedthat it would be good for my husband, so I read him a fewparagraphs; but I found that it only irritated him. He wants me torest, he says--he can't see why I've come away to the Florida Keysto read about the slums of London. 

"My hope of gradually influencing his mind has led to a ratherappalling discovery--that he has the same intention as regards me!He too has brought a selection of books, and reads to me a few pagesevery day, and explains what they mean. He calls _this_ resting! Iam no match for him, of course--I never realized more keenly theworthlessness of my education. But I see in a general way where hisarguments tend--that life is something that has grown, and is not inthe power of men to change; but even if he could convince me ofthis, I should not find it a source of joy. I have a feeling alwaysthat if you were here, you would know something to answer. 

"The truth is that I am so pained by the conflict between us that Icannot argue at all. I find myself wondering what our marriage wouldhave been like if we had discovered that we had the same ideas andinterests. There are days and nights at a time when I tell myselfthat I ought to believe what my husband believes, that I ought neverhave allowed myself to think of anything else. But that really won'tdo as a life-programme; I tried it years ago with my dear mother andfather. Did I ever tell you that my mother is firmly convinced inher heart that I am to suffer eternally in a real hell of firebecause I do not believe certain things about the Bible? She stillhas visions of it--though not so bad since she turned me over to ahusband! 

"Now it is my husband who is worried about my ideas. He is reading abook by Burke, a well-known old writer. The book deals with Englishhistory, which I don't know much about, but I see that it resentsmodern changes, and the whole spirit of change. And Mary, why can'tI feel that way? I really ought to love those old and statelythings, I ought to be reverent to the past; I was brought up thatway. Sometimes I tremble when I realize how very flippant andcynical I am. I seem to see the wrong side of everything, so that Icouldn't believe in it if I wanted to!" 

2. Her letters were full of the wonders of Nature about her. Therewas a snow-white egret who made his home upon her island; shewatched his fishing operations, and meant to find his nest, so as towatch his young. The men made a trip into the Everglades, andbrought back wonder-tales of flocks of flamingoes making scarletclouds in the sky, huge colonies of birds' nests crowded like acity. They had brought home a young one, which screamed all day tobe stuffed with fish. 

A cousin of Sylvia's, Harley Chilton, had come to visit her. He hadtaken van Tuiver on hunting-trips during the latter's courtshipdays, and now was a good fishing-companion. He was not allowed todiscover the state of affairs between Sylvia and her husband, but hesaw his cousin reading serious books, and his contribution to theproblem was to tell her that she would get wrinkles in her face, andthat even her feet would grow big, like those of the ladies in NewEngland. 

Also, there was the young physician who kept watch over Sylvia'shealth; a dapper little man with pink and white complexion, and abrown moustache from which he could not keep his fingers. He had abungalow to himself, but sometimes he went along on thelaunch-trips, and Sylvia thought she observed wrinkles of amusementround his eyes whenever she differed from her husband on the subjectof Burke. She suspected this young man of not telling all his ideasto his multi-millionaire patients, and she was entertained by theprospect of probing him. 

Then came Mrs. Varina Tuis; who since the tragic cutting of her owndomestic knot, had given her life to the service of the happiermembers of the Castleman line. She was now to be companion andcounsellor to Sylvia; and on the very day of her arrival shediscovered the chasm that was yawning in her niece's life. 

"It's wonderful, " wrote Sylvia, "the intuition of the Castlemanwomen. We were in the launch, passing one of the viaducts of the newrailroad, and Aunt Varina exclaimed, 'What a wonderful piece ofwork!' 'Yes, ' put in my husband, 'but don't let Sylvia hear you sayit. ' 'Why not?' she asked; and he replied, 'She'll tell you how manyhours a day the poor Dagoes have to work. ' That was all; but I sawAunt Varina give a quick glance at me, and I saw that she was notfooled by my efforts to make conversation. It was rather horrid ofDouglas, for he knows that I love these old people, and do not wantthem to know about my trouble. But it is characteristic of him--whenhe is annoyed he seldom tries to spare others. 

"As soon as we were alone, Aunt Varina began, 'Sylvia, my dear, whatdoes it mean? What have you done to worry your husband?' 

"You would be entertained if I could remember the conversation. Itried to dodge the trouble by answering off-hand, 'Douglas had eatentoo many turtle-eggs for luncheon '--this being a man-like thing, that any dear old lady would understand. But she was too shrewd. Ihad to explain to her that I was learning to think, and this senther into a perfect panic. 

"'You actually mean, my child, that you are thinking about subjectsto which your husband objects, and you refuse to stop when he asksyou to? Surely you must know that he has some good reason forobjecting. ' 

"'I suppose so, ' I said, 'but he has not made that reason clear tome; and certainly I have a right--' 

"She would not hear any more than that. 'Right, Sylvia? Right? Areyou claiming the right to drive your husband from you?'

"'But surely I can't regulate all my thinking by the fear of drivingmy husband from me!' 

"'Sylvia, you take my breath away. Where did you get such ideas?' 

"'But answer me, Aunt Varina--can I?'

"'What thinking is as important to a woman as thinking how to pleasea good, kind husband? What would become of her family if she nolonger tried to do this?' 

"So you see, we opened up a large subject. I know you consider me abackward person, and you may be interested to learn that there aresome to whom I seem a terrifying rebel. Picture poor Aunt Varina, her old face full of concern, repeating over and over, 'My child, mychild, I hope I have come in time! Don't scorn the advice of a womanwho has paid bitterly for her mistakes. You have a good husband, aman who loves you devotedly; you are one of the most fortunate ofwomen--now do not throw your happiness away!' 

"'Aunt Varina, ' I said (I forget if I ever told you that her husbandgambled and drank, and finally committed suicide) 'Aunt Varina, doyou really believe that every man is so anxious to get away from hiswife that it must take her whole stock of energy, her skill indiplomacy, to keep him?' 

"'Sylvia, ' she answered, "you put things so strangely, you use suchhorribly crude language, I don't know how to talk to you!' (Thatmust be your fault, Mary. I never heard such a charge before. ) 'Ican only tell you this--that the wife who permits herself to thinkabout other things than her duty to her husband and her children istaking a frightful risk. She is playing with fire, Sylvia--she willrealize too late what it means to set aside the wisdom of her sex, the experience of other women for ages and ages!' 

"So there you are, Mary! I am studying another unwritten book, theMaxims of Aunt Varina! 

"She has found the remedy for my troubles, the cure for my diseaseof thought--I am to sew! I tell her that I have more clothes than Ican wear in a dozen seasons, and she answers, in an awesome voice, 'There is the little stranger!' When I point out that the littlestranger will be expected to have a 'layette' costing many thousandsof dollars, she replies, 'They will surely permit him to wear someof the things his mother's hands have made. ' So, behold me, seatedon the gallery, learning fancy stitches--and with Kautsky on theSocial Revolution hidden away in the bottom of my sewing-bag!" 

3. The weeks passed. The legislature at Albany adjourned, withoutregard to our wishes; and so, like the patient spider whose web isdestroyed, we set to work upon a new one. So much money must beraised, so many articles must be written, so many speechesdelivered, so many people seized upon and harried and wrought to astate of mind where they were dangerous to the future career oflegislators. Such is the process of social reform under the privateproperty régime; a process which the pure and simple reformersimagine we shall tolerate for ever--God save us! 

Sylvia asked me for the news, and I told it to her--how we hadfailed, and what we had to do next. So pretty soon there came byregistered mail a little box, in which I found a diamond ring. "Icannot ask him for money just now, " she explained, "but here issomething that has been mine from girlhood. It cost about fourhundred dollars--this for your guidance in selling it. Not a daypasses that I do not see many times that much wasted; so take it forthe cause. " Queen Isabella and her jewels! 

In this letter she told me of a talk she had had with her husband onthe "woman-problem. " She had thought at first that it was going toprove a helpful talk--he had been in a fairer mood than she wasusually able to induce. "He evaded some of my questions, " sheexplained, "but I don't think it was deliberate; it is simply theevasive attitude of mind which the whole world takes. He says hedoes not think that women are inferior to men, only that they aredifferent; the mistake is for them to try to become _like_ men. Itis the old proposition of 'charm, ' you see. I put that to him, andhe admitted that he did like to be 'charmed. ' 

"I said, 'You wouldn't, if you knew as much about the process as Ido. ' 

"'Why not?' he asked. 

"'Because, it's not an honest process. It's not a straight way forone sex to deal with the other. ' 

"He asked what I meant by that; but then, remembering the cautionsof my great-aunt, I laughed. 'If you are going to compel me to usethe process, you can hardly expect me to tell you the secret of it. '

"'Then there's no use trying to talk, ' he said. 

"'Ah, but there is!' I exclaimed. 'You admit that I have'charm'--dozens of other men admitted it. And so it ought to countfor something if I declare that I know it's not an honestthing--that it depends upon trickery, and appeals to the worstqualities in a man. For instance, his vanity. "Flatter him, " LadyDee used to say. "He'll swallow it. " And he will--I never knew a manto refuse a compliment in my life. His love of domination. "If youwant anything, make him think that _he_ wants it!" His egotism. Shehad a bitter saying--I can hear the very tones of her voice: "Whenin doubt, talk about HIM. " That is what is called "charm"!' 

"'I don't seem to feel it, ' he said. 

"' No, because now you are behind the scenes. But when you were infront, you felt it, you can't deny. And you would feel it again, anytime I chose to use it. But I want to know if there is not somehonest way a woman can interest a man. The question really comes tothis--Can a man love a woman for what she really is?' 

"'I should say, ' he said, 'that it depends upon the woman. ' 

"I admitted this was a plausible answer. 'But you loved me, when Imade myself a mystery to you. But now that I am honest with you, youhave made it clear that you don't like it, that you won't have it. And that is the problem that women have to face. It is a fact thatthe women of our family have always ruled the men; but they've doneit by indirection--nobody ever thought seriously of "women's rights"in Castleman County. But you see, women _have_ rights; and somehowor other they will fool the men, or else the men must give up theidea that they are the superior sex, and have the right, or theability, to rule women. ' 

"Then I saw how little he had followed me. 'There has to be a headto the family, ' he said. 

"I answered, 'There have been cases in history of a king and queenruling together, and getting along very well. Why not the same thingin a family?' 

"'That's all right, so far as the things of the family areconcerned. But such affairs as business and politics are in thesphere of men; and women cannot meddle in them without losing theirbest qualities as women. ' 

"And so there we were. I won't repeat his arguments, for doubtlessyou have read enough anti-suffrage literature. The thing I noticedwas that if I was very tactful and patient, I could apparently carryhim along with me; but when the matter came up again, I woulddiscover that he was back where he had been before. A woman mustaccept the guidance of a man; she must take the man's word for thethings that he understands. 'But suppose the man is _wrong?_' Isaid; and there we stopped--there we shall stop always, I begin tofear. I agree with him that woman should obey man--so long as man isright!" 

4. Her letters did not all deal with this problem. In spite of thesewing, she found time to read a number of books, and we arguedabout these. Then, too, she had been probing her young doctor, andhad made interesting discoveries about him. For one thing, he wasfull of awe and admiration for her; and her awakening mind foundmaterial for speculation in this. 

"Here is this young man; he thinks he is a scientist, he ratherprides himself upon being cold-blooded; yet a cunning woman couldtwist him round her finger. He had an unhappy love-affair when hewas young, so he confided to me; and now, in his need andloneliness, a beautiful woman is transformed into somethingsupernatural in his imagination--she is like a shimmeringsoap-bubble, that he blows with his own breath. I know that I couldnever get him to see the real truth about me; I might tell him thatI have let myself be tied up in a golden net--but he would onlymarvel at my spirituality. Oh, the women I have seen trading uponthe credulity of men! And when I think how I did this myself! If menwere wise, they would give us the vote, and a share in the world'swork--anything that would bring us out into the light of day, andbreak the spell of mystery that hangs round us! 

"By the way, " she wrote in another letter, "there will be trouble ifyou come down here. I was telling Dr. Perrin about you, and yourideas about fasting, and mental healing, and the rest of your fads. He got very much excited. It seems that he takes his diplomaseriously, and he's not willing to be taught by amateur experiments. He wanted me to take some pills, and I refused, and I think now heblames you for it. He has found a bond of sympathy with my husband, who proves his respect for authority by taking whatever he is toldto take. Dr. Perrin got his medical training here in the South, andI imagine he's ten or twenty years behind the rest of the medicalworld. Douglas picked him out because he'd met him socially. Itmakes no difference to me--because I don't mean to have anydoctoring done to me!" 

Then, on top of these things, would come a cry from her soul. "Mary, what will you do if some day you get a letter from me confessingthat I am not happy? I dare not say a word to my own people. I amsupposed to be at the apex of human triumph, and I have to play thatrole to keep from hurting them. I know that if my dear old fathergot an inkling of the truth, it would kill him. My one real solidconsolation is that I have helped him, that I have lifted amoney-burden from his life; I have done that, I tell myself, overand over; but then I wonder, have I done anything but put thereckoning off? I have given all his other children a new excuse forextravagance, an impulse towards worldliness which they did notneed. 

"There is my sister Celeste, for example. I don't think I have toldyou about her. She made her _début_ last fall, and was coming up toNew York to stay with me this winter. She had it all arranged in hermind to make a rich marriage; I was to give her the _entrée_--andnow I have been selfish, and thought of my own desires, and goneaway. Can I say to her, Be warned by me, I have made a great match, and it has not brought me happiness? She would not understand, shewould say I was foolish. She would say, 'If I had your luck, _I_would be happy. ' And the worst of it is, it would be true. 

"You see the position I am in with the rest of the children. Icannot say, 'You are spending too much of papa's money, it is wrongfor you to sign cheques and trust to his carelessness. ' I have hadmy share of the money, I have lined my own nest. All I can do is tobuy dresses and hats for Celeste; and know that she will use theseto fill her girl-friends with envy, and make scores of otherfamilies live beyond their means. " 

5. Sylvia's pregnancy was moving to its appointed end. She wrote mebeautifully about it, much more frankly and simply than she couldhave brought herself to talk. She recalled to me my own raptures, and also, my own heartbreak. "Mary! Mary! I felt the child to-day!Such a sensation, I could not have credited it if anyone had toldme. I almost fainted. There is something in me that wants to turnback, that is afraid to go on with such experiences. I do not wishto be seized in spite of myself, and made to feel things beyond mycontrol. I wander off down the beach, and hide myself, and cry andcry. I think I could almost pray again. " 

And then again, "I am in ecstasy, because I am to bear a child, achild of my own! Oh, wonderful, wonderful! But suddenly my ecstasyis shot through with terror, because the father of this child is aman I do not love. There is no use trying to deceive myself--noryou! I must have one human soul with whom I can talk about it as itreally is. I do not love him, I never did love him, I never shalllove him! 

"Oh, how could they have all been so mistaken? Here is AuntVarina--one of those who helped to persuade me into this marriage. She told me that love would come; it seemed to be her idea--mymother had it too--that you had only to submit yourself to a man, tofollow and obey him, and love would take possession of your heart. Itried credulously, and it did not happen as they promised. And now, I am to bear him a child; and that will bind us together for ever! 

"Oh, the despair of it--I do not love the father of my child! I say, The child will be partly his, perhaps more his than mine. It will belike him--it will have this quality and that, the very qualities, perhaps, that are a source of distress to me in the father. So Ishall have these things before me day and night, all the rest of mylife; I shall have to see them growing and hardening; it will be aperpetual crucifixion of my mother-love. I seek to comfort myself bysaying, The child can be trained differently, so that he will nothave these qualities. But then I think, No, you cannot train him asyou wish. Your husband will have rights to the child, rightssuperior to your own. Then I foresee the most dreadful strifebetween us. 

"A shrewd girl-friend once told me that I ought to be better orworse; I ought not to see people's faults as I do, or else I oughtto love people less. And I can see that I ought to have been toogood to make this marriage, or else not too good to make the best ofit. I know that I might be happy as Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver, if Icould think of the worldly advantages, and the fact that my childwill inherit them. But instead, I see them as a trap, in which notonly ourselves but the child is caught, and from which I cannot saveus. Oh, what a mistake a woman makes when she marries a man with theidea that she is going to change him! He will not change, he willnot have the need of change suggested to him. He wants _peace_ inhis home--which means that he wants to be what he is. 

"Sometimes I can study the situation quite coolly, and as if itdidn't concern me at all. He has required me to subject my mind tohis. But he will not be content with a general capitulation; he musthave a surrender from each individual soldier, from every rebelhidden in the hills. He tracks them out (my poor, straggling, feebleideas) and either they take the oath of allegiance, or they areburied where they lie. The process is like the spoiling of a child, I find; the more you give him, the more he wants. And if any littlething is refused, then you see him set out upon a regular campaignto break you down and get it. " 

A month or more later she wrote: "Poor Douglas is getting restless. He has caught every kind of fish there is to catch, and hunted everykind of animal and bird, in and out of season. Harley has gone home, and so have our other guests; it would be embarrassing to me to havecompany now. So Douglas has no one but the doctor and myself and mypoor aunt. He has spoken several times of our going away; but I donot want to go, and I think I ought to consider my own health atthis critical time. It is hot here, but I simply thrive in it--Inever felt in better health. So I asked him to go up to New York, orvisit somewhere for a while, and let me stay here until my baby isborn. Does that seem so very unreasonable? It does not to me, butpoor Aunt Varina is in agony about it--I am letting my husband driftaway from me! 

"I speculate about my lot as a woman; I see the bitterness and thesorrow of my sex through the ages. I have become physicallymisshapen, so that I am no longer attractive to him. I am no longeractive and free, I can no longer go about with him; on the contrary, I am a burden, and he is a man who never tolerated a burden before. What this means is that I have lost the magic hold of sex. 

"As a woman it was my business to exert all my energies to maintainit. And I know how I could restore it now; there is young Dr. Perrin! _He_ does not find me a burden, _he_ would tolerate anydeficiencies! And I can see my husband on the alert in an instant, if I become too much absorbed in discussing your health-theorieswith my handsome young guardian! 

"This is one of the recognized methods of keeping your husband; Ilearned from Lady Dee all there is to know about it. But I wouldfind the method impossible now, even if my happiness were dependentupon retaining my husband's love. I should think of the rights of myfriend, the little doctor. That is one point to note for the 'new'woman, is it not? You may mention it in your next suffrage-speech! 

"There are other methods, of course. I have a mind, and I might turnits powers to entertaining him, instead of trying to solve theproblems of the universe. But to do this, I should have to believethat it was the one thing in the world for me to do; and I havepermitted a doubt of that to gain entrance to my brain! My pooraunt's exhortations inspire me to efforts to regain the faith of mymothers, but I simply cannot--I cannot! She sits by me with theterror of all the women of all the ages in her eyes. I am losing aman! 

"I don't know if you have ever set out to hold a man--deliberately, I mean. Probably you haven't. That bitter maxim of Lady Dee's is theliteral truth of it--'When in doubt, talk about HIM!' If you willtactfully and shrewdly keep a man talking about himself, his tastes, his ideas, his work and the importance of it, there is never theleast possibility of your boring him. You must not just tamely agreewith him, of course; if you hint a difference now and then, and makehim convince you, he will find that stimulating; or if you canmanage not to be quite convinced, but sweetly open to conviction, hewill surely call again. 'Keep him busy every minute, ' Lady Dee usedto say. 'Run away with him now and then--like a spirited horse!' Andshe would add, 'But don't let him drop the reins!' 

"You can have no idea how many women there are in the worlddeliberately playing such parts. Some of them admit it; others justdo the thing that is easiest, and would die of horror if they weretold what it is. It is the whole of the life of a successful societywoman, young or old. Pleasing a man! Waiting upon his moods, piquinghim, flattering him, feeding his vanity--'charming' him! That iswhat Aunt Varina wants me to do now; if I am not too crude in mydescription of the process, she has no hesitation in admitting thetruth. It is what she tried to do, it is what almost every woman hasdone who has held a family together and made a home. I was reading_Jane Eyre_ the other day. _There_ is your woman's ideal of animperious and impetuous lover! Listen to him, when his mood is onhim!--

"I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-night; and thatis why I sent for you; the fire and the chandelier were notsufficient company for me; nor would Pilot have been, for none ofthese can talk. To-night I am resolved to be at ease; to dismisswhat importunes, and recall what pleases. It would please me now todraw you out--to learn more of you--therefore speak!" 

6. It was now May, and Sylvia's time was little more than a monthoff. She had been urging me to come and visit her, but I hadrefused, knowing that my presence must necessarily be disturbing toboth her husband and her aunt. But now she wrote that her husbandwas going back to New York. "He was staying out of a sense of dutyto me, " she said. "But his discontent was so apparent that I had topoint out to him that he was doing harm to me as well as to himself. 

"I doubt if you will want to come here now. The last of the wintervisitors have left. It is really hot, so hot that you cannot getcool by going into the water. Yet I am revelling in it; I wearalmost nothing, and that white; and even the suspicious Dr. Perrincannot but admit that I am thriving; his references to pills arepurely formal. 

"Lately I have not permitted myself to think much about thesituation between my husband and myself. I cannot blame him, and Icannot blame myself, and I am trying to keep my peace of mind tillmy baby is born. I have found myself following half-instinctivelythe procedure you told me about; I talk to my own subconscious mind, and to the baby--I command them to be well. I whisper to them thingsthat are not so very far from praying; but I don't think my poordear mamma would recognize it in its new scientific dress! 

"But sometimes I can't help thinking of the child and its future, and then all of a sudden my heart is ready to break with pity forthe child's father! I have the consciousness that I do not love him, and that he has always known it--and that makes me remorseful. But Itold him the truth before we married--he promised to be patient withme till I had learned to love him! Now I want to burst into tearsand cry aloud, 'Oh, why did you do it? Why did I let myself bepersuaded into this marriage?' 

"I tried to have a talk with him last night, after he had decided togo away. I was full of pity, and a desire to help. I said I wantedhim to know that no matter how much we might disagree about somethings, I meant to learn to live happily with him. We must find somesort of compromise, for the sake of the child, if not for ourselves;we must not let the child suffer. He answered coldly that therewould be no need for the child to suffer, the child would have thebest the world could afford. I suggested that there might arise somequestion as to just what the best was; but to that he said nothing. He went on to rebuke my discontent; had he not given me everything awoman could want? he asked. He was too polite to mention money; buthe said that I had leisure and entire freedom from care. I waspersisting in assuming cares, while he was doing all in his power toprevent it. 

"And that was as far as we got. I gave up the discussion, for weshould only have gone the old round over again. 

"Douglas has taken up a saying that my cousin brought with him:'What you don't know won't hurt you!' I think that before he left, Harley had begun to suspect that all was not well between my husbandand myself, and he felt it necessary to give me a little friendlycounsel. He was tactful, and politely vague, but I understoodhim--my worldly-wise young cousin. I think that saying of his sumsup the philosophy that he would teach to all women--'What you don'tknow won't hurt you!'" 

7. A week or so later Sylvia wrote me that her husband was in NewYork. And I waited another week, for good measure, and then onemorning dropped in for a call upon Claire Lepage. 

Why did I do it? you ask. I had no definite purpose--only a generalopposition to the philosophy of Cousin Harley. 

I was ushered into Claire's boudoir, which was still littered withlast evening's apparel. She sat in a dressing-gown with resplendentred roses on it, and brushed the hair out of her eyes, andapologized for not being ready for callers. 

"I've just had a talking to from Larry, " she explained. 

"Larry?" said I, inquiringly; for Claire had always informed meelaborately that van Tuiver had been her one departure frompropriety, and always would be. 

Apparently she had now reached a stage in her career where pretenceswere too much trouble. "I've come to the conclusion that I don'tknow how to manage men, " she said. "I never can get along with onefor any time. " 

I remarked that I had had the same experience; though of course Ihad only tried it once. "Tell me, " I said, "who's Larry?" 

"There's his picture. " She reached into a drawer of her dresser. 

I saw a handsome blonde gentleman, who looked old enough to knowbetter. "He doesn't seem especially forbidding, " I said. 

"That's just the trouble--you can never tell about men!" 

I noted a date on the picture. "He seems to be an old friend. Younever told me about him. " 

"He doesn't like being told about. He has a troublesome wife. " 

I winced inwardly, but all I said was, "I see. " 

"He's a stock-broker; and he got 'squeezed, ' so he says, and it'smade him cross--and careful with his money, too. That's trying, in astock-broker, you must admit. " She laughed. "And still he's just asparticular--wants to have his own way in everything, wants to saywhom I shall know and where I shall go. I said, 'I have all theinconveniences of matrimony, and none of the advantages. '" 

I made some remark upon the subject of the emancipation of woman;and Claire, who was now leaning back in her chair, combing out herlong black tresses, smiled at me out of half-closed eyelids. "Guesswhom he's objecting to!" she said. And when I pronounced itimpossible, she looked portentous. "There are bigger fish in the seathan Larry Edgewater!" 

"And you've hooked one?" I asked, innocently. 

"Well, I don't mean to give up all my friends. " 

I went on casually to talk about my plans for the summer; and a fewminutes later, after a lull--"By the way, " remarked Claire, "Douglasvan Tuiver is in town. " 

"How do you know?" 

"I've seen him. " 

"Indeed! Where?" 

"I got Jack Taylor to invite me again. You see, when Douglas fell inlove with his peerless southern beauty, Jack predicted he'd get overit even more quickly. Now he's interested in proving he was right. " 

I waited a moment, and then asked, carelessly, "Is he having anysuccess?" 

"I said, 'Douglas, why don't you come to see me?' He was in aplayful mood. 'What do you want? A new automobile?' I answered, 'Ihaven't any automobile, new or old, and you know it. What I want isyou. I always loved you--surely I proved that to you. ' 'What youproved to me was that you were a sort of wild-cat. I'm afraid ofyou. And anyway, I'm tired of women. I'll never trust another one. '"

"About the same conclusion as you've come to regarding men, " Iremarked. 

"'Douglas, ' I said, 'come and see me, and we'll talk over old times. You may trust me, I swear I'll not tell a living soul. ' 'You've beenconsoling yourself with someone else, ' he said. But I knew he wasonly guessing. He was seeking for something that would worry me, andhe said, 'You're drinking too much. People that drink can't betrusted. ' 'You know, ' I replied, 'I didn't drink too much when I waswith you. I'm not drinking as much as you are, right now. ' Heanswered, 'I've been off on a desert island for God knows how manymonths, and I'm celebrating my escape. ' 'Well, ' I answered, 'let mehelp celebrate!'" 

"What did he say to that?" 

Claire resumed the combing of her silken hair, and smiled a slowsmile at me. "'You may trust me, Douglas, ' I said. 'I swear I'll nottell a living soul!'" 

"Of course, " I remarked, appreciatively, "that means he said he'dcome!" 

"_I_ haven't told you!" was the reply. 

8. I knew that I had only to wait for Claire to tell me the rest ofthe story. But her mind went off on another tack. "Sylvia's going tohave a baby, " she remarked, suddenly. 

"That ought to please her husband, " I said. 

"You can see him beginning to swell with paternal pride!--so Jacksaid. He sent for a bottle of some famous kind of champagne that hehas, to celebrate the new 'millionaire baby. ' (They used to callDouglas that, once upon a time. ) Before they got through, they hadmade it triplets. Jack says Douglas is the one man in New York whocan afford them. " 

"Your friend Jack seems to be what they call a wag, " I commented. 

"It isn't everybody that Douglas will let carry on with him likethat. He takes himself seriously, as a rule. And he expects to takethe new baby seriously. " 

"It generally binds a man tighter to his wife, don't you think?" 

I watched her closely, and saw her smile at my naiveté. "No, " shesaid, "I don't. It leaves them restless. It's a bore all round. " 

I did not dispute her authority; she ought to know her husbands, Ithought. 

She was facing the mirror, putting up her hair; and in the midst ofthe operation she laughed. "All that evening, while we were having ajolly time at Jack Taylor's, Larry was here waiting. " 

"Then no wonder you had a row!" I said. 

"He hadn't told me he was coming. And was I to sit here all nightalone? It's always the same--I never knew a man who really in hisheart was willing for you to have any friends, or any sort of goodtime without him. " 

"Perhaps, " I replied, "he's afraid you mightn't be true to him. " Imeant this for a jest, of the sort that Claire and her friends wouldappreciate. Little did I foresee where it was to lead us! 

I remember how once on the farm my husband had a lot of dynamite, blasting out stumps; and my emotions when I discovered the childreninnocently playing with a stick of it. Something like these childrenI seem now to myself, looking back on this visit to Claire, and ourtalk. 

"You know, " she observed, without smiling, "Larry's got a bee in hishat. I've seen men who were jealous, and kept watch over women, butnever one that was obsessed like him. " 

"What's it about?" 

"He's been reading a book about diseases, and he tells me talesabout what may happen to me, and what may happen to him. When you'velistened a while, you can see microbes crawling all over the wallsof the room. " 

"Well----" I began. 

"I was sick of his lecturing, so I said, 'Larry, you'll have to dolike me--have everything there is, and get over it, and then youwon't need to worry. '" 

I sat still, staring at her; I think I must have stopped breathing. At the end of an eternity, I said, "You've not really had any ofthese diseases, Claire?" 

"Who hasn't?" she countered. 

Again there was a pause. "You know, " I observed, "some of them aredangerous----" 

"Oh, of course, " she answered, lightly. "There's one that makes yournose fall in and your hair fall out--but you haven't seen anythinglike that happening to me!" 

"But there's another, " I hinted--"one that's much more common. " Andwhen she did not take the hint, I continued, "Also it's more seriousthan people generally realize. " 

She shrugged her shoulders. "What of it? Men bring you thesethings, and it's part of the game. So what's the use of bothering?" 

9. There was a long silence; I had to have time to decide whatcourse to take. There was so much that I wanted to get from her, andso much that I wanted to hide from her! 

"I don't want to bore you, Claire, " I began, finally, "but reallythis is a matter of importance to you. You see, I've been reading upon the subject as well as Larry. The doctors have been making newdiscoveries. They used to think this was just a local infection, like a cold, but now they find it's a blood disease, and has thegravest consequences. For one thing, it causes most of the surgicaloperations that have to be performed on women. " 

"Maybe so, " she said, still indifferent. "I've had two operations. But it's ancient history now. " 

"You mayn't have reached the end yet, " I persisted. "People supposethey are cured of gonorrhea, when really it's only suppressed, andis liable to break out again at any time. " 

"Yes, I knew. That's some of the information Larry had been makinglove to me with. " 

"It may get into the joints and cause rheumatism; it may causeneuralgia; it's been known to affect the heart. Also it causestwo-thirds of all the blindness in infants----" 

And suddenly Claire laughed. "That's Sylvia Castleman's lookout itseems to me!" 

"Oh! OH!" I whispered, losing my self-control. 

"What's the matter?" she asked, and I noticed that her voice hadbecome sharp. 

"Do you really mean what you've just implied?" 

"That Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver may have to pay something for what shehas done to me? Well, what of it?" And suddenly Claire flew into apassion, as she always did when our talk came to her rival. "Whyshouldn't she take chances the same as the rest of us? Why should Ihave it and she get off?" 

I fought for my composure. After a pause, I said: "It's not a thingwe want anybody to have, Claire. We don't want anybody to take sucha chance. The girl ought to have been told. " 

"Told? Do you imagine she would have given up her great catch?" 

"She might have, how can you be sure? Anyhow, she should have hadthe chance. " 

There was a long silence. I was so shaken that it was hard for me tofind words. "As a matter of fact, " said Claire, grimly, "I thoughtof warning her myself. There'd have been some excitement at least!You remember--when they came out of church. You helped to stop me!" 

"It would have been too late then, " I heard myself saying. 

"Well, " she exclaimed, with fresh excitement, "it's Miss Sylvia'sturn now! We'll see if she's such a grand lady that she can't get mydiseases!" 

I could no longer contain myself. "Claire, " I cried, "you aretalking like a devil!" 

She picked up a powder-puff, and began to use it diligently. "Iknow, " she said--and I saw her burning eyes in the glass--"you can'tfool me. You've tried to be kind, but you despise me in your heart. You think I'm as bad as any woman of the street. Very well then, Ispeak for my class, and I tell you, this is where we prove ourhumanity. They throw us out, but you see we get back in!" 

"My dear woman, " I said, "you don't understand. You'd not feel asyou do, If you knew that the person to pay the penalty might be aninnocent little child. " 

"_Their_ child! Yes, it's too bad if there has to be anything thematter with the little prince! But I might as well tell you thetruth--I've had that in mind all along. I didn't know just whatwould happen, or how--I don't believe anybody does, the doctors whopretend to are just faking you. But I knew Douglas was rotten, andmaybe his children would be rotten, and they'd all of them suffer. That was one of the things that kept me from interfering andsmashing him up. " 

I was speechless now, and Claire, watching me, laughed. "You look asif you'd had no idea of it. Don't you know that I told you at thetime?" 

"You told me at the time!" 

"I suppose, you didn't understand. I'm apt to talk French when I'mexcited. We have a saying: 'The wedding present which the mistressleaves in the basket of the bride. ' That was pretty near telling, wasn't it?" 

"Yes, " I said, in a low voice. 

And the other, after watching me for a moment more, went on: "Youthink I'm revengeful, don't you? Well, I used to reproach myselfwith this, and I tried to fight it down; but the time comes when youwant people to pay for what they take from you. Let me tell yousomething that I never told to anyone, that I never expected totell. You see me drinking and going to the devil; you hear metalking the care-free talk of my world, but in the beginning I wasreally in love with Douglas van Tuiver, and I wanted his child. Iwanted it so that it was an ache to me. And yet, what chance did Ihave? I'd have been the joke of his set for ever if I'd breathed it;I'd have been laughed out of the town. I even tried at one time totrap him--to get his child in spite of him, but I found that thesurgeons had cut me up, and I could never have a child. So I have tomake the best of it--I have to agree with my friends that it's agood thing, it saves me trouble! But _she_ comes along, and she haswhat I wanted, and all the world thinks it wonderful and sublime. She's a beautiful young mother! What's she ever done in her lifethat she has everything, and I go without? You may spend your timeshedding tears over her and what may happen to her but for my part, I say this--let her take her chances! Let her take her chances withthe other women in the world--the women she's too good and too pureto know anything about!" 

10. I came out of Claire's house, sick with horror. Not since thetime when I had read my poor nephew's letter had I been so shaken. Why had I not thought long ago of questioning Claire about thesematters. How could I have left Sylvia all this time exposed toperil? 

The greatest danger was to her child at the time of birth. I figuredup, according to the last letter I had received; there was about tendays yet, and so I felt some relief. I thought first of sending atelegram, but reflected that it would be difficult, not merely totell her what to do in a telegram, but to explain to her afterwardswhy I had chosen this extraordinary method. I recollected that inher last letter she had mentioned the name of the surgeon who wascoming from New York to attend her during her confinement. Obviouslythe thing for me to do was to see this surgeon. 

"Well, madame?" he said, when I was seated in his inner office. 

He was a tall, elderly man, immaculately groomed, and formal andprecise in his manner. "Dr. Overton, " I began, "my friend, Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver writes me that you are going to Florida shortly. "

"That is correct, " he said. 

"I have come to see you about a delicate matter. I presume I needhardly say that I am relying upon the seal of professional secrecy. "

I saw his gaze become suddenly fixed. "Certainly, madame, " he said. 

"I am taking this course because Mrs. Van Tuiver is a very dearfriend of mine, and I am concerned about her welfare. It hasrecently come to my knowledge that she has become exposed toinfection by a venereal disease. " 

He would hardly have started more if I had struck him. "HEY?" hecried, forgetting his manners. 

"It would not help you any, " I said, "if I were to go into detailsabout this unfortunate matter. Suffice it to say that my informationis positive and precise--that it could hardly be more so. " 

There was a long silence. He sat with eyes rivetted upon me. "Whatis this disease?" he demanded, at last. 

I named it, and then again there was a pause. "How long hasthis--this possibility of infection existed?" 

"Ever since her marriage, nearly eighteen months ago. " 

That told him a good part of the story. I felt his look boring methrough. Was I a mad woman? Or some new kind of blackmailer? Or, wasI, possibly, a Claire? I was grateful for my forty-cent bonnet andmy forty-seven years. 

"Naturally, " he said at length, "this information startles me. " 

"When you have thought it over, " I responded, "you will realise thatno possible motive could bring me here but concern for the welfareof my friend. " 

He took a few moments to consider. "That may be true, madame, butlet me add that when you say you KNOW this----" 

He stopped. "I MEAN that I know it, " I said, and stopped in turn. 

"Has Mrs. Van Tuiver herself any idea of this situation?" 

"None whatever. On the contrary, she was assured before her marriagethat no such possibility existed. " 

Again I felt him looking through me, but I left him to make what hecould of my information. "Doctor, " I continued, "I presume there isno need to point out to a man in your position the seriousness ofthis matter, both to the mother and to the child. " 

"Certainly there is not. " 

"I assume that you are familiar with the precautions that have to betaken with regard to the eyes of the child?" 

"Certainly, madame. " This with just a touch of HAUTEUR, and then, suddenly: "Are you by any chance a nurse?" 

"No, " I replied, "but many years ago I was forced by tragedy in myown family to realise the seriousness of the venereal peril. So whenI learned this fact about my friend, my first thought was that youshould be informed of it. I trust that you will appreciate myposition. " 

"Certainly, madame, certainly, " he made haste to say. "You are quiteright, and you may rest assured that everything will be done thatour best knowledge directs. I only regret that the information didnot come to me sooner. " 

"It only came to me about an hour ago, " I said, as I rose to leave. "The blame, therefore, must rest upon another person. " 

I needed to say no more. He bowed me politely out, and I walked downthe street, and realised that I was restless and wretched. Iwandered at random for a while. Trying to think what else I coulddo, for my own peace of mind, if not for Sylvia's welfare. I foundmyself inventing one worry after another. Dr. Overton had not saidjust when he was going, and suppose she were to need someone atonce? Or suppose something were to happen to him--if he were to bekilled upon the long train-journey? I was like a mother who has hada terrible dream about her child--she must rush and fling her armsabout the child. I realised that I wanted to see Sylvia! 

She had begged me to come; and I was worn out and had been urged bythe office to take a rest. Suddenly I bolted into a store, andtelephoned the railroad station about trains to Southern Florida. Ihailed a taxi-cab, rode to my home post-haste, and flung a few of mybelongings into a bag and the waiting cab sped with me to the ferry. In little more than two hours after Claire had told me the dreadfultidings, I was speeding on my way to Sylvia. 

11. From a train-window I had once beheld a cross-section of Americafrom West to East; now I beheld another from North to South. In theafternoon were the farms and country-homes of New Jersey; and thenin the morning endless wastes of wilderness, and straggling fieldsof young corn and tobacco; turpentine forests, with half-strippednegroes working, and a procession of "depots, " with lanky menchewing tobacco, and negroes basking in the blazing sun. Thenanother night, and there was the pageant of Florida: palmettos, andother trees of which one had seen pictures in the geography books;stretches of vine-tangled swamps, where one looked for alligators;orange-groves in blossom, and gardens full of flowers beyondimagining. Every hour, of course, it got hotter; I was not, likeSylvia, used to it, and whenever the train stopped I sat by the openwindow, mopping the perspiration from my face. 

We were due at Miami in the afternoon; but there was a freight-trainoff the track ahead of us, and so for three hours I sat chafing withimpatience, worrying the conductor with futile questions. I had tomake connections at Miami with a train which ran to the last pointon the mainland, where the construction-work over the keys was goingforward. And if I missed that last train, I would have to wait inMiami till morning. I had better wait there, anyhow, the conductorargued; but I insisted that my friends, to whom I had telegraphedtwo days before, would meet me with a launch and take me to theirplace that night. 

We got in half an hour late for the other train; but this was theSouth, I discovered, and they had waited for us. I shifted my bagand myself across the platform, and we moved on. But then anotherproblem arose; we were running into a storm. It came with greatsuddenness; one minute all was still, with a golden sunset, and thenext it was so dark that I could barely see the palm-trees, bentover, swaying madly--like people with arms stretched out, crying indistress. I could hear the roaring of the wind above that of thetrain, and I asked the conductor in consternation if this could be ahurricane. It was not the season for hurricanes, he replied; but itwas "some storm, all right, " and I would not find any boat to takeme to the keys until it was over. 

It was absurd of me to be nervous, I kept telling myself; but therewas something in me that cried out to be there, to be there! I gotout of the train, facing what I refrain from calling a hurricane outof deference to local authority. It was all I could do to keep frombeing blown across the station-platform, and I was drenched with thespray and bewildered by the roaring of the waves that beat againstthe pier beyond. Inside the station, I questioned the agent. Thelaunch of the van Tuivers had not been in that day; if it had beenon the way, it must have sought shelter somewhere. My telegram toMrs. Van Tuiver had been received two days before, and delivered bya boatman whom they employed for that purpose. Presumably, therefore, I would be met. I asked how long this gale was apt tolast; the answer was from one to three days. 

Then I asked about shelter for the night. This was a "jumping-off"place, said the agent, with barracks and shanties for aconstruction-gang; there were saloons, and what was called a hotel, but it wouldn't do for a lady. I pleaded that I was notfastidious--being anxious to nullify the effect which the name vanTuiver had produced. But the agent would have it that the place wasunfit for even a Western farmer's wife; and as I was not anxious totake the chance of being blown overboard in the darkness, I spentthe night on one of the benches in the station. I lay, listening tothe incredible clamour of wind and waves, feeling the buildingquiver, and wondering if each gust might not blow it away. 

I was out at dawn, the force of the wind having abated somewhat bythat time. I saw before me a waste of angry foam-strewn water, withno sign of any craft upon it. Late in the morning came the bigsteamer which ran to Key West, in connection with the railroad; itmade a difficult landing, and I interviewed the captain, with theidea of bribing him to take me to my destination. But he had hisschedule, which neither storms nor the name of van Tuiver couldalter. Besides, he pointed out, he could not land me at their place, as his vessel drew too much water to get anywhere near; and if helanded me elsewhere, I should be no better off, "If your friends areexpecting you, they'll come here, " he said, "and their launch cantravel when nothing else can. " 

To pass the time I went to inspect the viaduct of the railway-to-be. The first stretch was completed, a long series of concrete arches, running out, apparently, into the open sea. It was one of theengineering wonders of the world, but I fear I did not appreciateit. Towards mid-afternoon I made out a speck of a boat over thewater, and my friend, the station-agent, remarked, "There's yourlaunch. " 

I expressed my amazement that they should have ventured out in suchweather. I had had in mind the kind of tiny open craft that onehears making day and night hideous at summer-resorts; but when the"Merman" drew near, I realized afresh what it was to be the guest ofa multi-millionaire. She was about fifty feet long, a vision ofpolished brass and shining, new-varnished cedar. She rammed hershoulder into the waves and flung them contemptuously to one side;her cabin was tight, dry as the saloon of a liner. 

Three men emerged on deck to assist in the difficult process ofmaking a landing. One of them sprang to the dock, and confrontingme, inquired if I was Mrs. Abbott. He explained that they had setout to meet me the previous afternoon, but had had to take refugebehind one of the keys. 

"How is Mrs. Van Tuiver?" I asked, quickly. 

"She is well. " 

"I don't suppose--the baby----" I hinted. 

"No, ma'am, not yet, " said the man; and after that I felt interestedin what he had to say about the storm and its effects. We couldreturn at once, it seemed, if I did not mind being pitched about. 

"How long does it take?" I asked. 

"Three hours, in weather like this. It's about fifty miles. " 

"But then it will be dark, " I objected. 

"That won't matter, ma'am--we have plenty of light of our own. Weshan't have trouble, unless the wind rises, and there's a chain ofkeys all the way, where we can get shelter if it does. The worst youhave to fear is spending a night on board. " 

I reflected that I could not well be more uncomfortable than I hadbeen the previous night, so I voted for a start. There was mail andsome supplies to be put on board; then I made a spring for the deck, as it surged up towards me on a rising wave, and in a moment morethe cabin-door had shut behind me, and I was safe and snug, in themidst of leather and mahogany and electric-lighted magnificence. Through the heavy double windows I saw the dock swing round behindus, and saw the torrents of green spray sweep over us and past. Igrasped at the seat to keep myself from being thrown forward, andthen grasped behind, to keep from going in that direction. I had aseries of sensations as of an elevator stopping suddenly--and then Idraw the curtains of the "Merman's" cabin, and invite the reader topass by. This is Sylvia's story, and not mine, and it is of nointerest what happened to me during that trip. I will only remindthe reader that I had lived my life in the far West, and there weresome things I could not have foreseen. 

12. "We are there, ma'am, " I heard one of the boatmen say, and Irealised vaguely that the pitching had ceased. He helped me to situp, and I saw the search-light of the craft sweeping the shore of anisland. "It passes off 'most as quick as it comes, ma'am, " added mysupporter, and for this I murmured feeble thanks. 

We came to a little bay, where the power was shut off, and we glidedtowards the shore. There was a boat-house, a sort of miniaturedry-dock, with a gate which closed behind us. I had visions ofSylvia waiting to meet me, but apparently our arrival had not beennoted, and for this I was grateful. There were seats in theboat-house, and I sank into one, and asked the man to wait a fewminutes while I recovered myself. When I got up and went to thehouse, what I found made me quickly forget that I had such a thingas a body. 

There was a bright moon, I remember, and I could see the long, lowbungalow, with windows gleaming through the palm-trees. A woman'sfigure emerged from the house and came down the white shell-path tomeet me. My heart leaped. My beloved! 

But then I saw it was the English maid, whom I had come to know inNew York; I saw, too, that her face was alight with excitement. "Oh, my lady!" she cried. "The baby's come!" 

It was like a blow in the face. "_What?_" I gasped. 

"Came early this morning. A girl. " 

"But--I thought it wasn't till next week!" 

"I know, but it's here. In that terrible storm, when we thought thehouse was going to be washed away! Oh, my lady, it's the loveliestbaby!" 

I had presence of mind enough to try to hide my dismay. Thesemi-darkness was a fortunate thing for me. "How is the mother?" Iasked. 

"Splendid. She's asleep now. " 

"And the child?" 

"Oh! Such a dear you never saw!" 

"And it's all right?" 

"It's just the living image of its mother! You shall see!" 

We moved towards the house, slowly, while I got my thoughtstogether. "Dr. Perrin is here?" I asked. 

"Yes. He's gone to his place to sleep. " 

"And the nurse?" 

"She's with the child. Come this way. " 

We went softly up the steps of the veranda. All the rooms openedupon it, and we entered one of them, and by the dim-shaded light Isaw a white-clad woman bending over a crib. "Miss Lyman, this isMrs. Abbott, " said the maid. 

The nurse straightened up. "Oh! so you got here! And just at theright time!" 

"God grant it may be so!" I thought to myself. "So this is thechild!" I said, and bent over the crib. The nurse turned up thelight for me. 

It is the form in which the miracle of life becomes most apparent tous, and dull indeed must be he who can encounter it without beingstirred to the depths. To see, not merely new life come into theworld, but life which has been made by ourselves, or by those welove--life that is a mirror and copy of something dear to us! To seethis tiny mite of warm and living flesh, and to see that it wasSylvia! To trace each beloved lineament, so much alike, and yet sodifferent--half a portrait and half a caricature, half sublime andhalf ludicrous! The comical little imitation of her nose, with eachdear little curve, with even a remainder of the tiny grooveunderneath the tip, and the tiny corresponding dimple underneath thechin! The soft silken fuzz which was some day to be Sylvia's goldenglory! The delicate, sensitive lips, which were some day to quiverwith feeling! I gazed at them and saw them moving, I saw the breastmoving--and a wave of emotion swept over me, and the tearshalf-blinded me as I knelt. 

But I could not forget the reason for my coming. It meant littlethat the child was alive and seemingly well; I was not dealing witha disease which, like syphilis, starves and deforms in the verywomb. The little one was asleep, but I moved the light so as toexamine its eyelids. Then I turned to the nurse and asked: "MissLyman, doesn't it seem to you the eyelids are a trifle inflamed?" 

"Why, I hadn't noticed it, " she answered. 

"Were the eyes washed?" I inquired. 

"I washed the baby, of course--" 

"I mean the eyes especially. The doctor didn't drop anything intothem?" 

"I don't think he considered it necessary. " 

"It's an important precaution, " I replied; "there are alwayspossibilities of infection. " 

"Possibly, " said the other. "But you know, we did not expect this. Dr. Overton was to be here in three or four days. " 

"Dr. Perrin is asleep?" I asked. 

"Yes. He was up all last night. " 

"I think I will have to ask you to waken him, " I said. 

"Is it as serious as that?" she inquired, anxiously, having sensedsome of the emotion I was trying to conceal. 

"It might be very serious, " I said. "I really ought to have a talkwith the doctor. " 

13. The nurse went out, and I drew up a chair and sat by the crib, watching the infant go back to sleep. I was glad to be alone, tohave a chance to get myself together. But suddenly I heard a rustleof skirts in the doorway behind me, and turned and saw a white-cladfigure; an elderly gentlewoman, slender and fragile, grey-haired andrather pale, wearing a soft dressing-gown. Aunt Varina! 

I rose. "This must be Mrs. Abbott, " she said. Oh, these soft, caressing Southern voices, that cling to each syllable as a lover toa hand at parting. 

She was a very prim and stately little lady, and I think she did notintend to shake hands; but I felt pretty certain that under hercoating of formality, she was eager for a chance to rhapsodize. "Oh, what a lovely child!" I cried; and instantly she melted. 

"You have seen our babe!" she exclaimed; and I could not helpsmiling. A few months ago, "the little stranger, " and now "ourbabe"! 

She bent over the cradle, with her dear old sentimental, romanticsoul in her eyes. For a minute or two she quite forgot me; then, looking up, she murmured, "It is as wonderful to me as if it were myown!" 

"All of us who love Sylvia feel that, " I responded. 

She rose, and suddenly remembering hospitality, asked me as to mypresent needs. Then she said, "I must go and see to sending sometelegrams. " 

"Telegrams?" I inquired. 

"Yes. Think what this news will mean to dear Douglas! And to MajorCastleman!" 

"You haven't informed them?" 

"We couldn't send any smaller boat on account of the storm. We musttelegraph Dr. Overton also, you understand. " 

"To tell him not to come?" I ventured. "But don't you think, Mrs. Tuis, that he may wish to come anyhow?" 

"Why should he wish that?" 

"I'm not sure, but--I think he might. " How I longed for a little ofSylvia's skill in social lying! "Every newly-born infant ought to beexamined by a specialist, you know; there may be a particular_régime, _ a diet for the mother--one cannot say. " 

"Dr. Perrin didn't consider it necessary. " 

"I am going to have a talk with Dr. Perrin at once, " I said. 

I saw a troubled look in her eyes. "You don't mean you think there'sanything the matter?" 

"No--no, " I lied. "But I'm sure you ought to wait before you havethe launch go. Please do. " 

"If you insist, " she said. I read bewilderment in her manner, andjust a touch of resentment. Was it not presumptuous of me, astranger, and one--well, possibly not altogether a lady? She gropedfor words; and the ones that came were: "Dear Douglas must not bekept waiting. " 

I was too polite to offer the suggestion that "dear Douglas" mightbe finding ways to amuse himself. The next moment I heard stepsapproaching on the veranda, and turned to meet the nurse with thedoctor. 

14. "How do you do, Mrs. Abbott?" said Dr. Perrin. He was in hisdressing-gown, and had a newly-awakened look. I started toapologize, but he replied, "It's pleasant to see a new face in oursolitude. Two new faces!" 

That was behaving well, I thought, for a man who had been routed outof sleep. I tried to meet his mood. "Dr. Perrin, Mrs. Van Tuivertells me that you object to amateur physicians. But perhaps youwon't mind regarding me as a midwife. I have three children of myown, and I've had to help bring others into the world. " 

"All right, " he smiled. "We'll consider you qualified. What is thematter?" 

"I wanted to ask you about the child's eyes. It is a wise precautionto drop some nitrate of silver into them, to provide againstpossible infection. " 

I waited for my answer. "There have been no signs of any sort ofinfection in this case, " he said, at last. 

"Perhaps not. But it is not necessary to wait, in such a matter. Youhave not taken the precaution?" 

"No, madam. " 

"You have some of the drug, of course?" 

Again there was a pause. "No, madam, I fear that I have not. " 

I winced, involuntarily. I could not hide my distress. "Dr. Perrin, "I exclaimed, "you came to attend a confinement case, and you omittedto provide something so essential!" 

There was nothing left of the little man's affability now. "In thefirst place, " he said, "I must remind you that I did not come toattend a confinement case. I came to look after Mrs. Van Tuiver'scondition up _to_ the time of confinement. " 

"But you knew there would always be the possibility of an accident!"

"Yes, to be sure. " 

"And you didn't have any nitrate of silver!" 

"Madam, " he said, stiffly, "there is no use for this drug except inone contingency. " 

"I know, " I cried, "but it is an important precaution. It is thepractice to use it in all maternity hospitals. " 

"Madam, I have visited hospitals, and I think I know something ofwhat the practice is. " 

So there we were, at a deadlock. There was silence for a space. 

"Would you mind sending for the drug?" I asked, at last. 

"I presume, " he said, with _hauteur, _ "it will do no harm to have iton hand. " 

I was aware of an elderly lady watching us, with consternationwritten upon every sentimental feature. "Dr. Perrin, " I said, "ifMrs. Tuis will pardon me, I think I ought to speak with you alone. "The nurse hastily withdrew; and I saw the elderly lady draw herselfup with terrible dignity--and then suddenly quail, and turn andfollow the nurse. 

I told the little man what I knew. After he had had time to get overhis consternation, he said that fortunately there did not seem to beany sign of trouble. 

"There does seem so to me, " I replied. "It may be only myimagination, but I think the eyelids are inflamed. " 

I held the baby for him, while he made an examination. He admittedthat there seemed to be ground for uneasiness. His professionaldignity was now gone, and he was only too glad to be human. 

"Dr. Perrin, " I said, "there is only one thing we can do--to getsome nitrate of silver at the earliest possible moment. Fortunately, the launch is here. " 

"I will have it start at once, " he said. "It will have to go to KeyWest. " 

"And how long will that take?" 

"It depends upon the sea. In good weather it takes us eight hours togo and return. " I could not repress a shudder. The child might beblind in eight hours! 

But there was no time to be wasted in foreboding. "About Dr. Overton, " I said. "Don't you think he had better come?" But Iventured to add the hint that Mr. Van Tuiver would hardly wishexpense to be considered in such an emergency; and in the end, Ipersuaded the doctor not merely to telegraph for the great surgeon, but to ask a hospital in Atlanta to send the nearest eye-specialistby the first train. 

We called back Mrs. Tuis, and I apologized abjectly for mypresumption, and Dr. Perrin announced that he thought he ought tosee Dr. Overton, and another doctor as well. I saw fear leap intoAunt Varina's eyes. "Oh, what is it?" she cried. "What is the matterwith our babe?" 

I helped the doctor to answer polite nothings to all her questions. "Oh, the poor, dear lady!" I thought to myself. The poor, dear lady!What a tearing away of veils and sentimental bandages was written inher book of fate for that night! 

15. I find myself lingering over these preliminaries, dreading theplunge into the rest of my story. We spent our time hovering overthe child's crib, and in two or three hours the little eyelids hadbecome so inflamed that there could no longer be any doubt what washappening. We applied alternate hot and cold cloths; we washed theeyes in a solution of boric acid, and later, in our desperation, with bluestone. But we were dealing with the virulent gonococcus, and we neither expected nor obtained much result from thesemeasures. In a couple of hours more the eyes were beginning to exudepus, and the poor infant was wailing in torment. 

"Oh, what can it be? Tell me what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Tuis. She sought to catch the child in her arms, and when I quicklyprevented her, she turned upon me in anger. "What do you mean?" 

"The child must be quiet, " I said. 

"But I wish to comfort it!" And when I still insisted, she burst outwildly: "What _right_ have you?" 

"Mrs. Tuis, " I said, gently, "it is possible the infant may have avery serious infection. If so, you would be apt to catch it. " 

She answered with a hysterical cry: "My precious innocent! Do youthink that I would be afraid of anything it could have?" 

"You may not be afraid, but we are. We should have to take care ofyou, and one case is more than enough. " 

Suddenly she clutched me by the arm. "Tell me what this awful thingis! I demand to know!" 

"Mrs. Tuis, " said the doctor, interfering, "we are not yet sure whatthe trouble is, we only wish to take precautions. It is reallyimperative that you should not handle this child or even go near it. There is nothing you can possibly do. " 

She was willing to take orders from him; he spoke the same dialectas herself, and with the same quaint stateliness. A charming littleSouthern gentleman--I could realise how Douglas van Tuiver had"picked him out for his social qualities. " In the old-fashionedSouthern medical college where he had got his training, I supposethey had taught him the old-fashioned idea of gonorrhea. Now he wasacquiring our extravagant modern notions in the grim school ofexperience! 

It was necessary to put the nurse on her guard as to the risks wewere running. We should have had concave glasses to protect oureyes, and we spent part of our time washing our hands in bichloridesolution. 

"Mrs. Abbott, what is it?" whispered the woman. 

"It has a long name, " I replied--"_opthalmia neonatorum. _" 

"And what has caused it?" 

"The original cause, " I responded, "is a man. " I was not sure ifthat was according to the ethics of the situation, but the wordscame. 

Before long the infected eye-sockets were two red and yellow massesof inflammation, and the infant was screaming like one of thedamned. We had to bind up its eyes; I was tempted to ask the doctorto give it an opiate for fear lest it should scream itself intoconvulsions. Then as poor Mrs. Tuis was pacing the floor, wringingher hands and sobbing hysterically, Dr. Perrin took me to one sideand said: "I think she will have to be told. " 

The poor, poor lady! 

"She might as well understand now as later, " he continued. "She willhave to help keep the situation from the mother. " 

"Yes, " I said, faintly; and then, "Who shall tell her?" 

"I think, " suggested the doctor, "she might prefer to be told by awoman. " 

So I shut my lips together and took the distracted lady gently bythe arm and led her to the door. We stole like two criminals downthe veranda, and along the path to the beach, and near the boathousewe stopped, and I began. 

"Mrs. Tuis, you may remember a circumstance which your niecementioned to me--that just before her marriage she urged you to havecertain inquiries made as to Mr. Van Tuiver's health, his fitnessfor marriage?" 

Never shall I forget her face at that moment. "Sylvia told youthat!" 

"The inquiries were made, " I went on, "but not carefully enough, itseems. Now you behold the consequence of this negligence. " 

I saw her blank stare. I added: "The one to pay for it is thechild. " 

"You--you mean--" she stammered, her voice hardly a whisper. "Oh--itis impossible!" Then, with a flare of indignation: "Do you realisewhat you are implying--that Mr. Van Tuiver--" 

"There is no question of implying, " I said, quietly. "It is thefacts we have to face now, and you will have to help us to facethem. " 

She cowered and swayed before me, hiding her face in her hands. Iheard her sobbing and murmuring incoherent cries to her god. I tookthe poor lady's hand, and bore with her as long as I could, until, being at the end of my patience with prudery and purity andchivalry, and all the rest of the highfalutin romanticism of theSouth, I said: "Mrs Tuis, it is necessary that you should getyourself together. You have a serious duty before you--that you oweboth to Sylvia and her child. " 

"What is it?" she whispered. The word "duty" had motive power forher. 

"At all hazards, Sylvia must be kept in ignorance of the calamityfor the present. If she were to learn of it it would quite possiblythrow her into a fever, and cost her life or the child's. You mustnot make any sound that she can hear, and you must not go near heruntil you have completely mastered your emotions. " 

"Very well, " she murmured. She was really a brave little body, butI, not knowing her, and thinking only of the peril, was cruel inhammering things into her consciousness. Finally, I left her, seatedupon the steps of the deserted boat-house, rocking back and forthand sobbing softly to herself--one of the most pitiful figures ithas ever been my fortune to encounter in my pilgrimage through aworld of sentimentality and incompetence. 

16. I went back to the house, and because we feared the sounds ofthe infant's crying might carry, we hung blankets before the doorsand windows of the room, and sat in the hot enclosure, shuddering, silent, grey with fear. After an hour or two, Mrs. Tuis rejoined us, stealing in and seating herself at one side of the room, staringfrom one to another of us with wide eyes of fright. 

By the time the first signs of dawn appeared, the infant had crieditself into a state of exhaustion. The faint light that got into theroom revealed the three of us, listening to the pitiful whimpering. I was faint with weakness, but I had to make an effort and face theworst ordeal of all. There came a tapping at the door--the maid, tosay that Sylvia was awake and had heard of my arrival and wished tosee me. I might have put off our meeting for a while, on the plea ofexhaustion, but I preferred to have it over with, and braced myselfand went slowly to her room. 

In the doorway I paused for an instant to gaze at her. She wasexquisite, lying there with the flush of sleep still upon her, andthe ecstasy of her great achievement in her face. I fled to her, andwe caught each other in our arms. "Oh, Mary, Mary! I'm so gladyou've come!" And then: "Oh, Mary, isn't it the loveliest baby!" 

"Perfectly glorious!" I exclaimed. 

"Oh, I'm so happy--so happy as I never dreamed! I've no words totell you about it. " 

"You don't need any words--I've been through it, " I said. 

"Oh, but she's so _beautiful!_ Tell me, honestly, isn't that reallyso?" 

"My dear, " I said, "she is like you. " 

"Mary, " she went on, half whispering, "I think it solves all myproblems--all that I wrote you about. I don't believe I shall everbe unhappy again. I can't believe that such a thing has reallyhappened--that I've been given such a treasure. And she's my own! Ican watch her little body grow and help to make it strong andbeautiful! I can help mould her little mind--see it opening up, onechamber of wonder after another! I can teach her all the things Ihave had to grope so to get!" 

"Yes, " I said, trying to speak with conviction. I added, hastily:"I'm glad you don't find motherhood disappointing. " 

"Oh, it's a miracle!" she exclaimed. "A woman who could bedissatisfied with anything afterwards would be an ingrate!" Shepaused, then added: "Mary, now she's here in flesh, I feel she'll bea bond between Douglas and me. He must see her rights, her claimupon life, as he couldn't see mine. " 

I assented gravely. So that was the thing she was thinking mostabout--a bond between her husband and herself! A moment later thenurse appeared in the doorway, and Sylvia set up a cry: "My baby!Where's my baby? I want to see my baby!" 

"Sylvia, dear, " I said, "there's something about the baby that hasto be explained. " 

Instantly she was alert. "What is the matter?" 

I laughed. "Nothing, dear, that amounts to anything. But the littleone's eyes are inflamed--that is to say, the lids. It's somethingthat happens to newly-born infants. " 

"Well, then?" she said. 

"Nothing, only the doctor's had to put some salve on them, and theydon't look very pretty. " 

"I don't mind that, if it's all right. " 

"But we've had to put a bandage over them, and it looks forbidding. Also the child is apt to cry. " 

"I must see her at once!" she exclaimed. 

"Just now she's asleep, so don't make us disturb her. " 

"But how long will this last?" 

"Not very long. Meantime you must be sensible and not mind. It'ssomething I made the doctor do, and you mustn't blame me, or I'll besorry I came to you. " 

"You dear thing, " she said, and put her hand in mine. And then, suddenly: "Why did you take it into your head to come, all of asudden?" 

"Don't ask me, " I smiled. "I have no excuse. I just got homesick andhad to see you. " 

"It's perfectly wonderful that you should be here now, " shedeclared. "But you look badly. Are you tired?" 

"Yes, dear, " I said. (Such a difficult person to deceive!) "To tellthe truth, I'm pretty nearly done up. You see, I was caught in thestorm, and I was desperately sea-sick. " 

"Why, you poor dear! Why didn't you go to sleep?" 

"I didn't want to sleep. I was too much excited by everything. Icame to see one Sylvia and I found two!" 

"Isn't it absurd, " she cried, "how she looks like me? Oh, I want tosee her again. How long will it be before I can have her?" 

"My dear, " I said, "you mustn't worry--" 

"Oh, don't mind me, I'm just playing. I'm so happy, I want tosqueeze her in my arms all the time. Just think, Mary, they won'tlet me nurse her, yet--a whole day now! Can that be right?" 

"Nature will take care of that, " I said. 

"Yes, but how can you be sure what Nature means? Maybe it's what thechild is crying about, and it's the crying that makes its eyes red. "

I felt a sudden spasm grip my heart. "No, dear, no, " I said, hastily. "You must let Dr. Perrin attend to these things, for I'vejust had to interfere with his arrangements, and he'll be gettingcross pretty soon. " 

"Oh, " she cried with laughter in her eyes, "you've had a scene withhim? I knew you would! He's so quaint and old-fashioned!" 

"Yes, " I said, "and he talks exactly like your aunt. " 

"Oh! You've met her too! I'm missing all the fun!" 

I had a sudden inspiration--one that I was proud of. "My dear girl, "I said, "maybe _you_ call it fun!" And I looked really agitated. 

"Why, what's the matter?" she cried. 

"What could you expect?" I asked. "I fear, my dear Sylvia, I'veshocked your aunt beyond all hope. " 

"What have you done?" 

"I've talked about things I'd no business to--I've bossed thelearned doctor--and I'm sure Aunt Varina has guessed I'm not alady. " 

"Oh, tell me about it!" cried Sylvia, full of delight. 

But I could not keep up the game any longer. "Not now, dear, " Isaid. "It's a long story, and I really am exhausted. I must go andget some rest. " 

I rose, and she caught my hand, whispering: "I shall be happy, Mary!I shall be really happy now!" And then I turned and fled, and when Iwas out of sight of the doorway, I literally ran. At the other endof the veranda I sank down upon the steps, and wept softly tomyself. 

17. The launch arrived, bringing the nitrate of silver. A solutionwas dropped into the baby's eyes, and then we could do nothing butwait. I might have lain down and really tried to rest; but the maidcame again, with the announcement that Sylvia was asking for heraunt. Excuses would have tended to excite her suspicions; so poorMrs. Tuis had to take her turn at facing the ordeal, and I had todrill and coach her for it. I had a vision of the poor lady going into her niece, and suddenly collapsing. Then there would begin across-examination, and Sylvia would worm out the truth, and we mighthave a case of puerperal fever on our hands. 

This I explained afresh to Mrs. Tuis, having taken her into her ownroom and closed the door for that purpose. She clutched me with hershaking hands and whispered, "Oh, Mrs. Abbott, you will _never_ letSylvia find out what caused this trouble?" 

I drew on my reserve supply of patience, and answered, "What I shalllet her find out in the end, I don't know. We shall be guided bycircumstances, and this is no time to discuss the matter. The pointis now to make sure that you can go in and stay with her, and notlet her get an idea there's anything wrong. " 

"Oh, but you know how Sylvia reads people!" she cried, in suddendismay. 

"I've fixed it for you, " I said. "I've provided something you can beagitated about. " 

"What is that?" 

"It's _me. _" Then, seeing her look of bewilderment, "You must tellher that I've affronted you, Mrs. Tuis; I've outraged your sense ofpropriety. You're indignant with me and you don't see how you canremain in the house with me--" 

"Why, Mrs. Abbott!" she exclaimed, in horror. 

"You know it's truth to some extent, " I said. 

The good lady drew herself up. "Mrs. Abbott, don't tell me that Ihave been so rude--" 

"Dear Mrs. Tuis, " I laughed, "don't stop to apologize just now. Youhave not been lacking in courtesy, but I know how I must seem toyou. I am a Socialist. I have a raw, Western accent, and my handsare big--I've lived on a farm all my life, and done my own work, andeven plowed sometimes. I have no idea of the charms and graces oflife that are everything to you. What is more than that, I amforward, and thrust my opinions upon other people--" 

She simply could not hear me. She was a-tremble with a newexcitement. Worse even than _opthalmia neonatorum_ was plainspeaking to a guest! "Mrs. Abbott, you humiliate me!" 

Then I spoke harshly, seeing that I would actually have to shockher. "I assure you, Mrs. Tuis, that if you don't feel that way aboutme, it's simply because you don't know the truth. It is not possiblethat you would consider me a proper person to visit Sylvia. I don'tbelieve in your religion; I don't believe in anything that you wouldcall religion, and I argue about it at the least provocation. Ideliver violent harangues on street-corners, and have been arrestedduring a strike. I believe in woman's suffrage, I even argue inapproval of window-smashing. I believe that women ought to earntheir own living, and be independent and free from any man'scontrol. I am a divorced woman--I left my husband because I wasn'thappy with him, what's more, I believe that any woman has a right todo the same--I'm liable to teach such ideas to Sylvia, and to urgeher to follow them. " 

The poor lady's eyes were wide and large. "So you see, " I exclaimed, "you really couldn't approve of me! Tell her all this; she knows italready, but she will be horrified, because I have let you and thedoctor find it out!" 

Whereupon Mrs. Tuis started to ascend the pedestal of her dignity. "Mrs. Abbott, this may be your idea of a jest----" 

"Now come, " I cried, "let me help you fix your hair, and put on justa wee bit of powder--not enough to be noticed, you understand----" 

I took her to the wash-stand, and poured out some cold water forher, and saw her bathe her eyes and face, and dry them, and braidher thin grey hair. While with a powder puff I was trying deftly toconceal the ravages of the night's crying, the dear lady turned tome, and whispered in a trembling voice, "Mrs. Abbott, you reallydon't mean that dreadful thing you said just now?" 

"Which dreadful thing, Mrs. Tuis?" 

"That you would tell Sylvia it could possibly be right for her toleave her husband?" 

18. In the course of the day we received word that Dr. Gibson, thespecialist for whom we had telegraphed, was on his way. The boatwhich brought his message took back a letter from Dr. Perrin toDouglas van Tuiver, acquainting him with the calamity which hadbefallen. We had talked it over and agreed that there was nothing tobe gained by telegraphing the information. We did not wish any hintof the child's illness to leak into the newspapers. 

I did not envy the great man the hour when he read that letter;although I knew that the doctor had not failed to assure him thatthe victim of his misdeeds should be kept in ignorance. Already thelittle man had begun to drop hints to me on this subject. Unfortunate accidents happened, which were not always to be blamedupon the husband, nor was it a thing to contemplate lightly, thebreaking up of a family. I gave a non-committal answer, and changedthe subject by asking the doctor not to mention my presence in thehousehold. If by any chance van Tuiver were to carry his sorrows toClaire, I did not want my name brought up. 

We managed to prevent Sylvia's seeing the child that day and night, and the next morning came the specialist. He held out no hope ofsaving any remnant of the sight, but the child might be so fortunateas to escape disfigurement--it did not appear that the eyeballswere destroyed, as happens generally in these cases. This bit ofconsolation I still have: that little Elaine, who sits by me as Iwrite, has left in her pupils a faint trace of the softred-brown--just enough to remind us of what we have lost, and keepfresh in our minds the memory of these sorrows. If I wish to seewhat her eyes might have been, I look above my head to the portraitof Sylvia's noble ancestress, a copy made by a "tramp artist" inCastleman County, and left with me by Sylvia. 

There was the question of the care of the mother--the efforts tostay the ravages of the germ in the tissues broken and weakened bythe strain of child-birth. We had to invent excuses for the presenceof the new doctor--and yet others for the presence of Dr. Overton, who came a day later. And then the problem of the nourishing of thechild. It would be a calamity to have to put it upon the bottle, buton the other hand, there were many precautions necessary to keep theinfection from spreading. 

I remember vividly the first time that the infant was fed: all of usgathered round, with matter-of-course professional air, as if theseelaborate hygienic ceremonies were the universal custom whennewly-born infants first taste their mothers' milk. Standing in thebackground, I saw Sylvia start with dismay, as she noted how paleand thin the poor little one had become. It was hunger that causedthe whimpering, so the nurse declared, busying herself in themeantime to keep the tiny hands from the mother's face. The lattersank back and closed her eyes--nothing, it seemed, could prevailover the ecstasy of that first marvellous sensation, but afterwardsshe asked that I might stay with her, and as soon as the others weregone, she unmasked the batteries of her suspicion upon me. "Mary!What in the world has happened to my baby?" 

So began a new stage in the campaign of lying. "It's nothing, nothing. Just some infection. It happens frequently. " 

"But what is the cause of it?" 

"We can't tell. It may be a dozen things. There are so many possiblesources of infection about a birth. It's not a very sanitary thing, you know. " 

"Mary! Look me in the face!" 

"Yes, dear?" 

"You're not deceiving me?" 

"How do you mean?" 

"I mean--it's not really something serious? All these doctors--thismystery--this vagueness!" 

"It was your husband, my dear Sylvia, who sent the doctors--it washis stupid man's way of being attentive. " (This at Aunt Varina'ssuggestion--the very subtle lady!). 

"Mary, I'm worried. My baby looks so badly, and I feel something iswrong. " 

"My dear Sylvia, " I chided, "if you worry about it you will simplybe harming the child. Your milk may go wrong. " 

"Oh, that's just it! That's why you would not tell me the truth!" 

We persuade ourselves that there are certain circumstances underwhich lying is necessary, but always when we come to the lies wefind them an insult to the soul. Each day I perceived that I wasgetting in deeper--and each day I watched Aunt Varina and the doctorbusied to push me deeper yet. 

There had come a telegram from Douglas van Tuiver to Dr. Perrin, revealing the matter which stood first in that gentleman's mind. "Iexpect no failure in your supply of the necessary tact. " By thisvagueness we perceived that he too was trusting no secrets totelegraph operators. Yet for us it was explicit and illuminative. Itrecalled the tone of quiet authority I had noted in his dealingswith his chauffeur, and it sent me off by myself for a while toshake my fist at all husbands. 

19. Mrs. Tuis, of course, had no need of any warning from the headof the house. The voice of her ancestors guided her in all suchemergencies. The dear lady had got to know me quite well, at themore or less continuous dramatic rehearsals we conducted; and nowand then her trembling hands would seek to fasten me in the chainsof decency. "Mrs. Abbott, think what a scandal there would be ifMrs. Douglas van Tuiver were to break with her husband!" 

"Yes, my dear Mrs. Tuis-but on the other hand, think what mighthappen if she were kept in ignorance in this matter. She might bearanother child. " 

I got a new realization of the chasms that lay between us. "Who arewe, " she whispered, "to interfere in these sacred matters? It is ofsouls, Mrs. Abbot, and not bodies, that the Kingdom of Heaven ismade. " 

I took a minute or so to get my breath, and then I said, "Whatgenerally happens in these cases is that God afflicts the woman withpermanent barrenness. " 

The old lady bowed her head, and I saw the tears falling into herlap. "My poor Sylvia!" she moaned, only half aloud. 

There was a silence; I too almost wept. And finally, Aunt Varinalooked up at me, her faded eyes full of pleading. "It is hard for meto understand such ideas as yours. You must tell me-can you reallybelieve that it would help Sylvia to know this-this dreadfulsecret?" 

"It would help her in many ways, " I said. "She will be more carefulof her health-she will follow the doctor's orders---" 

How quickly came the reply! "I will stay with her, and see that shedoes that! I will be with her day and night. " 

"But are you going to keep the secret from those who attend her? Hermaid--the child's nurses--everyone who might by any chance use thesame towel, or a wash-basin, or a drinking-glass?" 

"Surely you exaggerate the danger! If that were true, more peoplewould meet with these accidents!" 

"The doctors, " I said, "estimate that about ten per cent. Of casesof this disease are innocently acquired. " 

"Oh, these modern doctors!" she cried. "I never heard of suchideas!" 

I could not help smiling. "My dear Mrs. Tuis, what do you imagineyou know about the prevalence of gonorrhea? Consider just onefact--that I heard a college professor state publicly that in hisopinion eighty-five per cent. Of the men students at his universitywere infected with some venereal disease. And that is the pick ofour young manhood--the sons of our aristocracy!" 

"Oh, that can't be!" she exclaimed. "People would know of it! 

"Who are 'people'? The boys in your family know of it--if you couldget them to tell you. My two sons studied at a State university, andthey would bring me home what they heard--the gossip, the slang, thehorrible obscenity. Fourteen fellows in one dormitory using the samebathroom--and on the wall you saw a row of fourteen syringes! Andthey told that on themselves, it was the joke of the campus. Theycall the disease a 'dose'; and a man's not supposed to be worthy therespect of his fellows until he's had his 'dose'--the sensible thingis to get several, till he can't get any more. They think it's 'noworse than a bad cold'; that's the idea they get from the'clap-doctors, ' and the women of the street who educate our sons insex matters. " 

"Oh, spare me, spare me!" cried Mrs. Tuis. "I beg you not to forcethese horrible details upon me!" 

"That is what is going on among our boys, " I said. "The Castlemanboys, the Chilton boys! It's going on in every fraternity house, every 'prep school' dormitory in America. And the parents refuse toknow, just as you do!" 

"But what could I possibly do, Mrs. Abbott?" 

"I don't know, Mrs. Tuis. What _I_ am going to do is to teach theyoung girls. " 

She whispered, aghast, "You would rob the young girls of theirinnocence. Why, with their souls full of these ideas their faceswould soon be as hard--oh, you horrify me!" 

"My daughter's face is not hard, " I said. "And I taught her. Stopand think, Mrs. Tuis--ten thousand blind children every year! Ahundred thousand women under the surgeon's knife! Millions of womengoing to pieces with slowly creeping diseases of which they neverhear the names! I say, let us cry this from the housetops, untilevery woman knows--and until every man knows that she knows, andthat unless he can prove that he is clean he will lose her! That isthe remedy, Mrs. Tuis!" 

Poor dear lady! I got up and went away, leaving her there, withclenched hands and trembling lips. I suppose I seemed to her likethe mad women who were just then rising up to horrify therespectability of England--a phenomenon of Nature too portentous tobe comprehended, or even to be contemplated, by a gentlewoman of theSouth! 

20. There came in due course a couple of letters from Douglas vanTuiver. The one to Aunt Varina, which was shown to me, was vague andcautious--as if the writer were uncertain how much this worthy ladyknew. He merely mentioned that Sylvia was to be spared everyparticle of "painful knowledge. " He would wait in great anxiety, buthe would not come, because any change in his plans might set her toquestioning. 

The letter to Dr. Perrin was not shown to me; but I judged that itmust have contained more strenuous injunctions. Or had Aunt Varinaby any chance got up the courage to warn the young doctor againstme? His hints, at any rate, became more pointed. He desired me torealize how awkward it would be for him, if Sylvia were to learn thetruth; it would be impossible to convince Mr. Van Tuiver that thisknowledge had not come from the physician in charge. 

"But, Dr. Perrin, " I objected, "it was I who brought the informationto you! And Mr. Van Tuiver knows that I am a radical woman; he wouldnot expect me to be ignorant of such matters. " 

"Mrs. Abbott, " was the response, "it is a grave matter to destroythe possibility of happiness of a young married couple. " 

However I might dispute his theories, in practice I was doing whathe asked. But each day I was finding the task more difficult; eachday it became more apparent that Sylvia was ceasing to believe me. Irealized at last, with a sickening kind of fright, that she knew Iwas hiding something from her. Because she knew me, and knew that Iwould not do such a thing lightly, she was terrified. She would liethere, gazing at me, with a dumb fear in her eyes--and I would go onasseverating blindly, like an unsuccessful actor before a jeeringaudience. 

A dozen times she made an effort to break through the barricade offalsehood; and a dozen times I drove her back, all but crying toher, "No, No! Don't ask me!" Until at last, late one night, shecaught my hand and clung to it in a grip I could not break. "Mary!Mary! You must tell me the _truth!_" 

"Dear girl--" I began. 

"Listen!" she cried. "I know you are deceiving me! I knowwhy--because I'll make myself ill. But it won't do any longer; it'spreying on me, Mary--I've taken to imagining things. So you musttell me the truth!" 

I sat, avoiding her eyes, beaten; and in the pause I could feel herhands shaking. "Mary, what is it? Is my baby going to die?" 

"No, dear, indeed no!" I cried. 

"Then what?" 

"Sylvia, " I began, as quietly as I could, "the truth is not as badas you imagine--" 

"Tell me what it is!" 

"But it is bad, Sylvia. And you must be brave. You must be, for yourbaby's sake. " 

"Make haste!" she cried. 

"The baby, " I said, "may be blind. " 

"Blind!" There we sat, gazing into each other's eyes, like twostatues of women. But the grasp of her hand tightened, until even mybig fist was hurt. "Blind!" she whispered again. 

"Sylvia, " I rushed on, "it isn't so bad as it might be! Think--ifyou had lost her altogether!" 

"_Blind!_" 

"You will have her always; and you can do things for her--take careof her. They do wonders for the blind nowadays--and you have themeans; to do everything. Really, you know, blind children are notunhappy--some of them are happier than other children, I think. Theyhaven't so much to miss. Think--" 

"Wait, wait, " she whispered; and again there was silence, and Iclung to her cold hands. 

"Sylvia, " I said, at last, "you have a newly-born infant to nurse, and its very life depends upon your health now. You cannot letyourself grieve. " 

"No, " she responded. "No. But, Mary, what caused this?" 

So there was the end of my spell of truth-telling. "I don't know, dear. Nobody knows. There might be a thousand things--" 

"Was it born blind?" 

"No. " 

"Then was it the doctor's fault?" 

"No, it was nobody's fault. Think of the thousands and tens ofthousands of babies that become blind! It's a dreadful accident thathappens. " So I went on--possessed with a dread that had been with mefor days, that had kept me awake for hours in the night: Had I, inany of my talks with Sylvia about venereal disease, mentionedblindness in infants as one of the consequences? I could notrememher; but now was the time I would find out! 

She lay there, immovable, like a woman who had died in grief; untilat last I flung my arms about her and whispered, "Sylvia! Sylvia!Please cry!" 

"I can't cry!" she whispered, and her voice sounded hard. 

So, after a space, I said, "Then, dear, I think I will have to makeyou laugh. " 

"Laugh, Mary?" 

"Yes-I will tell you about the quarrel between Aunt Varina andmyself. You know what times we've been having-how I shocked the poorlady?" 

She was looking at me, but her eyes were not seeing me. "Yes, Mary, "she said, in the same dead tone. 

"Well, that was a game we made for you. It was very funny!" 

"Funny?" 

"Yes! Because I really did shock her-though we started out just togive you something else to think about!" 

And then suddenly I saw the healing tears begin to come. She couldnot weep for her own grief-but she could weep because of what sheknew we two had had to suffer for her! 

21. I went out and told the others what I had done; and Mrs. Tuisrushed in to her niece and they wept in each other's arms, and Mrs. Tuis explained all the mysteries of life by her formula, "the willof the Lord. " 

Later on came Dr. Perrin, and it was touching to see how Sylviatreated him. She had, it appeared, conceived the idea that thecalamity must be due to some blunder on his part, and then she hadreflected that he was young, and that chance had thrown upon him aresponsibility for which he had not bargained. He must bereproaching himself bitterly, so she had to persuade him that it wasreally not so bad as we were making it-that a blind child was agreat joy to a mother's soul-in some ways even a greater joy than aperfectly sound child, because it appealed so to her protectiveinstinct! I had called Sylvia a shameless payer of compliments, andnow I went away by myself and wept. 

Yet it was true in a way. When the infant was brought in to benursed again, how she clung to it, a very picture of the shelteringand protecting instinct of motherhood! She knew the worst now--hermind was free, and she could partake of what happiness was allowedher. The child was hers to love and care for, and she would findways to atone to it for the harshness of fate. 

So little by little we got our existence upon a working basis. Welived a peaceful, routine life, to the music of cocoanut-palmsrustling in the warm breezes which blew incessantly off the MexicanGulf. Aunt Varina had, for the time, her undisputed way with thefamily; her niece reclined upon the veranda in true Southern ladyfashion, and was read aloud to from books of indisputablerespectability. I remember Aunt Varina selected the "Idylls of theKing, " and they two were in a mood to shed tears over these solemn, sorrowful tales. So it came that the little one got her name, aftera pale and unhappy heroine. 

I remember the long discussions of this point, the family-lore whichAunt Varina brought forth. It did not seem to her quite the thing tocall a blind child after a member of one's family. Somethingstrange, romantic, wistful--yes, Elaine was the name! Mrs. Tuis, ittranspired, had already baptised the infant, in the midst of theagonies and alarms of its illness. She had called it "Sylvia, " andnow she was tremulously uncertain whether this counted--whetherperhaps the higher powers might object to having to alter theirrecords. But in the end a clergyman came out from Key West and heardAunt Varina's confession, and gravely concluded that the error mightbe corrected by a formal ceremony. How strange it all seemed tome--being carried back two or three hundred years in the world'shistory! But I gave no sign of what was going on in my rebelliousmind. 

22. Dr. Overton on his return to New York, sent a special nurse totake charge of Sylvia's case. There was also an infant's nurse, andboth had been taken into the doctor's confidence. So now there wasan elaborate conspiracy--no less than five women and two men, alloccupied in keeping a secret from Sylvia. It was a thing so contraryto my convictions that I was never free from the burden of it for amoment. Was it my duty to tell her? 

Dr. Perrin no longer referred to the matter--I realised that both heand Dr. Gibson considered the matter settled. Was it conceivablethat anyone of sound mind could set out, deliberately and in coldblood, to betray such a secret? But I had maintained all my life theright of woman to know the truth, and was I to back down now, at thefirst test of my convictions? 

When the news reached Douglas van Tuiver that his wife had beeninformed of the infant's blindness, there came a telegram sayingthat he was coming. There was much excitement, of course, and AuntVarina came to me, in an attempt to secure a definite pledge ofsilence. When I refused it, Dr. Perrin came again, and we fought thematter over for the better part of a day and night. 

He was a polite little gentleman, and he did not tell me that myviews were those of a fanatic, but he said that no woman could seethings in their true proportion, because of her necessary ignoranceconcerning the nature of men, and the temptations to which they wereexposed. I replied that I believed I understood these mattersthoroughly, and I went on, quite simply and honestly, to make clearto him that this was so. In the end my pathetically chivalrouslittle Southern gentleman admitted everything I asked. Yes, it wastrue that these evils were ghastly, and that they were increasing, and that women were the worst sufferers from men. There might evenbe something in my idea that the older women of the community shoulddevote themselves to this service, making themselves race-mothers, and helping, not merely in their homes, but in the schools andchurches, to protect and save the future generations. But all thatwas in the future, he argued, while here was a case which had goneso far that "letting in the light" could only blast the life of twopeople, making it impossible for a young mother ever again totolerate the father of her child. I argued that Sylvia was not ofthe hysterical type, but I could not make him agree that it waspossible to predict what the attitude of any woman would be. Hisideas were based on one peculiar experience he had had--a womanpatient who had said to him: "Doctor, I know what is the matter withme, but for God's sake don't let my husband find out that I know, because then I should feel that my self-respect required me to leavehim!" 

23. The Master-of-the-House was coming! You could feel the quiver ofexcitement in the air of the place. The boatmen were polishing thebrasses of the launch; the yard-man was raking up the dry strips ofpalm from beneath the cocoanut trees; Aunt Varina was ordering newsupplies, and entering into conspiracies with the cook. The nursesasked me timidly, what was He like, and even Dr. Gibson, a testy oldgentleman who had clashed violently with me on the subject ofwoman's suffrage, and had avoided me ever since as a suspiciouscharacter, now came and confided his troubles. He had sent home fora trunk, and the graceless express companies had sent it astray. Nowhe was wondering if it was necessary for him to journey to Key Westand have a suit of dinner clothes made over night. I told him that Ihad not sent for any party-dresses, and that I expected to meet Mr. Douglas van Tuiver at his dinner-table in plain white linen. Hissurprise was so great that I suspected the old gentleman of havingwondered whether I meant to retire to a "second-table" when theMaster-of-the-House arrived. 

I went away by myself, seething with wrath. Who was this great onewhom we honoured? Was he an inspired poet, a maker of laws, adiscoverer of truth? He was the owner of an indefinite number ofmillions of dollars--that was all, and yet I was expected, becauseof my awe of him, to abandon the cherished convictions of mylifetime. The situation was one that challenged my fighting blood. This was the hour to prove whether I really meant the things Italked. 

On the morning of the day that van Tuiver was expected, I went earlyto Aunt Varina's room. She was going in the launch, and was in astate of flustration, occupied in putting on her best false hair. "Mrs. Tuis, " I said, "I want you to let me go to meet Mr. Van Tuiverinstead of you. " 

I will not stop to report the good lady's outcries. I did not care, I said, whether it was proper, nor did I care whether, as shefinally hinted, it might not be agreeable to Mr. Van Tuiver. I wassorry to have to thrust myself upon him, but I was determined to go, and would let nothing prevent me. And all at once she yielded, rather surprising me by the suddenness of it. I suppose sheconcluded that van Tuiver was the man to handle me, and the quickerhe got at it the better. 

It is a trying thing to deal with the rich and great. If you treatthem as the rest of the world does, you are a tuft-hunter; if youtreat them as the rest of the world pretends to, you are ahypocrite; whereas, if you deal with them truly, it is hard not toseem, even to yourself, a bumptious person. I remember trying totell myself on the launch-trip that I was not in the least excited;and then, standing on the platform of the railroad station, saying:"How can you expect not to be excited, when even the railroad isexcited?" 

"Will Mr. Van Tuiver's train be on time?" I asked, of the agent. 

"'Specials' are not often delayed, " he replied, "at least, not Mr. Van Tuiver's. " 

The engine and its two cars drew up, and the traveller stepped outupon the platform, followed by his secretary and his valet. I wentforward to meet him. "Good morning, Mr. Van Tuiver. " 

I saw at once that he did not remember me. "Mrs. Abbott, " Iprompted. "I came to meet you. " 

"Ah, " he said. He had never got clear whether I was a sewing-woman, or a tutor, or what, and whenever he erred in such matters, it wason the side of caution. 

"Your wife is doing well, " I said, "and the child as well as couldbe expected. " 

"Thank you, " he said. "Did no one else come?" 

"Mrs. Tuis was not able, " I said, diplomatically, and we movedtowards the launch. 

24. He did not offer to help me into the vessel, but I, crudeWestern woman, did not miss the attention. We seated ourselves inthe upholstered leather seats in the stern, and when the "luggage"had been stowed aboard, the little vessel swung away from the pier. Then I said: "If you will pardon me, Mr. Van Tuiver, I should liketo talk with you privately. " 

He looked at me for a moment, and then answered, abruptly: "Yes, madam. " The secretary rose and went forward. 

The whirr of the machinery and the strong breeze made by the boat'smotion, made it certain that no one could hear us, and so I began myattack: "Mr. Van Tuiver, I am a friend of your wife's. I came hereto help her in this crisis, and I came to-day to meet you because itwas necessary for someone to talk to you frankly about thesituation. You will understand, I presume, that Mrs. Tuis is not--not very well informed about the matters in question. " 

His gaze was fixed intently upon me, but he said not a word. Afterwaiting, I continued: "Perhaps you will wonder why your wife'sphysicians could not have handled the matter. The reason is, thereis a woman's side to such questions and often it is difficult formen to understand it. If Sylvia knew the truth, she could speak forherself; so long as she does not know it, I shall have to take theliberty of speaking for her. " 

Again there was a pause. He did nothing more than watch me, yet Icould feel his affronted maleness rising up for battle. I waited onpurpose to compel him to speak. 

"May I ask, " he inquired, at last, "what you mean by the 'truth'that you refer to?" 

"I mean, " I said, "the cause of the infant's affliction. " 

His composure was a thing to wonder at. He did not show by theflicker of an eyelash any sign of uneasiness. 

"Let me explain one thing, " I continued. "I owe it to Dr. Perrin tomake clear that he had nothing whatever to do with my coming intopossession of the secret. In fact, as he will no doubt tell you, Iknew it before he did; it is possible that you owe it to me that theinfant is not disfigured as well as blind. " 

I paused again. "If that be true, " he said, with unshaken formality, "I am obliged to you. " What a man! 

I continued: "My one desire and purpose is to protect my friend. Sofar, the secret has been kept from her. I consented to this, becauseher very life was at stake, it seemed to us all. But now she is wellenough to know, and the question is SHALL she know. I need hardlytell you that Dr. Perrin thinks she should not, and that he has beenusing his influence to persuade me to agree with him; so also hasMrs. Tuis----" 

Then I saw the first trace of uncertainty in his eyes. "There was acritical time, " I explained, "when Mrs. Tuis had to be told. You maybe sure, however, that no hint of the truth will be given by her. Iam the only person who is troubled with the problem of Sylvia'srights. " 

I waited. "May I suggest, Mrs. --Mrs. Abbott--that the protection ofMrs. Van Tuiver's rights can be safely left to her physicians andher husband?" 

"One would wish so, Mr. Van Tuiver, but the medical books are fullof evidence that women's rights frequently need other protection. " 

I perceived that he was nearing the end of his patience now. "Youmake it difficult for me to talk to you, " he said. "I am notaccustomed to having my affairs taken out of my hands by strangers. "

"Mr. Van Tuiver, " I replied, "in this most critical matter it isnecessary to speak without evasion. Before her marriage Sylvia madean attempt to safeguard herself in this very matter, and she was notdealt with fairly. " 

At last I had made a hole in the mask! His face was crimson as hereplied: "Madam, your knowledge of my private affairs is mostastonishing. May I inquire how you learned these things?" 

I did not reply at once, and he repeated the question. I perceivedthat this was to him the most important matter--his wife's lack ofreserve! 

"The problem that concerns us here, " I said, "is whether you arewilling to repair the error you made. Will you go frankly to yourwife and admit your responsibility----" 

He broke in, angrily: "Madam, the assumption you are making is one Isee no reason for permitting. " 

"Mr. Van Tuiver, " said I, "I hoped that you would not take that lineof argument. I perceive that I have been _naive. _" 

"Really, madam!" he replied, with cruel intent, "you have notimpressed me so!" 

I continued unshaken: "In this conversation it will be necessary toassume that you are responsible for the presence of the disease. " 

"In that case, " he replied, haughtily, "I can have no further partin the conversation, and I will ask you to drop it at once. " 

I might have taken him at his word and waited, confident that in theend he would have to come and ask for terms. But that would haveseemed childish to me, with the grave matters we had to settle. After a minute or two, I said, quietly: "Mr. Van Tuiver, you wish meto believe that previous to your marriage you had always lived achaste life?" 

He was equal to the effort it cost to control himself. He satexamining me with his cold grey eyes. I suppose I must have been asnew and monstrous a phenomenon to him as he was to me. 

At last, seeing that he would not reply, I said, coldly: "It willhelp us to get forward if you will give up the idea that it ispossible for you to put me off, or to escape this situation. " 

"Madam, " he cried, suddenly, "come to the point! What is it that youwant? Money?" 

I had thought I was prepared for everything; but this was an aspectof his world which I could hardly have been expected to allow for. Istared at him and then turned from the sight of him. "And to thinkthat Sylvia is married to such a man!" I whispered, half to myself. 

"Mrs. Abbott, " he exclaimed, "how can anyone understand what you aredriving at?" 

But I turned away without answering, and for a long time sat gazingover the water. What was the use of pleading with such a man? Whatwas the use of pouring out one's soul to him? I would tell Sylviathe truth at once, and leave him to her! 

25. I heard him again, at last; he was talking to my back, his tonea trifle less aloof. "Mrs. Abbott, do you realize that I knownothing whatever about you--your character, your purpose, the natureof your hold upon my wife? So what means have I of judging? Youthreaten me with something that seems to me entirely insane--andwhat can I make of it? If you wish me to understand you, tell me inplain words what you want. " 

I reflected that I was in the world, and must take it as I found it. "I have told you what I want, " I said; "but I will tell you again, if it is necessary. I hoped to persuade you that it was your duty togo to your wife and tell her the truth. " 

He took a few moments to make sure of his self-possession. "Andwould you explain what good you imagine that could do?" 

"Your wife, " I said, "must be put in position to protect herself infuture. There is no means of making sure in such a matter, except totell her the truth. You love her--and you are a man who has neverbeen accustomed to do without what he wants. " 

"Great God, woman!" he cried. "Don't you suppose one blind child isenough?" 

It was the first human word that he had spoken, and I was gratefulfor it. "I have already covered that point, " I said, in a low voice. "The medical books are full of painful evidence that several blindchildren are often not enough. There can be no escaping thenecessity--Sylvia must _know. _ The only question is, who shall tellher? You must realize that in urging you to be the person, I amthinking of your good as well as hers. I will, of course, notmention that I have had anything to do with persuading you, and soit will seem to her that you have some realization of the wrong youhave done her, some desire to atone for it, and to be honourable andfair in your future dealings with her. When she has once been madeto realize that you are no more guilty than other men of yourclass--hat you have done no worse than all of them----

"You imagine she could be made to believe that?" he broke in, impatiently. 

"I will undertake to see that she believes it, " I replied. 

"You seem to have great confidence in your ability to manage mywife!" 

"If you continue to resent my existence, " I answered, gravely, "youwill make it impossible for me to help you. " 

"Pardon me, " he said--but he did not say it cordially. 

I went on: "There is much that can be said in your behalf. I realizeit is quite possible that you were not wholly to blame when youwrote to Bishop Chilton that you were fit to marry; I know that youmay have believed it--that you might even have found physicians totell you so. There is wide-spread ignorance on the subject of thisdisease. Men have the idea that the chronic forms of it cannot becommunicated to women, and it is difficult to make them realize whatmodern investigations have proven. You can explain that to Sylvia, and I will back you up in it. You were in love with her, you wantedher. Go to her now, and admit to her honestly that you have wrongedher. Beg her to forgive you, and to let you help make the best ofthe cruel situation that has arisen. " 

So I went on, pouring out my soul. And when I had finished, he said, "Mrs. Abbott, I have listened patiently to your most remarkableproposition. My answer is that I must ask you to withdraw from thisintimate matter, which concerns only my wife and myself. " 

He was back where we started! Trying to sweep aside these grim andterrible realities with the wave of a conventional hand! Was thisthe way he met Sylvia's arguments? I felt moved to tell him what Ithought of him. 

"You are a proud man, Mr. Van Tuiver--an obstinate man, I fear. Itis hard for you to humble yourself to your wife--to admit a crimeand beg forgiveness. Tell me--is that why you hesitate? Is itbecause you fear you will have to take second place in your familyfrom now on--that you will no longer be able to dominate Sylvia?Are you afraid of putting into her hands a weapon of self-defence?" 

He made no response. 

"Very well, " I said, at last. "Let me tell you, then--I will nothelp any man to hold such a position in a woman's life. Women haveto bear half the burdens of marriage, they pay half, or more thanhalf, the penalties; and so it is necessary that they have a voicein its affairs. Until they know the truth, they can never have avoice. " 

Of course my little lecture on Feminism might as well have beendelivered to a sphinx. "How stupid you are!" I cried. "Don't you knowthat some day Sylvia must find out the truth for herself?" 

This was before the days when newspapers and magazines began todiscuss such matters frankly; but still there were hints to bepicked up. I had a newspaper-item in my bag--the board of health ina certain city had issued a circular giving instructions for theprevention of blindness in newly-born infants, and discussing thecauses thereof; and the United States post office authorities hadbarred the circular from the mails. I said, "Suppose that item hadcome under Sylvia's eyes; might it not have put her on the track. Itwas in her newspaper the day before yesterday; and it was only byaccident that I got hold of it first. Do you suppose that can go onforever?" 

"Now that I am here, " he replied, "I will be glad to relieve you ofsuch responsibilities. " 

Which naturally made me cross. I drew from my quiver an arrow that Ithought would penetrate his skin. "Mr. Van Tuiver, " I said, "a manin your position must always be an object of gossip and scandal. Suppose some enemy were to send your wife an anonymous letter? Orsuppose there were some woman who thought that you had wronged her?"

I stopped. He gave me one keen look--and then again the impenetrablemask! "My wife will have to do as other women in her positiondo--pay no attention to scandal-mongers of any sort. " 

I paused, and then went on: "I believe in marriage. I consider it asacred thing; I would do anything in my power to protect andpreserve a marriage. But I hold that it must be an equalpartnership. I would fight to make it that; and wherever I foundthat it could not be that, I would say it was not marriage, butslavery, and I would fight just as hard to break it. Can you notunderstand that attitude upon a woman's part?" 

He gave no sign that he could understand. But still I would not giveup my battle. "Mr. Van Tuiver, " I pleaded, "I am a much older personthan you. I have seen a great deal of life--I have seen sufferingeven worse than yours. And I am trying most earnestly to help you. Can you not bring yourself to talk to me frankly? Perhaps you havenever talked with a woman about such matters--I mean, with a goodwoman. But I assure you that other men have found it possible, andnever regretted the confidence they placed in me. " 

I went on to tell him about my own sons, and what I had done forthem; I told him of a score of other boys in their class who hadcome to me, making me a sort of mother-confessor. I do not thinkthat I was entirely deceived by my own eloquence--there was, I amsure, a minute or two when he actually wavered. But then the habitsof a precocious life-time reasserted themselves, and he set his lipsand told himself that he was Douglas van Tuiver. Such things mighthappen in raw Western colleges, but they were not according to theHarvard manner, nor the tradition of life in Fifth Avenue clubs. 

He could not be a boy! He had never had any boyhood, anychildhood--he had been a state personage ever since he had knownthat he was anything. I found myself thinking suddenly of thethin-lipped old family lawyer, who had had much to do with shapinghis character, and whom Sylvia described to me, sitting at herdinner-table and bewailing the folly of people who "admittedthings. " That was what made trouble for family lawyers--not whatpeople did, but what they admitted. How easy it was to ignoreimpertinent questions! And how few people had the wit to do it!-itseemed as if the shade of the thin-lipped old family lawyer werestanding by Douglas van Tuiver's side. 

In a last desperate effort, I cried, "Even suppose that I grant yourrequest, even suppose I agree not to tell Sylvia the truth--stillthe day will come when you will hear from her the point-blankquestion: 'Is my child blind because of this disease?' And what willyou answer?" 

He said, in his cold, measured tones, "I will answer that there area thousand ways in which the disease can be innocently acquired. " 

For a long time there was silence between us. At last he spokeagain, and his voice was as emotionless as if we had just met: "Do Iunderstand you, madam, that if I reject your advice and refuse totell my wife what you call the truth, it is your intention to tellher yourself?" 

"You understand me correctly, " I replied. 

"And may I ask when you intend to carry out this threat?" 

"I will wait, " I said, "I will give you every chance to think itover--to consult with the doctors, in case you wish to. I will nottake the step without giving you fair notice. " 

"For that I am obliged to you, " he said, with a touch of irony; andthat was our last word. 

26. Our island was visible in the distance and I was impatient forthe time when I should be free from this man's presence. But as wedrew nearer, I noticed a boat coming out; it proved to be one of thesmaller launches heading directly for us. Neither van Tuiver nor Ispoke, but both of us watched it, and he must have been wondering, as I was, what its purpose could be. When it was near enough, I madeout that its passengers were Dr. Perrin and Dr. Gibson. 

We slowed up, and the other boat did the same, and they lay within afew feet of each other. Dr. Perrin greeted van Tuiver, and afterintroducing the other man, he said: "We came out to have a talk withyou. Would you be so good as to step into this boat?" 

"Certainly, " was the reply. The two launches were drawn side byside, and the transfer made; the man who was running the smallerlaunch stepped into ours--evidently having been instructed inadvance. 

"You will excuse us please?" said the little doctor to me. The manwho had stepped into our launch spoke to the captain of it, and thepower was then put on, and we moved away a sufficient distance to beout of hearing. I thought this a strange procedure, but Iconjectured that the doctors had become nervous as to what I mighthave told van Tuiver. So I dismissed the matter from my mind, andspent my time reviewing the exciting adventure I had just passedthrough. 

How much impression had I made? It was hard for me to judge such aman. He would pretend to be less concerned than he actually was. Butsurely he must see that he was in my power, and would have to giveway in the end! 

There came a hail from the little vessel, and we moved alongsideagain. "Would you kindly step in here with us, Mrs. Abbott?" saidDr. Perrin, and when I had done so, he ordered the boatman to moveaway once more. Van Tuiver said not a word, but I noted a strainedlook upon his face, and I thought the others seemed agitated also. 

As soon as the other vessel was out of hearing, Dr. Perrin turned tome and said: "Mrs. Abbott, we came out to see Mr. Van Tuiver, towarn him of a distressing accident which has just happened. Mrs. VanTuiver was asleep in her room, and Miss Lyman and another of thenurses were in the next room. They indiscreetly made some remarks onthe subject which we have all been discussing--how much a wifeshould be told about these matters, and suddenly they discoveredMrs. Van Tuiver standing in the doorway of the room. " 

My gaze had turned to Douglas van Tuiver. "So she _knows!_" I cried. 

"We don't think that she knows, but she has a suspicion and istrying to find out. She asked to see you. " 

"Ah, yes!" I said. 

"She declared that she wished to see you as soon as youreturned--that she would not see anyone else, not even Mr. VanTuiver. You will understand that this portends trouble for all ofus. We judged it necessary to have a consultation about the matter. "

I bowed in assent. 

"Now, Mrs. Abbot, " began the little doctor, solemnly, "there is nolonger a question of abstract ideas, but of an immediate emergency. We feel that we, as the physicians in charge of the case, have theright to take control of the matter. We do not see----" 

"Dr. Perrin, " I said, "let us come to the point. You want me to spina new web of deception?" 

"We are of the opinion, Mrs. Abbott, that in such matters thephysicians in charge----" 

"Excuse me, " I said, quickly, "we have been over all this before, and we know that we disagree. Has Mr. Van Tuiver told you of theproposition I have just made?" 

"You mean for him to go to his wife----" 

"Yes. " 

"He has told us of this, and has offered to do it. We are of theopinion that it would be a grave mistake. " 

"It has been three weeks since the birth of the baby, " I said. "Surely all danger of fever is past. I will grant you that if itwere a question of telling her deliberately, it might be better toput it off for a while. I would have been willing to wait formonths, but for the fact that I dreaded something like the presentsituation. Now that it has happened, surely it is best to use ouropportunity while all of us are here and can persuade her to takethe kindest attitude towards her husband. " 

"Madam!" broke in Dr. Gibson. (He was having difficulty incontrolling his excitement. ) "You are asking us to overstep thebounds of our professional duty. It is not for the physician todecide upon the attitude a wife should take toward her husband. " 

"Dr. Gibson, " I replied, "that is what you propose to do, only youwish to conceal the fact. You would force Mrs. Van Tuiver to acceptyour opinion of what a wife's duty is. " 

Dr. Perrin took command once more. "Our patient has asked for you, and she looks to you for guidance. You must put aside your ownconvictions and think of her health. You are the only person who cancalm her, and surely it is your duty to do so!" 

"I know that I might go in and lie again to my friend, but she knowstoo much to be deceived for very long. You know what a mind shehas--a lawyer's mind! How can I persuade her that the nurses--why, Ido not even know what she heard the nurses say!" 

"We have that all written down for you, " put in Dr. Perrin, quickly. 

"You have their recollection of it, no doubt--but suppose they haveforgotten some of it? Sylvia has not forgotten, you may besure--every word is burned with fire into her brain. She has putwith this everything she ever heard on the subject--the experienceof her friend, Harriet Atkinson-all that I've told her in the pastabout such things----" 

"Ah!" growled Dr. Gibson. "That's it! If you had not meddled in thebeginning----" 

"Now, now!" said the other, soothingly. "You ask me to relieve youof the embarrassment of this matter. I quite agree with Mrs. Abbottthat there is too much ignorance about these things, but she mustrecognise, I am sure, that this is not the proper moment forenlightening Mrs. Van Tuiver. " 

"I do not recognise it at all, " I said. "If her husband will go toher and tell her humbly and truthfully----" 

"You are talking madness!" cried the old man, breaking loose again. "She would be hysterical--she would regard him as somethingloathsome--some kind of criminal----" 

"Of course she would be shocked, " I said, "but she has the coolesthead of anyone I know--I do not think of any man I would trust sofully to take a rational attitude in the end. We can explain to herwhat extenuating circumstances there are, and she will have torecognise them. She will see that we are considering her rights----"

"Her _rights!_" The old man fairly snorted the words. 

"Now, now, Dr. Gibson!" interposed the other. "You asked me----" 

"I know! I know! But as the older of the physicians in charge ofthis case----" 

Dr. Perrin managed to frown him down, and went on trying to placateme. But through the argument I could hear the old man muttering inhis collar a kind of double bass _pizzicato_: "Suffragettes!Fanatics! Hysteria! Woman's Rights!" 

27. The breeze was feeble, and the sun was blazing hot, butnevertheless I made myself listen patiently for a while. They hadsaid it all to me, over and over again; but it seemed that Dr. Perrin could not be satisfied until it had been said in Douglas vanTuiver's presence. 

"Dr. Perrin, " I exclaimed, "even supposing we make the attempt todeceive her, we have not one plausible statement to make----" 

"You are mistaken, Mrs. Abbott, " said he. "We have the perfectlywell-known fact that this disease is often contracted in ways whichinvolve no moral blame. And in this case I believe I am in positionto state how the accident happened. " 

"What do you mean?" 

"I don't know whether you heard that just before Mrs. Van Tuiver'sconfinement, I was called away to one of the other keys to attend anegro-woman. And since this calamity has befallen us, I haverealized that I was possibly not as careful in sterilizing myinstruments as I might have been. It is of course a dreadful thingfor any physician to have to believe----" 

He stopped, and there was a long silence. I gazed from one toanother of the men. Two of them met my gaze; one did not. "He isgoing to let you say that?" I whispered, at last. 

"Honour and fairness compel me to say it, Mrs. Abbott. Ibelieve----" 

But I interrupted him. "Listen to me, Dr. Perrin. You are achivalrous gentleman, and you think you are helping a man indesperate need. But I say that anyone who would permit you to tellsuch a tale is a contemptible coward!" 

"Madam, " cried Dr. Gibson, furiously, "there is a limit even to awoman's rights!" 

A silence followed. At last I resumed, in a low voice, "Yougentlemen have your code: you protect the husband--you protect himat all hazards. I could understand this, if he were innocent of theoffence in question; I could understand it if there were anypossibility of his being innocent. But how can you protect him, whenyou know that he is guilty?" 

"There can be no question of such knowledge!" cried the old doctor. 

"I have no idea, " I said, "how much he has admitted to you; but letme remind you of one circumstance, which is known to Dr. Perrin--that I came to this place with the definite information thatsymptoms of the disease were to be anticipated. Dr. Perrin knowsthat I told that to Dr. Overton in New York. Has he informed you ofit?" 

There was an awkward interval. I glanced at van Tuiver, and I sawthat he was leaning forward, staring at me. I thought he was aboutto speak, when Dr. Gibson broke in, excitedly, "All this is besidethe mark! We have a serious emergency to face, and we are notgetting anywhere. As the older of the physicians in charge of thiscase----" 

And he went on to give me a lecture on the subject of authority. Hetalked for five minutes, ten minutes--I lost all track of the time. I had suddenly begun to picture how I would act and what I would saywhen I went into Sylvia's room. What a state must Sylvia be in, while we sat out here in the blazing mid-day sun, discussing herright to freedom and knowledge! 

28. "I have always been positive, " Dr. Gibson was saying, "but thepresent discussion has made me more positive than ever. As the olderof the physicians in charge of this case, I say most emphaticallythat the patient shall not be told!" 

I could not stand him any longer. "I am going to tell the patient, "I said. 

"You shall _not_ tell her!" 

"But how will you prevent me?" 

"You shall not _see_ her!" 

"But she is determined to see _me!_" 

"She will be told that you are not there. " 

"And how long do you imagine that that will satisfy her?" 

There was a pause. They looked at van Tuiver, expecting him tospeak. And so I heard once more his cold, deliberate voice. "We havedone all we can. There can no longer be any question as to thecourse to be taken. Mrs. Abbott will not return to my home. " 

"What?" I cried. I stared at him, aghast. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean what I say--that you will not be taken back to the island. " 

"But where will I be taken?" 

"You will be taken to the mainland. " 

I stared at the others. No one gave a sign. At last I whispered, "You would _dare?_" 

"You leave us no other alternative, " replied the master. 

"You--you will practically kidnap me!" My voice must have beenrather wild at that moment. 

"You left my home of your own free will. I think I need hardly pointout to you that I am not compelled to invite you back to it. " 

"And what will Sylvia----" I stopped; appalled at the vista thewords opened up. 

"My wife, " said van Tuiver, "will ultimately choose between herhusband and her most remarkable acquaintance. " 

"And you gentlemen?" I turned to the others. "You would give yoursanction to this outrageous action?" 

"As the older of the physicians in charge of this case----" beganDr. Gibson. 

I turned to van Tuiver again. "When your wife finds out what youhave done to me--what will you answer?" 

"We will deal with that situation when we come to it. " 

"Of course, " I said, "you understand that sooner or later I shallget word to her!" 

He answered, "We shall assume from now on that you are a mad woman, and shall take our precautions accordingly. " 

Again there was a silence. 

"The launch will return to the mainland, " said van Tuiver at last. "It will remain there until Mrs. Abbott sees fit to go ashore. May Iask if she has sufficient money in her purse to take her to NewYork?" 

I could not help laughing. The thing was so wild--and yet I couldsee that from their point of view it was the only thing to do. "Mrs. Abbott is not certain that she is going back to New York, " Ireplied. "If she does go, it will not be with Mr. Van Tuiver'smoney. " 

"One thing more, " said Dr. Perrin. It was the first time he hadspoken since van Tuiver's incredible announcement. "I trust, Mrs. Abbott, that this unfortunate situation may at all costs beconcealed from servants, and from the world in general. " 

From which I realized how badly I had them frightened. They actuallysaw me making physical resistance! 

"Dr. Perrin, " I replied, "I am acting in this matter for my friend. I will add this: that I believe that you are letting yourself beoverborne, and that you will regret it some day. " 

He made no answer. Douglas van Tuiver put an end to the discussionby rising and signalling the other launch. When it had comealongside, he said to the captain, "Mrs. Abbott is going back to therailroad. You will take her at once. " 

Then he waited; I was malicious enough to give him an anxious momentbefore I rose. Dr. Perrin offered me his hand; and Dr. Gibson said, with a smile, "Good-bye, Mrs. Abbott. I'm sorry you can't stay withus any longer. " 

I think it was something to my credit that I was able to play outthe game before the boatmen. "I am sorry, too, " I countered. "I amhoping I shall be able to return. " 

And then came the real ordeal. "Good-bye, Mrs. Abbott, " said Douglasvan Tuiver, with his stateliest bow; and I managed to answer him! 

As I took my seat, he beckoned his secretary. There was a whisperedconsultation for a minute or two, and then the master returned tothe smaller launch with the doctors. He gave the word, and the twovessels set out--one to the key, and the other to the railroad. Thesecretary went in the one with me! 

29. And here ends a certain stage of my story. I have describedSylvia as I met her and judged her; and if there be any reader whohas been irked by this method, who thinks of me as a crude andpushing person, disposed to meddle in the affairs of others, here iswhere that reader will have his satisfaction and revenge. For ifever a troublesome puppet was jerked suddenly off the stage--if evera long-winded orator was effectively snuffed out--I was that puppetand that orator. I stop and think--shall I describe how I paced upand down the pier, respectfully but emphatically watched by thesecretary? And all the melodramatic plots I conceived, the muffledoars and the midnight visits to my Sylvia? My sense of humourforbids it. For a while now I shall take the hint and stay in thebackground of this story. I shall tell the experiences of Sylvia asSylvia herself told them to me long afterwards; saying no more aboutmy own fate--save that I swallowed my humiliation and took the nexttrain to New York, a far sadder and wiser social-reformer! 

BOOK III 

SYLVIA AS REBEL 

1. Long afterwards Sylvia told me about what happened between herhusband and herself; how desperately she tried to avoid discussingthe issue with him--out of her very sense of fairness to him. But hecame to her room, in spite of her protest, and by his implacablepersistence he made her hear what he had to say. When he had made uphis mind to a certain course of action, he was no more to beresisted than a glacier. 

"Sylvia, " he said, "I know that you are upset by what has happened. I make every allowance for your condition; but there are somestatements that I must be permitted to make, and there are simply notwo ways about it--you must get yourself together and hear me. " 

"Let me see Mary Abbott!" she insisted, again and again. "It may notbe what you want--but I demand to see her. " 

So at last he said, "You cannot see Mrs. Abbott. She has gone backto New York. " And then, at her look of consternation: "That is oneof the things I have to talk to you about. " 

"Why has she gone back?" cried Sylvia. 

"Because I was unwilling to have her here. " 

"You mean you sent her away?" 

"I mean that she understood she was no longer welcome. " 

Sylvia drew a quick breath and turned away to the window. 

He took advantage of the opportunity to come near, and draw up achair for her. "Will you not pleased to be seated, " he said. And atlast she turned, rigidly, and seated herself. 

"The time has come, " he declared, "when we have to settle thisquestion of Mrs. Abbott, and her influence upon your life. I haveargued with you about such matters, but now what has happened makesfurther discussion impossible. You were brought up among people ofrefinement, and it has been incredible to me that you should bewilling to admit to your home such a woman as this--not merely ofthe commonest birth, but without a trace of the refinement to whichyou have been accustomed. And now you see the consequences of yourhaving brought such a person into our life!" 

He paused. She made no sound, and her gaze was riveted upon thewindow-curtain. 

"She happens to be here, " he went on, "at a time when a dreadfulcalamity befalls us--when we are in need of the utmost sympathy andconsideration. Here is an obscure and terrible affliction, which hasbaffled the best physicians in the country; but this ignorantfarmer's wife considers that she knows all about it. She proceeds todiscuss it with every one--sending your poor aunt almost intohysterics, setting the nurses to gossiping--God knows what else shehas done, or what she will do, before she gets through. I don'tpretend to know her ultimate purpose--blackmail, possibly----" 

"Oh, how can you!" she broke out, involuntarily. "How can you saysuch a thing about a friend of mine?" 

"I might answer with another question--how can you have such afriend? A woman who has cast off every restraint, everyconsideration of decency--and yet is able to persuade a daughter ofthe Castlemans to make her an intimate! Possibly she is an honestfanatic. Dr. Perrin tells me she was the wife of a brutal farmer, who mistreated her. No doubt that has embittered her against men, and accounts for her mania. You see that her mind leaped at once tothe most obscene and hideous explanation of this misfortune ofours--an explanation which pleased her because it blackened thehonour of a man. " 

He stopped again. Sylvia's eyes had moved back to thewindow-curtain. 

"I am not going to insult your ears, " he said, "with discussions ofher ideas. The proper person to settle such matters is a physician, and if you wish Dr. Perrin to do so, he will tell you what he knowsabout the case. But I wish you to realize somehow what this thinghas meant to me. I have managed to control myself----" He saw hershut her lips more tightly. "The doctors tell me that I must notexcite you. But picture the situation. I come to my home, bowed downwith grief for you and for my child. And this mad woman thrustsherself forward, shoves aside your aunt and your physicians, andcomes in the launch to meet me at the station. And then she accusesme of being criminally guilty of the blindness of my child--ofhaving wilfully deceived my wife! Think of it--that is my welcome tomy home!" 

"Douglas, " she cried, wildly, "Mary Abbott would not have done sucha thing without reason----" 

"I do not purpose to defend myself, " he said, coldly. "If you arebent upon filling your mind with such matters, go to Dr. Perrin. Hewill tell you that he, as a physician, knows that the charge againstme is preposterous. He will tell you that even granting that thecause of the blindness is what Mrs. Abbott guesses, there are athousand ways in which such an infection can be contracted, whichare perfectly innocent, involving no guilt on the part of anyone. Every doctor knows that drinking-cups, wash-basins, towels, evenfood, can be contaminated. He knows that any person can bring theaffliction into a home--servants, nurses, even the doctorsthemselves. Has your mad woman friend told you any of that?" 

"She has told me nothing. You know that I have had no opportunity totalk with her. I only know what the nurses believe----" 

"They believe what Mrs. Abbott told them. That is absolutely all thereason they have for believing anything!" 

She did not take that quite as he expected. "So Mary Abbott _did_tell them!" she cried. 

He hurried on: "The poisonous idea of a vulgar Socialist woman--thisis the thing upon which you base your suspicions of your husband!" 

"Oh!" she whispered, half to herself. "Mary Abbott _did_ say it!" 

"What if she did?" 

"Oh, Douglas, Mary would never have said such a thing to a nurseunless she had been certain of it!" 

"Certain?" he broke out. "What certainty could she imagine she had?She is a bitter, frantic woman--a divorced woman--who jumped to theconclusion that pleased her, because it involved the humiliation ofa rich man. " 

He went on, his voice trembling with suppressed passion: "When youknow the real truth, the thing becomes a nightmare. You, a delicatewoman, lying here helpless--the victim of a cruel misfortune, andwith the life of an afflicted infant depending upon your peace ofmind. Your physicians planning day and night to keep you quiet, tokeep the dreadful, unbearable truth from you----" 

"Oh, what truth? That's the terrifying thing--to know that peopleare keeping things from me! What _was_ it they were keeping?" 

"First of all, the fact that the baby was blind; and then the causeof it----" 

"Then they _do_ know the cause?" 

"They don't know positively--no one can know positively. But poorDr. Perrin had a dreadful idea, that he had to hide from you becauseotherwise he could not bear to continue in your house----" 

"Why, Douglas! What do you mean?" 

"I mean that a few days before your confinement, he was called awayto the case of a negro-woman--you knew that, did you not?" 

"Go on. " 

"He had the torturing suspicion that possibly he was not carefulenough in sterilizing his instruments, and that he, your friend andprotector, may be the man who is to blame. " 

"Oh! Oh!" Her voice was a whisper of horror. 

"That is one of the secrets your doctors have been trying to hide. " 

There was silence, while her eyes searched his face. Suddenly shestretched out her hands to him, crying desperately: "Oh, is thistrue?" 

He did not take the outstretched hands. "Since I am upon thewitness-stand, I have to be careful of my replies. It is what Dr. Perrin tells me. Whether the explanation he gives is the trueone--whether he himself, or the nurse he recommended, may havebrought the infection----" 

"It couldn't have been the nurse, " she said quickly. "She was socareful----" 

He did not allow her to finish. "You seem determined, " he said, coldly, "to spare everyone but your husband. " 

"No!" she protested, "I have tried hard to be fair--to be fair toboth you and my friend. Of course, if Mary Abbott was mistaken, Ihave done you a great injustice--" 

He saw that she was softening, and that it was safe for him to be aman. "It has been with some difficulty that I have controlled myselfthroughout this experience, " he said, rising to his feet. "If you donot mind, I think I will not carry the discussion any further, as Idon't feel that I can trust myself to listen to a defence of thatwoman from your lips. I will only tell you my decision in thematter. I have never before used my authority as a husband; I hopedI should never have to use it. But the time has come when you willhave to choose between Mary Abbott and your husband. I willpositively not tolerate your corresponding with her, or havinganything further to do with her. I take my stand upon that, andnothing will move me. I will not even permit of any discussion ofthe subject. And now I hope you will excuse me. Dr. Perrin wishes meto tell you that either he or Dr. Gibson are ready at any time toadvise you about these matters, which have been forced upon yourmind against their judgment and protests. " 

2. You can see that it was no easy matter for Sylvia to get at thetruth. The nurses, already terrified because of their indiscretion, had been first professionally thrashed, and then carefully drilledas to the answers they were to make. But as a matter of fact theydid not have to make any answers at all, because Sylvia wasunwilling to reveal to anyone her distrust of her husband. 

One of two things was certain: either she had been horribly wrongedby her husband, or now she was horribly wronging him. Which was thetruth? Was it conceivable that I, Mary Abbott, would leap to a falseconclusion about such a matter? She knew that I felt intensely, almost fanatically, on the subject, and also that I had been undergreat emotional stress. Was it possible that I would have voicedmere suspicions to the nurses? Sylvia could not be sure, for mystandards were as strange to her as my Western accent. She knew thatI talked freely to everyone about such matters--and would be as aptto select the nurses as the ladies of the house. On the other hand, how was it conceivable that I could know positively? To recognize adisease might be easy; but to specify from what source it hadcome--that was surely not in my power! 

They did not leave her alone for long. Mrs. Tuis came in, with herfeminine terrors. "Sylvia, you must know that you are treating yourhusband dreadfully! He has gone away down the beach by himself, andhas not even seen his baby!" 

"Aunt Varina--" she began, "won't you please go away?" 

But the other rushed on: "Your husband comes here, broken with griefbecause of this affliction; and you overwhelm him with the mostcruel and wicked reproaches with charges you have no way in theworld of proving----" And the old lady caught her niece by the hand. "My child! Come, do your duty!" 

"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 seesher! If I loved him--" Then, seeing her aunt's face of horror, shewas seized with a sudden impulse of pity, and caught the poor oldlady 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 amsuffering myself! How can I know what to do. " 

Mrs. Tuis was weeping; but quickly she got herself together, andanswered 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 reasonprevail. Get your face washed, make yourself presentable, and comeand 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 thegirl to the mirror. If only she could be made to see how distraughtand disorderly she looked! "Let me help you to dress, dear--you knowhow much better it always makes you feel. " 

Sylvia laughed, a trifle wildly--but Mrs. Tuis had dealt withhysteria before. "What would you like to wear?" she demanded. Andthen, without waiting for an answer, "Let me choose something. Oneof your pretty frocks. " 

"A pretty frock, and a seething volcano underneath! That is youridea of a woman's life!" 

The other responded very gravely, "A pretty frock, my dear, and asmile--instead of a vulgar scene, and ruin and desolationafterwards. " 

Sylvia made no reply. Yes, that was the life of woman--her old auntknew! And her old aunt knew also the psychology of her sex. She didnot go on talking about pretty frocks in the abstract; she turned atonce to the clothes-closet, and began laying pretty frocks upon thebed! 

3. Sylvia emerged upon the "gallery, " clad in dainty pink muslin, her beautiful shiny hair arranged under a semi-invalid's cap of pinkmaline. Her face was pale, and the big red-brown eyes were hollow;but she was quiet, and apparently mistress of herself again. Sheeven 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, andAunt Varina poured tea, a-flutter with excitement. They talked aboutthe comparative temperatures of New York and the Florida Keys, andabout hedges of jasmine to shade the gallery from the evening sun. And after a while, Aunt Varina arose, explaining that she wouldprepare Elaine for her father's visit. In the doorway she stood fora moment, smiling upon the pretty picture; it was all settlednow--the outward forms had been observed, and the matter would end, as such matters should end between husband and wife--a few tears, afew reproaches, and then a few kisses. 

The baby was made ready, with a new dress, and a fresh silk bandageto cover the pitiful, lifeless eyes. Aunt Varina had found pleasurein making these bandages; she made them soft and pretty--lesshygienic, perhaps, but avoiding the suggestion of the hospital. 

When Sylvia and her husband came into the room, the faces of both ofthem were white. Sylvia stopped near the door-way; and poor AuntVarina fluttered about, in agony of soul. When van Tuiver went tothe cradle, she hurried to his side, and sought to awaken the littleone with gentle nudges. Quite unexpectedly to her, van Tuiver soughtto pick up the infant; she helped him, and he stood, holding itawkwardly, as if afraid it might go to pieces in his arms. 

So any man might appear, with his first infant; but to Sylvia itseemed the most tragic sight she had ever seen in her life. She gavea low cry, "Douglas!" and he turned, and she saw his face wasworking with the feeling he was ashamed for anyone to see. "Oh, Douglas, " she whispered, "I'm so _sorry_ for you!" At which AuntVarina decided that it was time for her to make her escape. 

4. But the trouble between these two were not such as could besettled by any burst of emotion. The next day they were again in adispute, for he had come to ask her word of honour that she wouldnever see me again, and would give him my letters to be returnedunopened. This last was what she had let her father do in the caseof Frank Shirley; and she had become certain in her own mind thatshe had done wrong. 

But he was insistent in his demand; declaring that it should beobvious to her there could be no peace of mind for him so long as myinfluence continued in her life. 

"But surely, " protested Sylvia, "to hear Mary Abbott'sexplanation----" 

"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 matternot merely for myself, but for your physicians, who know this woman, heard her menaces and her vulgarity. It is their judgment that youshould be protected at all hazards from further contact with her. " 

"Douglas, " she argued, "you must realize that I am in distress ofmind about this matter----" 

"I certainly realize that. " 

"And if you are thinking of my welfare, you should choose a coursethat would set my mind at rest. But when you come to me and ask methat I should not even read a letter from my friend--don't yourealize what you suggest to me, that there is something you areafraid for me to know?" 

"I do not attempt to deny my fear of this woman. I have seen how shehas been able to poison your mind with suspicions----" 

"Yes, Douglas--but now that has been done. What else is there tofear from her?" 

"I have no idea what. She is a bitter, jealous woman, with a mindfull of hatred; and you are an innocent girl, who cannot judge aboutthese matters. What idea have you of the world in which you live, ofthe 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 consternationwhen we first met, and I told you about the woman who had written mea begging letter, and got an interview with me, and then startedscreaming, and refused to leave the house till I had paid her a lotof money. You had never heard such stories, had you? Yet it is thekind of thing that is happening to rich men continually; it was oneof the first rules I was taught, never to let myself be alone with astrange 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 byher--you could not help it, any more than you can help beingdistressed about what she has already said. She intimated to Dr. Perrin that she believed that I had been a man of depraved life, andthat my wife and child were now paying the penalty. How can I tellwhat vile stories concerning me she may not have heard? How could Ihave any peace of mind while I knew that she was free to pour theminto your ear?" 

Sylvia sat dumb with questions she would not utter, hovering on thetip of her tongue. 

He took her silence for acquiesence, and went on, quickly, "Let megive you an illustration. A friend of mine whom you know well--Imight as well tell you his name, it was Freddie Atkins--was atsupper with some theatrical women; and one of them, not having anyidea that Freddie knew me, proceeded to talk about me, and how shehad met me, and where we had been together--about my yacht, and mycastle in Scotland, and I don't know what all else. It seems thatthis woman had been my mistress for several years; she told quiteglibly about me and my habits. Freddie got the woman's picture, onsome pretext or other, and brought it to me; I had never laid eyeson her in my life. He could hardly believe it, and to prove it tohim I offered to meet the woman, under another name. We sat in arestaurant, and she told the tale to Freddie and myselftogether--until finally he burst out laughing, and told her who Iwas. " 

He paused, to let this sink in. "Now, suppose your friend, MaryAbbott, had met that woman! I don't imagine she is particularlycareful whom she associates with; and suppose she had come and toldyou that she knew such a woman--what would you have said? Can youdeny that the tale would have made an impression on you? Yet, I'venot the least doubt there are scores of women who made such talesabout me a part of their stock in trade; there are thousands ofwomen whose fortunes would be made for life if they could cause sucha tale to be believed. And imagine how well-informed they would be, if anyone were to ask them concerning my habits, and the reason whyour baby is blind! I tell you, when the rumour concerning our childhas begun to spread, there will be ten thousand people in New Yorkcity who will know of first-hand, personal knowledge exactly how ithappened, and how you took it, and everything that I said to youabout it. There will be sneers in the society-papers, from New Yorkto San Francisco; and smooth-tongued gentlemen calling, to give ushints that we can stop these sneers by purchasing a de-luxe editionof a history of our ancestors for six thousand dollars. There willbe well-meaning and beautiful-souled people who will try to get youto confide in them, and then use their knowledge of your domesticunhappiness to blackmail you; there will be threats of law-suitsfrom people who will claim that they have contracted a disease fromyou or your child--your laundress, perhaps, or your maid, or one ofthese nurses----" 

"Oh, stop! stop!" she cried. 

"I am quite aware, " he said, quietly, "that these things are notcalculated to preserve the peace of mind of a young mother. You arehorrified when I tell you of them--yet you clamour for the right tohave Mrs. Abbott tell you of them! I warn you, Sylvia--you havemarried a rich man, who is exposed to the attacks of cunning andunscrupulous enemies. You, as his wife, are exactly as muchexposed--possibly even more so. Therefore when I see you enteringinto what I know to be a dangerous intimacy, I must have the rightto say to you, This shall stop, and I tell you, there can never beany safety or peace of mind for either of us, so long as you attemptto deny me that right. " 

5. Dr. Gibson took his departure three or four days later; andbefore he went, he came to give her his final blessing; talking toher, as he phrased it, "like a Dutch uncle. " "You must understand, "he said, "I am almost old enough to be your grandfather. I have foursons, anyone of whom might have married you, if they had had thegood fortune to be in Castleman County at the critical time. So youmust let me be frank with you. " 

Sylvia indicated that she was willing. 

"We don't generally talk to women about these matters; becausethey've no standard by which to judge, and they almost always flyoff and have hysterics. Their case seems to them exceptional andhorrible, their husbands the blackest criminals in the whole tribe. "

He paused for a moment. "Now, Mrs. Van Tuiver, the disease which hasmade your baby blind is probably what we call gonorrhea. When itgets into the eyes, it has very terrible results. But it doesn'toften get into the eyes, and for the most part it's a triflingaffair, that we don't worry about. I know there are a lot ofnew-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 ofthis disease as we doctors see, if it was a deadly disease, there'dbe nobody left alive in the world. As I say, I don't like to discussit with women; but it was not I who forced the matter upon yourattention----" 

"Pray go on, Dr. Gibson, " she said. "I really wish to know all thatyou will tell me. " 

"The question has come up, how was this disease brought to yourchild? Dr. Perrin suggested that possibly he--you understand hisfear; and possibly he is correct. But it seems to me an illustrationof the unwisdom of a physician's departing from his proper duty, which is to cure people. If you wish to find out who brought adisease, what you need is a detective. I know, of course, that thereare people who can combine the duties of physician anddetective--and that without any previous preparation or study ofeither 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 thatyour husband brought the trouble; and that idea is sure to staythere and fester. So it becomes necessary for someone to talk to youstraight. Let me tell you that eight men out of ten have had thisdisease at some time in their lives; also that very few of them werecured of it when they thought they were. You have a cold: and thennext month, you say the cold is gone. So it is, for practicalpurposes. But if I take a microscope, I find the germs of the coldstill in your membranes, and I know that you can give a cold, and abad cold, to some one else who is sensitive. It is true that you maygo through all the rest of your life without ever being entirely ridof that cold. You understand me?" 

"Yes, " said Sylvia, in a low voice. 

"I say eight out of ten. Estimates would differ. Some doctors wouldsay seven out of ten--and some actual investigations have shown nineout of ten. And understand me, I don't mean bar-room loafers androustabouts. I mean your brothers, if you have any, your cousins, your best friends, the men who came to make love to you, and whomyou thought of marrying. If you had found it out about any one ofthem, of course you'd have cut the acquaintance; yet you'd have beendoing an injustice--for if you had done that to all who'd ever hadthe disease, you might as well have retired to a nunnery at once. " 

The old gentleman paused again; then frowning at her under his bushyeye-brows, he exclaimed, "I tell you, Mrs. Van Tuiver, you're doingyour husband a wrong. Your husband loves you, and he's a goodman--I've had some talks with him, and I know he's not got nearly somuch 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 allyour young life. Do you think if you went probing into their secretaffairs, you'd have had much pleasure in their company afterwards? Itell you again, you're doing your husband a wrong! You're doingsomething that very few men would stand, as patiently as he hasstood it so far. " 

All this time Sylvia had given no sign. So the old gentleman beganto feel a trifle uneasy. "Mind you, " he said, "I'm not saying thatmen ought to be like that. They deserve a good hiding, most ofthem--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 notthe guiltiest one, but simply the one who's had the misfortune tofall under suspicion. And he knows that's not fair; he'd have to bemore 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 goinghome, " he said--"very probably we'll never meet each other again. Isee you making a great mistake, laying up unhappiness for yourselfin the future; and I wish to prevent it if I can. I wish to persuadeyou to face the facts of the world in which we live. So I am goingto tell you something that I never expected I should tell to alady. " 

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, buteven so, you've found it possible to get along with me without toogreat repugnance. Well, I've had this disease; I've had it, andnevertheless I've raised six fine, sturdy children. More than that--I'm not free to name anybody else, but I happen to know positivelythat among the men your husband employs on this island there are twowho have the disease right now. And the next charming and well-bredgentleman you are introduced to, just reflect that there are atleast eight chances in ten that he has had the disease, and perhapsthree or four in ten that he has it at the minute he's shaking handswith you. And now you think that over, and stop tormenting your poorhusband!" 

6. One of the first things I did when I reached New York was to senda little love-letter to Sylvia. I said nothing that would distressher; I merely assured her that she was in my thoughts, and that Ishould 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, andregistered it in the name of my stenographer. The receipt came back, signed by an unknown hand, probably the secretary's. I found outlater that the letter never got to Sylvia. 

No doubt it was the occasion of renewed efforts upon her husband'spart to obtain from her the promise he desired. He would not be putoff with excuses; and at last he got her answer, in the shape of aletter which she told him she intended to mail to me. In this lettershe announced her decision that she owed it to her baby to avoid allexcitement and nervous strain during the time that she was nursingit. Her husband had sent for the yacht, and they were going toScotland, and in the winter to the Mediterranean and the Nile. Meantime she would not correspond with me; but she wished me to knowthat there was to be no break in our friendship, and that she wouldsee me upon her return to New York. 

"There is much that has happened that I do not understand, " sheadded. "For the present, however, I shall try to dismiss it from mymind. I am sure you will agree that it is right for me to give ayear to being a mother; as I wish you to feel perfectly at peace inthe meantime, I mention that it is my intention to be a mother only, and not a wife. I am showing this letter to my husband before I mailit, so that he may know exactly what I am doing, and what I havedecided to do in the future. " 

"Of course, " he said, after reading this, "you may send the letter, if you insist--but you must realize that you are only putting offthe issue. " 

She made no reply; and at last he asked, "You mean you intend todefy me in this matter?" 

"I mean, " she replied, quietly, "that for the sake of my baby Iintend to put off all discussion for a year. " 

7. I figured that I should hear from Claire Lepage about two daysafter I reached New York; and sure enough, she called me on the'phone. "I want to see you at once, " she declared; and her voiceshowed the excitement under which she was labouring. 

"Very well, " I said, "come down. " 

She entered my little living-room. It was the first time she hadever visited me, but she did not stop for a glance about her; shedid not even stop to sit down. "Why didn't you tell me that you knewSylvia Castleman?" she cried. 

"My dear woman, " I replied, "I was not under the least obligation totell you. " 

"You have betrayed me!" she exclaimed, wildly. 

"Come, Claire, " I said, after I had looked her in the eye a bit tocalm her. "You know quite well that I was under no bond of secrecy. And, besides, I haven't done you any harm. " 

"Why did you do it?" I regret to add that she swore. 

"I never once mentioned your name, Claire. " 

"How much good do you imagine that does me? They have managed tofind out everything. They caught me in a trap. " 

I reminded myself that it would not do to show any pity for her. "Sit down, Claire, " I said. "Tell me about it. " 

She cried, in a last burst of anger, "I don't want to talk to you!" 

"All right, " I answered. "But then, why did you come?" 

There was no reply to that. She sat down. "They were too much forme!" she lamented. "If I'd had the least hint, I might have held myown. As it was--I let them make a fool of me. " 

"You are talking hieroglyphics to me. Who are 'they'?" 

"Douglas, and that old fox, Rossiter Torrance. " 

"Rossiter Torrance?" I repeated the name, and then suddenlyremembered. The thin-lipped old family lawyer! 

"He sent up his card, and said he'd been sent to see me by MaryAbbot. Of course, I had no suspicion--I fell right into the trap. Wetalked about you for a while--he even got me to tell him where youlived; and then at last he told me that he hadn't come from you atall, but had merely wanted to find out if I knew you, and howintimate we were. He had been sent by Douglas; and he wanted to knowright away how much I had told you about Douglas, and why I had doneit. Of course, I denied that I had told anything. Heavens, what atime he gave me!" 

Claire paused. "Mary, how could you have played such a trick uponme?" 

"I had no thought of doing you any harm, " I replied. "I was simplytrying to help Sylvia. " 

"To help her at any expense!" 

"Tell me, what will come of it? Are you afraid they'll cut off yourallowance?" 

"That's the threat. " 

"But will they carry it out?" 

She sat, gazing at me resentfully. "I don't know whether I ought totrust you any more, " she said. 

"Do what you please about that, " I replied. "I don't want to urgeyou. " 

She hesitated a bit longer, and then decided to throw herself uponmy mercy. They would not dare to carry out their threat, so long asSylvia had not found out the whole truth. So now she had come to begme to tell no more than I had already told. She was utterly abjectabout it. I had pretended to be her friend, I had won her confidenceand listened to her confessions; how did I wish to ruin her utterly, to have her cast out on the street? 

Poor Claire! I said in the early part of my story that sheunderstood the language of idealism; but I wonder what I have toldabout her that justifies this. The truth is, she was going down sofast that already she seemed a different person; and she had beenfrightened by the thin-lipped old family lawyer, so that she wasincapable of even a decent pretence. 

"Claire, " I said, "there is no need for you to go on like this. Ihave not the slightest intention of telling Sylvia about you. Icannot imagine the circumstances that would make me want to tellher. Even if I should do it, I would tell her in confidence, so thather husband would never have any idea----" 

She went almost wild at this. To imagine that a woman would keepsuch a confidence! As if she would not throw it at her husband'shead the first time they quarreled! Besides, if Sylvia knew thistruth, she might leave him; and if she left him, Claire's hold onhis money would be gone. 

Over this money we had a long and lachrymose interview. And at theend of it, there she sat gazing into space, baffled and bewildered. What kind of a woman was I? How had I got to be the friend of Sylviavan Tuiver? What had she seen in me, and what did I expect to getout of her? I answered briefly; and suddenly Claire was overwhelmedby a rush of curiosity--plain human curiosity. What was Sylvia like?Was she as clever as they said? What was the baby like, and how wasSylvia taking the misfortune? Could it really be true that I hadbeen visiting the van Tuivers in Florida, as old Rossiter Torrancehad implied? 

Needless to say, I did not answer these questions freely. And Ireally think my visitor was more pained by my uncommunicativenessthan she was by my betrayal of her. It was interesting also tonotice a subtle difference in her treatment of me. Gone was theslight touch of condescension, gone was most of the familiarity! Ihad become a personage, a treasurer of high state secrets, anintimate of the great ones! There must be something more to me thanClaire had realized before! 

Poor Claire! She passes here from this story. For years thereafter Iused to catch a glimpse of her now and then, in the haunts of thebirds of gorgeous plumage; but I never got a chance to speak to her, nor did she ever call on me again. So I do not know if Douglas vanTuiver still continues her eight thousand a year. All I can say isthat when I saw her, her plumage was as gorgeous as ever, and itsstyle duly certified to the world that it had not been held overfrom a previous season of prosperity. Twice I thought she had beendrinking too much; but then--so had many of the other ladies withthe little glasses of bright-coloured liquids before them. 

8. For the rest of that year I knew nothing about Sylvia except whatI read in the "society" column of my newspaper--that she wasspending the late summer in her husband's castle in Scotland. Imyself was suffering from the strain of what I had been through, andhad to take a vacation. I went West; and when I came back in thefall, to plunge again into my work, I read that the van Tuivers, intheir yacht, the "Triton, " were in the Mediterranean, and wereplanning to spend the winter in Japan. 

And then one day in January, like a bolt from the blue, came acablegram from Sylvia, dated Cairo: "Sailing for New York, Steamship'Atlantic, ' are you there, answer. " 

Of course I answered. And I consulted the sailing-lists, and waited, wild with impatience. She sent me a wireless, two days out, and so Iwas at the pier when the great vessel docked. Yes, there she was, waving her handkerchief to me; and there by her side stood herhusband. 

It was a long, cold ordeal, while the ship was warped in. We couldonly gaze at each other across the distance, and stamp our feet andbeat our hands. There were other friends waiting for the vanTuivers, I saw, and so I held myself in the background, full of athousand wild speculations. How incredible that Sylvia, arrivingwith her husband, should have summoned me to meet her! 

At last the gangway was let down, and the stream of passengers beganto flow. In time came the van Tuivers, and their friends gathered towelcome them. I waited; and at last Sylvia came to me--outwardlycalm--but with her emotions in the pressure of her two hands. "Oh, Mary, Mary!" she murmured. "I'm so glad to see you! I'm so glad tosee you!" 

"What has happened?" I asked. 

Her voice went to a whisper. "I am leaving my husband. " 

"Leaving your husband!" I stood, dumbfounded. 

"Leaving him for ever, Mary. " 

"But--but----" I could not finish the sentence. My eyes moved towhere he stood, calmly chatting with his friends. 

"He insisted on coming back with me, to preserve appearances. He isterrified of the gossip. He is going all the way home, and thenleave me. " 

"Sylvia! What does it mean?" I whispered. 

"I can't tell you here. I want to come and see you. Are you livingat the same place?" 

I answered in the affirmative. 

"It's a long story, " she added. "I must apologise for asking you tocome here, where we can't talk. But I did it for an importantreason. I can't make my husband really believe that I mean what Isay; and you are my Declaration of Independence!" And she laughed, but a trifle wildly, and looking at her suddenly, I realized thatshe was keyed almost to the breaking point. 

"You poor dear!" I murmured. 

"I wanted to show him that I meant what I said. I wanted him to seeus meet. You see, he's going home, thinking that with the help of mypeople he can make me change my mind. " 

"But why do you go home? Why not stay here with me? There's anapartment vacant next to mine. " 

"And with a baby?" 

"There are lots of babies in our tenement, " I said. But to tell thetruth, I had almost forgotten the baby in the excitement of themoment. "How is she, " I asked. 

"Come and see, " said Sylvia; and when I glanced enquiringly at thetall gentleman who was chatting with his friends, she added, "She's_my_ baby, and I have a right to show her. " 

The nurse, a rosy-cheeked English girl in a blue dress and a bonnetwith long streamers, stood apart, holding an armful of white silkand lace. Sylvia turned back the coverings; and again I beheld thevision which had so thrilled me--the comical little miniature ofherself--her nose, her lips, her golden hair. But oh, the pitifullittle eyes, that did not move! I looked at my friend, uncertainwhat I should say; I was startled to see her whole being aglow withmother-pride. "Isn't she a dear?" she whispered. "And, Mary, she'slearning so fast, and growing--you couldn't believe it!" Oh, themarvel of mother-love, I thought--that is blinder than any child itever bore! 

We turned away; and Sylvia said, "I'll come to you as soon as I'vegot the baby settled. Our train starts for the South to-night, so Ishan't waste any time. " 

"God bless you, dear, " I whispered; and she gave my hand a squeeze, and turned away. I stood for a few moments watching, and saw herapproach her husband, and exchange a few smiling words with him inthe presence of their friends. I, knowing the agony that was in thehearts of that desperate young couple, marvelled anew at thediscipline of caste. 

9. She sat in my big arm-chair; and how proud I was of her, and howthrilled by her courage. Above all, however, I was devoured bycuriosity. "Tell me!" I exclaimed. 

"There's so much, " she said. 

"Tell me why you are leaving him. " 

"Mary, because I don't love him. That's the one reason. I havethought it out--I have thought of little else for the last year. Ihave come to see that it is wrong for a woman to live with a man shedoes not love. It is the supreme crime a woman can commit. " 

"Ah, yes!" I said. "If you have got that far!" 

"I have got that far. Other things have contributed, but they arenot the real things--they might have been forgiven. The fact that hehad this disease, and made my child blind----" 

"Oh! You found out that?" 

"Yes, I found it out. " 

"How?" 

"It came to me little by little. In the end, he grew tired ofpretending, I think. " She paused for a moment, then went on, "Thetrouble was over the question of my obligations as a wife. You see, I had told him at the outset that I was going to live for my baby, and for her alone. That was the ground upon which he had persuadedme not to see you or read any of your letters. I was to ask noquestions, and be nice and bovine--and I agreed. But then, a fewmonths ago, my husband came to me with the story of his needs. Hesaid that the doctors had given their sanction to our reunion. Ofcourse, I was stunned. I knew that he had understood me before weleft Florida. "

She stopped. "Yes, dear, " I said, gently. 

"Well, he said now the doctors were agreed there was no danger toeither of us. We could take precautions and not have children. Icould only plead that the whole subject was distressing to me. Hehad asked me to put off my problems till my baby was weaned; now Iasked him to put off his. But that would not do, it seemed. He tookto arguing with me. It was an unnatural way to live, and he couldnot endure it. I was a woman, and I couldn't understand this. Itseemed utterly impossible to make him realize what I felt. I supposehe has always had what he wanted, and he simply does not know whatit is to be denied. It wasn't only a physical thing, I think; it wasan affront to his pride, a denial of his authority. " She stopped, and I saw her shudder. 

"I have been through it all, " I said. 

"He wanted to know how long I expected to withhold myself. I said, 'Until I have got this disease out of my mind, as well as out of mybody; until I know that there is no possibility of either of ushaving it, to give to the other. ' But then, after I had taken alittle more time to think it over, I said, 'Douglas, I must behonest with you. I shall never be able to live with you again. It isno longer a question of your wishes or mine--it is a question ofright or wrong. I do not love you. I know now that it can neverunder any circumstances be right for a woman to give herself in theintimacy of the sex-relation without love. When she does it, she isviolating the deepest instinct of her nature, the very voice of Godin her soul. ' 

"His reply was, 'Why didn't you know that before you married?' 

"I answered, 'I did not know what marriage meant; and I let myselfbe persuaded by others. ' 

"'By your own mother!' he declared. 

"I said, 'A mother who permits her daughter to commit such anoffence is either a slave-dealer, or else a slave. ' Of course, hethought I was out of my mind at that. He argued about the duties ofmarriage, the preserving of the home, wives submitting themselves totheir husbands, and so on. He would not give me any peace----" 

And suddenly she started up. I saw in her eyes the light of oldbattles. "Oh, it was a horror!" she cried, beginning to pace thefloor. "It seemed to me that I was living the agony of all theloveless marriages of the world. I felt myself pursued, not merelyby the importunate desires of one man--I suffered with all themillions of women who give themselves night after night withoutlove! He came to seem like some monster to me; I could not meet himunexpectedly without starting. I forbade him to mention the subjectto me again, and for a long time he obeyed. But several weeks ago hebrought it up afresh, and I lost my self-control completely. 'Douglas, ' I said, 'I can stand it no longer! It is not only thetragedy of my blind child--it's that you have driven me to hate you. You have crushed all the life and joy and youth out of me! You'vebeen to me like a terrible black cloud, constantly pressing down onme, smothering me. You stalk around me like a grim, sepulchralfigure, closing me up in the circle of your narrow ideas. But now Ican endure it no longer. I was a proud, high-spirited girl, you'vemade of me a colourless social automaton, a slave of your stupidworldly traditions. I'm turning into a feeble, complaining, discontented wife! And I refuse to be it. I'm going home--where atleast there's some human spontaneity left in people; I'm going backto my father!'--And I went and looked up the next steamer!" 

She stopped. She stood before me, with the fire of her wild Southernblood shining in her cheeks and in her eyes. 

I sat waiting, and finally she went on, "I won't repeat all hisprotests. When he found that I was really going, he offered to takeme in the yacht, but I wouldn't go in the yacht. I had got to bereally afraid of him--sometimes, you know, his obstinacy seems to beabnormal, almost insane. So then he decided he would have to go inthe steamer with me to preserve appearances. I had a letter sayingthat papa was not well, and he said that would serve for an excuse. He is going to Castleman County, and after he has stayed a week orso, he is going off on a hunting-trip, and not return. " 

"And will he do it?" 

"I don't think he expects to do it at present. I feel sure he hasthe idea of starting mamma to quoting the Bible to me, and draggingme down with her tears. But I have done all I can to make clear tohim that it will make no difference. I told him I would not say aword about my intentions at home until he had gone away, and that Iexpected the same silence from him. But, of course--" She stoppedabruptly, and after a moment she asked: "What do you think of it, Mary?" 

I leaned forward and took her two hands in mine. "Only, " I said, "that I'm glad you fought it out alone! I knew it had to come--and Ididn't want to have to help you to decide!" 

10. She sat for a while absorbed in her own thoughts. Knowing her asI did, I understood what intense emotions were seething within her, what a terrific struggle her decision must have represented. 

"Dear Friend, " she said, suddenly, "don't think I haven't seen hisside of the case. I try to tell myself that I dealt with him franklyfrom the beginning. But then I ask was there ever a man I dealt withfrankly? There was coquetry in the very clothes I wore! And now thatwe are so entangled, now that he loves me, what is my duty? I find Ican't respect his love for me. A part of it is because my beautyfascinates him, but more of it seems to me just wounded vanity. Iwas the only woman who ever flouted him, and he has a kind ofsnobbery that made him think I must be something remarkable becauseof it. I talked that all out with him--yes, I've dragged himthrough all that humiliation. I wanted to make him see that hedidn't really love me, that he only wanted to conquer me, to forceme to admire him and submit to him. I want to be myself, and hewants to be himself--that has always been the issue between us. " 

"That is the issue in many unhappy marriages, " I said. 

"I've done a lot of thinking in the last year, " she resumed--"aboutthings generally, I mean. We American women think we are so free. That is because our husbands indulge us, give us money, and let usrun about. But when it comes to real freedom--freedom of intellectand of character, English women are simply another kind of beingfrom us. I met a cabinet minister's wife--he's a Conservative ineverything, and she's an ardent suffragist; she not merely givesmoney, she makes speeches and has a public name. Yet they arefriends, and have a happy home-life. Do you suppose my husband wouldconsider such an arrangement?" 

"I thought he admired English ways, " I said. 

"There was the Honorable Betty Annersley--the sister of a chum ofhis. She was friendly with the militants, and I wanted to talk toher to understand what such women thought. Yet my husband tried tostop me from going to see her. And it's the same way with everythingI try to do, that threatens to take me out of his power. He wantedme to accept the authority of the doctors as to any possible dangerfrom venereal disease. When I got the books, and showed him what thedoctors admitted about the question--the narrow margin of safetythey allowed, the terrible chances they took--he was angry again. " 

She stopped, seeing a question in my eyes. "I've been reading up onthe subject, " she explained. "I know it all now--the things I shouldhave known before I married. " 

"How did you manage that?" 

"I tried to get two of the doctors to give me something to read, butthey wouldn't hear of it. I'd set myself crazy imagining things, itwas no sort of stuff for a woman's mind. So in the end I took thebit in my teeth. I found a medical book store, and I went in andsaid: 'I am an American physician, and I want to see the latestworks on venereal disease. ' So the clerk took me to the shelves, andI picked out a couple of volumes. " 

"You poor child!" I exclaimed. 

"When Douglas found that I was reading these books he threatened toburn them. I told him 'There are more copies in the store, and I amdetermined to be educated on this subject. '" 

She paused. "How much like my own experience!" I thought. 

"There were chapters on the subject of wives, how much they were nottold, and why this was. So very quickly I began to see around my ownexperience. Douglas must have figured out that this would be so, forthe end of the matter was an admission. " 

"You don't mean he confessed to you!" 

She smiled bitterly. "No, " she said. "He brought Dr. Perrin toLondon to do it for him. Dr. Perrin said he had concluded I had bestknow that my husband had had some symptoms of the disease. He, thedoctor, wished to tell me who was to blame for the attempt todeceive me. Douglas had been willing to admit the truth, but all thedoctors had forbidden it. I must realise the fearful problem theyhad, and not blame them, and, above all I must not blame my husband, who had been in their hands in the matter. " 

"How stupid men are! As if that would excuse him!" 

"I'm afraid I showed the little man how poor an impression he hadmade--both for himself and for his patron. But I had suffered allthere was to suffer, and I was tired of pretending. I told him itwould have been far better for them if they had told me the truth atthe beginning. " 

"Ah, yes!" I said. "That is what I tried to make them see; but all Igot for it was a sentence of deportation!" 

11. When Sylvia's train arrived at the station of her home town, thewhole family was waiting upon the platform for her, and a good partof the town besides. The news that she had arrived in New York, andwas coming home on account of her father's illness, had, of course, been reproduced in all the local papers, with the result that theworthy major had been deluged with telegrams and letters concerninghis health. Notwithstanding, he had insisted upon coming to thetrain to meet his daughter. He was not going to be shut up in asickroom to please all the gossips of two hemispheres. In his bestblack broad-cloth, his broad, black hat newly brushed, and hisold-fashioned, square-toed shoes newly shined, he paced up and downthe station platform for half an hour, and it was to his arms thatSylvia flew when she alighted from the train. 

There was "Miss Margaret, " who had squeezed her large person andfluttering draperies out of the family automobile, and was waitingto shed tears over her favourite daughter; there was Celeste, radiant with a wonderful piece of news which she alone was to impartto her sister; there were Peggy and Maria, shot up suddenly into twoamazingly-gawky girls; there was Master Castleman Lysle, the onlyson of the house, with his black-eyed and bad-tempered Frenchgoverness. And finally there was Aunt Varina, palpitating withvarious agitations, not daring to whisper to anyone else the fearswhich this sudden home-coming inspired in her. Bishop Chilton andhis wife were away, but a delegation of cousins had come; also UncleMandeville Castleman had sent a huge bunch of roses, which were inthe family automobile, and Uncle Barry Chilton had sent a pair ofwild turkeys, which were soon to be in the family. 

Behind Sylvia stalked her cold and haughty husband, and behind himtripped the wonderful nursemaid, with her wonderful blue streamers, and her wonderful bundle of ruffles and lace. All the huge familyhad to fall upon Sylvia and kiss and embrace her rapturously, andshake the hand of the cold and haughty husband, and peer into thewonderful bundle, and go into ecstasies over its contents. Rarely, indeed, did the great ones of this earth condescend to spread somuch of their emotional life before the public gaze; and was it anywonder that the town crowded about, and the proprieties weretemporarily repealed? 

It had never been published, but it was generally known throughoutthe State that Sylvia's child was blind, and it was whispered thatthis portended something strange and awful. So there hung about theyoung mother and the precious bundle an atmosphere of mystery andmelancholy. How had she taken her misfortune? How had she taken allthe great events that had befallen her--her progress through thecourts and camps of Europe? Would she still condescend to know herfellow-townsmen? Many were the hearts that beat high as she bestowedher largess of smiles and friendly words. There were even humble oldnegroes who went off enraptured to tell the town that "Mi' Sylvia"had actually shaken hands with them. There was almost a cheer fromthe crowd as the string of automobiles set out for Castleman Hall. 

12. There was a grand banquet that evening, at which the turkeysentered the family. Not in years had there been so many peoplecrowded into the big dining-room, nor so many servants treading uponeach other's toes in the kitchen. 

Such a din of chatter and laughter! Sylvia was her old radiant self, and her husband was quite evidently charmed by the patriarchalscene. He was affable, really genial, and won the hearts ofeverybody; he told the good major, amid a hush which almost turnedhis words into a speech, that he was able to understand how they ofthe South loved their own section so passionately; there was aboutthe life an intangible something--a spell, an elevation of spirit, which set it quite apart by itself. And since this was the thingwhich they of the South most delighted to believe concerningthemselves, they listened enraptured, and set the speaker apart as arare and discerning spirit. 

Afterwards came the voice of Sylvia: "You must beware of Douglas, Papa; he is an inveterate flatterer. " She laughed as she said it;and of those present it was Aunt Varina alone who caught the ominousnote, and saw the bitter curl of her lips as she spoke. Aunt Varinaand her niece were the only persons there who knew Douglas vanTuiver well enough to appreciate the irony of the term "inveterateflatterer. " 

Sylvia realized at once that her husband was setting out upon acampaign to win her family to his side. He rode about the major'splantations, absorbing information about the bollweevil. He rodeback to the house, and exchanged cigars, and listened to stories ofthe major's boyhood during the war. He went to call upon BishopChilton, and sat in his study, with its walls of faded black volumeson theology. Van Tuiver himself had had a Church of England tutor, and was a punctilious high churchman; but he listened respectfullyto arguments for a simpler form of church organization, and tookaway a voluminous _exposé_ of the fallacies of "ApostolicSuccession. " And then came Aunt Nannie, ambitious and alert as whenshe had helped the young millionaire to find a wife; and the youngmillionaire made the suggestion that Aunt Nannie's third daughtershould not fail to visit Sylvia at Newport. 

There was no limit, apparently, to what he would do. He took MasterCastleman Lysle upon his knee, and let him drop a valuable watchupon the floor. He got up early in the morning and went horse-backriding with Peggy and Maria. He took Celeste automobiling, andhelped by his attentions to impress the cocksure young man with whomCeleste was in love. He won "Miss Margaret" by these attentions toall her children, and the patience with which he listened toaccounts of the ailments which had afflicted the precious ones atvarious periods of their lives. To Sylvia, watching all theseproceedings, it was as if he were binding himself to her with somany knots. 

She had come home with a longing to be quiet, to avoid seeinganyone. But this could not be, she discovered. There was gossipabout the child's blindness, and the significance thereof; and tohave gone into hiding would have meant an admission of the worst. The ladies of the family had prepared a grand "reception, " at whichall Castleman County was to come and gaze upon the happy mother. Andthen there was the monthly dance at the Country Club, whereeverybody would come, in the hope of seeing the royal pair. ToSylvia it was as if her mother and aunts were behind her everyminute of the day, pushing her out into the world. "Go on, go on!Show yourself! Do not let people begin to talk!" 

13. She bore it for a couple of weeks; then she went to her cousin, Harley Chilton. "Harley, " she said, "my husband is anxious to go ona hunting-trip. Will you go with him?" 

"When?" asked the boy. 

"Right away; to-morrow or the next day. " 

"I'm game, " said Harley. 

After which she went to her husband. "Douglas, it is time for you togo. " 

He sat studying her face. "You still have that idea?" he said, atlast. 

"I still have it. " 

"I was hoping that here, among your home-people, your sanity wouldpartially return. " 

"I know what you have been hoping, Douglas. And I am sorry--but I amquite unchanged. " 

"Have we not been getting along happily here?" he demanded. 

"No, I have not--I have been wretched. And I cannot have any peaceuntil you no longer haunt me. I am sorry for you, but I must bealone--and so long as you are here the entertainments willcontinue. " 

"We could make it clear that we did not care for entertainments. Wecould find some quiet place near your people, where we could live inpeace. " 

"Douglas, " she said, "I have spoken to Cousin Harley. He is ready togo hunting with you. Please call him up and make arrangements tostart to-morrow. If you are still here the following day, I shallleave for one of Uncle Mandeville's plantations. " 

There was a long silence. "Sylvia, " he said, at last, "how long doyou imagine this behaviour of yours can continue?" 

"It will continue forever. My mind is made up. It is necessary thatyou make up yours. " 

Again he waited, while he made sure of his self-control. "Youpropose to keep the baby with you?" he asked, at last. 

"For the present, yes. The baby cannot get along without me. " 

"And for the future?" 

"We will make a fair arrangement as to that. Give me a little timeto get myself together, and then I will come and live somewhere nearyou in New York, and I will arrange it so that you can see the childas often as you please. I have no desire to take her from you--Ionly want to take myself from you. " 

"Sylvia, " he said, "have you realized all the unhappiness thiscourse of yours is going to bring to your people?" 

"Oh, don't begin that now!" she pleaded. 

"I know, " he said, "how determined you are to punish me. But Ishould think you would try to find some way to spare them. " 

"Douglas, " she replied, "I know exactly what you have been doing. Ihave watched your change of character since you came here. You maybe able to make my people so unhappy that I must be unhappy also. You see how deeply I love them, how I yield everything for love ofthem. But let me make it clear, I will not yield this. It was fortheir sake I went into this marriage, but I have come to see that itwas wrong, and no power on earth can induce me to stay in it. Mymind is made up--I will not live with a man I do not love. I willnot even pretend to do it. Now do you understand me, Douglas?" 

There was a silence, while she waited for some word from him. Whennone came, she asked, "You will arrange to go to-morrow?" 

He answered calmly, "I see no reason why I, your husband, shouldpermit you to pursue this insane course. You propose to leave me;and the reason you give is one that would, if it were valid, breakup two-thirds of the homes in the country. Your own family willstand by me in my effort to prevent your ruin. " 

"What do you expect to do?" she asked in a suppressed voice. 

"I have to assume that my wife is insane; and I shall look after hertill she comes to her senses. " 

She sat watching him for a few moments, wondering at him. Then shesaid, "You are willing to stay on here, day after day, pursuing mein the only refuge I have. Well then, I shall not consider yourfeelings. I have a work to do here--and I think that when I beginit, you will want to be far away. " 

"What do you mean?" he asked--and he looked at her as if she werereally a maniac. 

"You see my sister Celeste is about to marry. That was the wonderfulnews she had to tell me at the depot. It happens that I have knownRoger Peyton all my life, and know he has the reputation of beingone of the 'fastest' boys in the town. " 

"Well?" he asked. 

"Just this, Douglas--I do not intend to leave my sister unprotectedas I was. I am going to tell her about Elaine. I am going to tellher all that she needs to know. It is bound to mean arguments withthe old people, and in the end the whole family will be discussingthe subject. I feel sure you will not care to be here under suchcircumstances. " 

"And may I ask when this begins?" he inquired, with intensebitterness in his tone. 

"Right away, " she said. "I have merely been waiting until you shouldgo. "

He said not a word, but she knew by the expression on his face thatshe had carried her point at last. He turned and left the room; andthat was the last word she had with him, save for their formalparting in the presence of the family. 

14. Roger Peyton was the son and heir of one of the oldest familiesin Castleman County. I had heard of this family before--in awonderful story that Sylvia told of the burning of "Rose Briar, "their stately mansion, some years previously: how the neighbours hadturned out to extinguish the flames, and failing, had danced a lastwhirl in the ball-room, while the fire roared in the storiesoverhead. The house had since been rebuilt, more splendid than ever, and the prestige of the family stood undiminished. One of the sonswas an old "flame" of Sylvia's, and another was married to one ofthe Chilton girls. As for Celeste, she had been angling for Rogerthe past year or two, and she stood now at the apex of happiness. 

Sylvia went to her father, to talk with him about the difficultsubject of venereal disease. The poor major had never expected tolive to hear such a discourse from a daughter of his; however, withthe blind child under his roof, he could not find words to stop her. "But, Sylvia, " he protested, "what reason have you to suspect such athing of Roger Peyton?" 

"I have the reason of his life. You know that he has the reputationof being 'fast'; you know that he drinks, you know that I oncerefused to speak to him because he danced with me when he wasdrunk. " 

"My child, all the men you know have sowed their wild oats. " 

"Papa, you must not take advantage of me in such a discussion. Idon't claim to know what sins may be included in the phrase 'wildoats. ' Let us speak frankly--can you say that you think it unlikelythat Roger Peyton has been unchaste?" 

The major hesitated and coughed; finally he said: "The boy drinks, Sylvia; further than that I have no knowledge. " 

"The medical books tell me that the use of alcohol tends to breakdown self-control, and to make continence impossible. And if that betrue, you must admit that we have a right to ask assurances. What doyou suppose that Roger and his crowd are doing when they goroistering about the streets at night? What do they do when they gooff to Mardi Gras? Or at college--you know that Cousin Clive had toget him out of trouble several times. Go and ask Clive if Roger hasever been exposed to the possibility of these diseases. " 

"My child, " said the major, "Clive would not feel he had the rightto tell me such things about his friend. " 

"Not even when the friend wants to marry his cousin?" 

"But such questions are not asked, my daughter. " 

"Papa, I have thought this matter out carefully, and I havasomething definite to propose to you. I have no idea of stoppingwith what Clive Chilton may or may not see fit to tell about hischum. I want _you_ to go to Roger. " 

Major Castleman's face wore a blank stare. 

"If he's going to marry your daughter, you have the right to askabout his past. What I want you to tell him is that you will get thename of a reputable specialist in these diseases, and that before hecan have your daughter he must present you with a letter from thisman, to the effect that he is fit to marry. " 

The poor major was all but speechless. "My child, who ever heard ofsuch a proposition?" 

"I don't know that any one ever did, papa. But it seems to me timethey should begin to hear of it; and I don't see who can have abetter right to take the first step than you and I, who have paidsuch a dreadful price for our neglect. " 

Sylvia had been prepared for opposition--the instinctive oppositionwhich men manifest to having this embarrassing subject dragged outinto the light of day. Even men who have been chastethemselves--good fathers of families like the major--cannot beunaware of the complications incidental to frightening theirwomen-folk, and setting up an impossibly high standard insons-in-law. But Sylvia stood by her guns; at last she brought herfather to his knees by the threat that if he could not bring himselfto talk with Roger Peyton, she, Sylvia Castleman, would do it. 

15. The young suitor came by appointment the next day, and had asession with the Major in his office. After he had gone, Sylvia wentto her father and found him pacing the floor, with an extinct cigarbetween his lips, and several other ruined cigars lying on thehearth. 

"You asked him, papa?" 

"I did, Sylvia. " 

"And what did he say?" 

"Why, daughter----" The major flung his cigar from him withdesperate energy. "It was most embarrassing!" he exclaimed--"mostpainful!" His pale old face was crimson with blushes. 

"Go on, papa, " said Sylvia, gentle but firm. 

"The poor boy--naturally, Sylvia, he could not but feel hurt that Ishould think it necessary to ask such questions. Such things are notdone, my child. It seemed to him that I must look upon him as--well, as much worse than other young fellows----" 

The old man stopped, and began to walk restlessly up and down. "Yes, papa, " said Sylvia. "What else?" 

"Well, he said it seemed to him that such a matter might have beenleft to the honour of a man whom I was willing to think of as ason-in-law. And you see, my child, what an embarrassing position Iwas in; I could not give him any hint as to my reason for beinganxious about these matters--anything, you understand, that might beto the discredit of your husband. " 

"Go on, papa. " 

"Well, I gave him a fatherly talking to about his way of life. " 

"Did you ask him the definite question as to his health?" 

"No, Sylvia. " 

"Did he tell you anything definite?" 

"No. " 

"Then you didn't do what you had set out to do!" 

"Yes, I did. I told him that he must see a doctor. " 

"You made quite clear to him what you wanted?" 

"Yes, I did--really, I did. " 

"And what did he say?" She went to him and took his arm and led himto a couch. "Come, papa, let us get to the facts. You must tell me. "They sat down, and the major sighed, lit a fresh cigar, rolled itabout in his fingers until it was ruined, and then flung it away. 

"Boys don't talk freely to older men, " he said. "They really neverdo. You may doubt this----" 

"What did he _say, _ papa?" 

"Why, he didn't know what to say. He didn't really say anything. "And here the major came to a complete halt. 

His daughter, after studying his face for a minute, remarked, "Inplain words, papa, you think he has something to hide, and he maynot be able to give you the evidence you asked?" 

The other was silent. 

"You fear that is the situation, but you are trying not to believeit. " As he still said nothing, Sylvia whispered, "Poor Celeste!" 

Suddenly she put her hands upon his shoulders, and looked into hiseye. "Papa, can't you see what that means--that Celeste ought tohave been told these things long ago?" 

"What good would that have done?" he asked, in bewilderment. 

"She could have known what kind of man she was choosing; and shemight be spared the dreadful unhappiness that is before her now. " 

"Sylvia! Sylvia!" protested the other. "Surely such things cannot bediscussed with innocent young girls!" 

"So long as we refuse to do it, we are simply entering into aconspiracy with the man of loose life, so that he may escape theworst penalty of his evil-doing. Take the boys in our own set--whyis it they feel safe in running off to the big cities and 'sowingtheir wild oats'--even sowing them in the obscure parts of their owntown? Is it not because they know that their sisters and girlfriends are ignorant and helpless; so that when they are ready topick a wife, they will be at no disadvantage? Here is Celeste; sheknows that Roger has been 'wild, ' but no one has hinted to her whatthat means; she thinks of things that are picturesque--that he'shigh-spirited, and brave, and free with his money. " 

"But, my daughter, " protested the major, "such knowledge would havea terrible effect upon young girls!" He rose and began to pace thefloor again. "Daughter, you are letting yourself run wild! Thesweetness, the virginal innocence of young and pure women--if youtake that from them, there'd be nothing left to keep men fromfalling to the level of brutes!" 

"Papa, " said Sylvia, "all that sounds well, but it has no meaning. Ihave been robbed of my 'innocence, ' and I know that it has notdebased me. It has only fitted me to deal with the realities oflife. And it will do the same for any girl who is taught by earnestand reverent people. Now, as it is, we have to tell Celeste, but wetell her too late. " 

"But we _won't_ have to tell her!" cried the major. 

"Dear papa, please explain how we can avoid telling her. " 

"I will inform her that she must give the young man up. She is agood and dutiful daughter----" 

"Yes, " replied Sylvia, "but suppose on this one occasion she were tofail to be good and dutiful? Suppose the next day you learn that shehad run away and married Roger--what would you do about it then?" 

16. That evening Roger was to take his _fiancée_ to one of the youngpeople's dances. And there was Celeste, in a flaming red dress, witha great bunch of flaming roses; she could wear these colours, withher brilliant black hair and gorgeous complexion. Roger was fair, with a frank, boyish face, and they made a pretty couple; but thatevening Roger did not come. Sylvia helped to dress her sister, andthen watched her wandering restlessly about the hall, while the hourcame and went. Later in the evening Major Castleman called up thePeyton home. The boy was not there, and no one seemed to know wherehe was. 

Nor the next day did there come any explanation. At the Peytons itwas still declared that no one had heard from Roger, and for anotherday the mystery continued, to Celeste's distress and mortification. At last, from Clive Chilton, Sylvia managed to extract the truth. Roger was drunk--crazy drunk, and had been taken off by some of theboys to be straightened out. 

Of course this rumour soon got to the rest of the family and theyhad to tell Celeste, because she was frantic with anxiety. Therewere grave consultations among the Castleman ladies. It was a wantonaffront to his _fiancée_ that the boy had committed, and somethingmust be done about it quickly. Then came the news that Roger hadescaped from his warders, and got drunker than ever; he had been outat night, smashing the street lamps, and it had required extremeself-control on the part of the town police force to avoidcomplications. 

"Miss Margaret" went to her young daughter, and in a tear-floodedscene informed her of the opinion of the family, that herself-respect required the breaking of the engagement. Celeste wentinto hysterics. She would _not_ have her happiness ruined for life!Roger was "wild, " but so were all the other boys--and he would atonefor his recklessness. She had the idea that if only she could gethold of him, she could recall him to his senses; the more her motherwas scandalised by this proposal, the more frantically Celeste wept. She shut herself up in her room, refusing to appear at meals, andspending her time pacing the floor and wringing her hands. 

The family had been through all this with their eldest daughterseveral years before, but they had not learned to handle it anybetter. The whole household was in a state of distraction, and theconditions grew worse day by day, as bulletins came in concerningthe young man. He seemed to have gone actually insane. He was not tobe restrained even by his own father, and if the unfortunatepolicemen could be believed, he had violently attacked them. Apparently he was trying to break down the unwritten law that thesons of the "best families" are not arrested. 

Poor Celeste, with pale, tear-drenched face, sent for her eldersister, to make one last appeal. Could Sylvia not somehow get holdof Roger and bring him to his senses? Could she not interview someof the other boys, and find out what he meant by his conduct? 

So Sylvia went to her cousin Clive, and had a talk withhim--assuredly the most remarkable talk that that young man had everhad in his life. She told him that she wanted to know the truthabout Roger Peyton, and after a cross-examination that would havemade the reputation of a criminal lawyer, she got what she wanted. All the young men in town, it seemed, knew the true state ofaffairs, and were in a panic concerning it; that Major Castleman hadsent for Roger and informed him that he could not marry hisdaughter, until he produced a certain kind of medical certificate. No, he couldn't produce it! Was there a fellow in town who couldproduce it? What was there for him to do but to get drunk and staydrunk, until Celeste had cast him off? 

It was Clive's turn then to do some plain speaking. "Look here, Sylvia, " he said, "since you have made me talk about this----" 

"Yes, Clive?" 

"Do you know what people are saying--I mean the reason the Majormade this proposition to Roger?" 

She answered, in a quiet voice: "I suppose, Clive, it has somethingto do with Elaine. " 

"Yes, exactly!" exclaimed Clive. "They say--" But then he stopped. He could not repeat it. "Surely you don't want that kind of talk, Sylvia?" 

"Naturally, Clive, I'd prefer to escape that kind of talk, but myfear of it will not make me neglect the protection of my sister. " 

"But Sylvia, " cried the boy, "you don't understand about this! Awoman _can't_ understand about these things----" 

"You are mistaken, my dear cousin, " said Sylvia--and her voice wasfirm and decisive. "I _do_ understand. " 

"All right!" cried Clive, with sudden exasperation. "But let me tellyou this--Celeste is going to have a hard time getting any other manto propose to her!" 

"You mean, Clive, because so many of them are----?" 

"Yes, if you must put it that way, " he said. 

There was a pause, then Sylvia went on: "Let us discuss thepractical problem, Clive. Don't you think it would have been betterif Roger, instead of going off and getting drunk, had set aboutgetting himself cured?" 

The other looked at her, with evident surprise. "You mean in thatcase Celeste might marry him?" 

"You say the boys are all alike, Clive; and we can't turn our girlsinto nuns. Why didn't some of you fellows point that out to Roger?" 

"The truth is, " said Clive, "we tried to. " There was a little morecordiality in his manner, since Sylvia had shown such a unexpectedamount of intelligence. 

"Well?" she asked. "What then?" 

"Why, he wouldn't listen to anything. " 

"You mean--because he was drunk?" 

"No, we had him nearly sober. But you see--" And Clive paused for amoment, painfully embarrassed. "The truth is, Roger had been to adoctor, and been told it might take him a year or two to get cured. "

"Clive!" she cried. "Clive! And you mean that in the face of that, he proposed to go on and marry?" 

"Well, Sylvia, you see--" And the young man hesitated still longer. He was crimson with embarrassment, and suddenly he blurted out: "Thetruth is, the doctor told him to marry. That was the only way he'dever get cured. " 

Sylvia was almost speechless. "Oh! Oh!" she cried, "I can't believeyou!" 

"That's what the doctors tell you, Sylvia. You don'tunderstand--it's just as I told you, a woman can't understand. It'sa question of a man's nature----" 

"But Clive--what about the wife and her health? Has the wife norights whatever?" 

"The truth is, Sylvia, people don't take this disease with suchdesperate seriousness. You understand, it isn't the one thateverybody knows is dangerous. It doesn't do any real harm----" 

"Look at Elaine! Don't you call that real harm?" 

"Yes, but that doesn't happen often, and they say there are ways itcan be prevented. Anyway, fellows just can't help it! God knows we'dhelp it if we could. " 

Sylvia thought for a moment, and then came back to the immediatequestion. "It's evident what Roger could do in this case. He isyoung, and Celeste is still younger. They might wait a couple ofyears and Roger might take care of himself, and in time it might beproperly arranged. " 

But Clive did not seem too warm to the proposition, and Sylvia, whoknew Roger Peyton, was not long in making out the reason. "You meanyou don't think he has character enough to keep straight for a yearor two?" 

"To tell you the honest truth, we talked it out with him, and hewouldn't make any promises. " 

To which Sylvia answered: "Very well, Clive--that settles it. Youcan help me find some man for Celeste who loves her a little morethan that!" 

17. That afternoon came Aunt Nannie, the Bishop's wife, in shiningchestnut-coloured silk to match a pair of shining chestnut-colouredhorses. Other people, it appeared, had been making inquiries intoRoger Peyton's story, and other people besides Clive Chilton hadbeen telling the truth. Aunt Nannie gathered the ladies of thefamily in a hurried conference, and Sylvia was summoned to appearbefore it--quite as in the days of her affair with Frank Shirley. 

"Miss Margaret" and Aunt Varina were solemn and frightened, as ofold; and, as of old, Aunt Nannie did the talking. "Sylvia, do youknow what people are saying about you?" 

"Yes, Aunt Nannie" said Sylvia. 

"Oh, you do know?" 

"Yes, of course. And I knew in advance that they would say it. " 

Something about the seraphic face of Sylvia, chastened by terriblesuffering, must have suggested to Mrs. Chilton the idea of caution. "Have you thought of the humiliation this must inflict upon yourrelatives?" 

"I have found, Aunt Nannie, " said Sylvia, "that there are worseafflictions than being talked about. " 

"I am not sure, " declared the other, "that anything could be worsethan to be the object of the kind of gossip that is now seethingaround our family. It has been the tradition of our people to beartheir afflictions in silence. " 

"In this case, Aunt Nannie, it is obvious that silence would havemeant more afflictions, many more. I have thought of my sister--andof all the other girls in our family, who may be led to sacrifice bythe ambitions of their relatives. " Sylvia paused a moment, so thather words might have effect. 

Said the bishop's wife: "Sylvia, we cannot undertake to save theworld from the results of its sins. God has his own ways ofpunishing men. " 

"Perhaps so, but surely God does not wish the punishment to fallupon innocent young girls. For instance, Aunt Nannie, think of yourown daughters----" 

"My daughters!" broke out Mrs. Chilton. And then, mastering herexcitement: "At least, you will permit me to look after my ownchildren. " 

"I noticed, my dear aunt, that Lucy May turned colour when TomAldrich came into the room last night. Have you noticed anything?" 

"Yes--what of it?" 

"It means that Lucy May is falling in love with Tom. " 

"Why should she not? I certainly consider him an eligible man. " 

"And yet you know, Aunt Nannie, that he is one of Roger Peyton'sset. You know that he goes about town getting drunk with the gayestof them, and you let Lucy May go on and fall in love with him! Youhave taken no steps to find out about him--you have not warned yourdaughter--" 

Mrs. Chilton was crimson with agitation. "Warned my daughter! Whoever heard of such a thing?" 

Said Sylvia, quietly: "I can believe that you never heard of it--butyou will hear soon. The other day I had a talk with Lucy May--" 

"Sylvia Castleman!" And then it seemed Mrs. Chilton reminded herselfthat she was dealing with a dangerous lunatic. "Sylvia, " she said, in a suppressed voice, "you mean to tell me that you have beenpoisoning my young daughter's mind--" 

"You have brought her up well, " said Sylvia, as her aunt stopped forlack of words. "She did not want to listen to me. She said thatyoung girls ought not to know about such matters. But I pointed outElaine, and then she changed her mind--just as you will have tochange yours in the end, Aunt Nannie. " 

Mrs. Chilton sat glaring at her niece, her bosom heaving. Thensuddenly she turned her indignant eyes upon Mrs. Castleman. "Margaret, cannot you stop this shocking business? I demand that thetongues of gossip shall no longer clatter around the family of whichI am a member! My husband is the bishop of this diocese, and ifour ancient and untarnished name is of no importance to Sylvia vanTuiver, then, perhaps the dignity and authority of the church mayhave some weight----" 

"Aunt Nannie, " interrupted Sylvia, "it will do no good to drag UncleBasil into this matter. I fear you will have to face the fact thatfrom this time on your authority in our family is to be diminished. You had more to do than any other person with driving me into themarriage that has wrecked my life, and now you want to go on and dothe same thing for my sister and for your own daughters--to marrythem with no thought of anything save the social position of theman. And in the same way you are saving up your sons to find richgirls. You know that you kept Clive from marrying a poor girl inthis town a couple of years ago--and meantime it seems to be nothingto you that he's going with men like Roger Peyton and Tom Aldrich, learning all the vices the women in the brothels have to teachhim----" 

Poor "Miss Margaret" had several times made futile efforts to checkher daughter's outburst. Now she and Aunt Varina started up at thesame time. "Sylvia! Sylvia! You must not talk like that to youraunt!" 

And Sylvia turned and gazed at them with her sad eyes. "From nowon, " she said, "that is the way I am going to talk. You are a lot ofignorant 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 ofMammon 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 theirsins. How could one rebuke the unconventionality of an avengingangel? On the other hand, of course, one could not help being inagony, and letting the angel see it in one's face. Outside, therewere the tongues of gossip clattering, as Aunt Nannie had said;quite literally everyone in Castleman County was talking about theblindness of Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver's baby, and how, because of it, the mother was setting out on a campaign to destroy the modesty ofthe State. The excitement, the curiosity, the obscene delight of theworld came rolling back into Castleman Hall in great waves, thatpicked up the unfortunate inmates and buffeted them about. 

Family consultations were restricted, because it was impossible forthe ladies of the family to talk to the gentlemen about thesehorrible things; but the ladies talked to the ladies, and thegentlemen talked to the gentlemen, and each came separately toSylvia with their distress. Poor, helpless "Miss Margaret" wouldcome wringing her hands, and looking as if she had buried all herchildren. "Sylvia! Sylvia! Do you realise that you are beingDISCUSSED?" That was the worst calamity that could befal a woman inCastleman County--it summed up all possible calamities that couldbefal her--to be "discussed. " "They were discussing you once whenyou wanted to marry Frank Shirley! And now--oh, now they will neverstop discussing you!" 

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

"My child, " he pleaded, "have you thought what this thing is doingto your husband? Do you realise that while you talk about protectingother people, you are putting upon Douglas a brand that will followhim through life?" 

Uncle Mandeville came up from New Orleans to see his favouriteniece; and the wave smote him as he alighted from the train, and hebecame so much excited that he went to the club and got drunk, andthen could not see his niece, but had to be carried off upstairs andgiven forcible hypodermics. Cousin Clive told Sylvia about itafterwards--how Uncle Mandeville refused to believe the truth, andswore that he would shoot some of these fellows if they didn't stoptalking 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 thetown. '" He answered: "Well, by God, I'll do it--it would serve thescoundrels right!" And he tried to get out of bed and get his pantsand his pistols--so that in the end it was necessary to telephonefor the major, and then for Barry Chilton and two of his giganticsons from their plantation. 

Sylvia had her way, and talked things out with the agonised Celeste. And the next day came Aunt Varina, hardly able to contain herself. "Oh, Sylvia, such a horrible thing! To hear such words coming fromyour little sister's lips--like the toads and snakes in the fairystory! To think of these ideas festering in a young girl's brain!"And then again: "Sylvia, your sister declares she will never go to aparty again! You are teaching her to hate men! You will make her aSTRONG-MINDED woman!"--that was another phrase they had summing upa whole universe of horrors. Sylvia could not recall a time when shehad not heard that warning. "Be careful, dear, when you express anopinion, always end it with a question: 'Don't you think so?' orsomething like that, otherwise, men may get the idea that you are'STRONG-MINDED'!" 

Sylvia, in her girlhood, had heard vague hints and rumours which nowshe was able to interpret in the light of her experience. In hercourtship days she had met a man who always wore gloves, even in thehottest weather, and she had heard that this was because of someaffliction of the skin. Now, talking with the young matrons of herown set, she learned that this man had married, and had since had totake to a wheel-chair, while his wife had borne a child with amonstrous deformed head, and had died of the ordeal and the shock. 

Oh, the stories that one uncovered--right in one's own town, amongone's own set--like foul sewers underneath the pavements! Thesuccession of deceased generations, of imbeciles, epileptics, paralytics! The innocent children born to a life-time of torment;the women hiding their secret agonies from the world! Sometimeswomen went all through life without knowing the truth aboutthemselves. There was poor Mrs. Valens, for example, who reclinedall day upon the gallery of one of the most beautiful homes in thecounty, and showed her friends the palms of her hands, all coveredwith callouses and scales, exclaiming: "What in the world do yousuppose can be the matter with me?" She had been a beautiful woman, a "belle" of "Miss Margaret's" day; she had married a man who wasrich and handsome and witty--and a rake. Now he was drunk all thetime, and two of his children had died in hospital, and another hadarms that came out of joint, and had to be put in plaster of Parisfor months at a time. His wife, the one-time darling of society, would lie on her couch and read the Book of Job until she knew it byheart. 

And could you believe it, when Sylvia came home, ablaze withexcitement over the story, she found that the only thing that herrelatives were able to see in it was the Book of Job! Under theburden of her afflictions the woman had become devout; and how couldanyone fail to see in this the deep purposes of Providence revealed?"Verily, " said "Miss Margaret, " "'whom the Lord loveth, Hechasteneth. ' We are told in the Lord's Word that 'the sins of thefathers shall be visited upon the children, even unto the third andfourth generations, ' and do you suppose the Lord would have told usthat, if He had not known there would be such children?" 

19. I cannot pass over this part of my story without bringingforward Mrs. Armistead, the town cynic, who constituted herself oneof Sylvia's sources of information in the crisis. Mrs. Sallie AnnArmistead was the mother of two boys with whom Sylvia, as a child, had insisted upon playing, in spite of the protests of the family. "Wha' fo' you go wi' dem Armistead chillun, Mi' Sylvia?" would cryAunt Mandy, the cook. "Doan' you know they granddaddy done pickcottin in de fiel' 'long o' me?" But while her father was pickingcotton, Sallie Ann had looked after her complexion and her figure, and had married a rising young merchant. Now he was the wealthyproprietor of a chain of "nigger stores, " and his wife was thepossessor of the most dreaded tongue in Castleman County. 

She was a person who, if she had been born a duchess, would havemade a reputation in history; the one woman in the county who had amind and was not afraid to have it known. She used all the tricks ofa duchess--lorgnettes, for example, with which she stared peopleinto a state of fright. She did not dare try anything like that onthe Castlemans, of course, but woe to the little people who crossedher path! She had an eye that sought out every human weakness, andsuch a wit that even her victims were fascinated. One of the legendsabout her told how her dearest foe, a dashing young matron, haddied, and all the friends had gathered with their floral tributes. Sallie Ann went in to review the remains, and when she came out asentimental voice inquired: "And how does our poor Ruth look?" 

"Oh, " was the answer, "as old and grey as ever!" 

Now Mrs. Armistead stopped Sylvia in the street: "My dear, how goesthe eugenics campaign?" 

And while Sylvia gazed, dumbfounded, the other went on as if shewere chatting about the weather: "You can't realise what a stir youare making in our little frog pond. Come, see me, and let me tellyou the gossip! Do you know you've enriched our vocabulary?" 

"I have made someone look up the meaning of eugenics, at least, "answered Sylvia--having got herself together in haste. 

"Oh, not only that, my dear. You have made a new medical term--the'van Tuiver disease. ' Isn't that interesting?" 

For a moment Sylvia shrivelled before this flame from hell. Butthen, being the only person who had ever been able to chain thisdevil, she said: "Indeed? I hope that with so fashionable a name thedisease does not become an epidemic!" 

Mrs. Armistead gazed at her, and then, in a burst of enthusiasm, sheexclaimed: "Sylvia Castleman, I have always insisted that one of themost interesting women in the world was spoiled by the taint ofgoodness in you. " 

She took Sylvia to her bosom, as it were. "Let us sit on the fenceand enjoy this spectacle! My dear, you can have no idea what anuproar you are making! The young married women gather in theirboudoirs and whisper ghastly secrets to each other; some of them aresure they have it, and some of them say they can trust theirhusbands--as if any man could be trusted as far as you can throw abull by the horns! Did you hear about poor Mrs. Pattie Peyton, shehas the measles, but she sent for a specialist, and vowed she hadsomething else--she had read about it, and knew all the symptoms, and insisted on having elaborate blood-tests! And little Mrs. Stanley Pendleton has left her husband, and everybody says that'sthe reason. The men are simply shivering in their boots--they stealinto the doctor's offices by the back-doors, and a whole car-load ofthe boys have been shipped off to Hot Springs to be boiled--" And soon, while Mrs. Armistead revelled in the sensation of strolling downMain Street with Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver! 

Then Sylvia would go home, and get the newest reactions of thefamily to these horrors. Aunt Nannie, it seemed, made the discoverythat Basil, junr. , her fifth son, was carrying on an intrigue with amulatto girl in the town; and she forbade him to go to CastlemanHall, for fear lest Sylvia should worm the secret out of him; alsoshe shipped Lucy May off to visit a friend, and came and tried topersuade Mrs. Chilton to do the same with Peggy and Maria, lestSylvia should somehow corrupt these children. 

The bishop came, having been ordered to preach religion to hiswayward niece. Poor dear Uncle Basil--he had tried preachingreligion to Sylvia many years ago, and never could do it because heloved her so well that with all his Seventeenth Century theology hecould not deny her chance of salvation. Now the first sight that methis eyes when he came to see her was his little blind grand-niece. And also he had in his secret heart the knowledge that he, a richand gay young planter before he became converted to Methodism, hadplayed with the fire of vice, and been badly burned. So Sylvia didnot find him at all the Voice of Authority, but just a poor, hen-pecked, unhappy husband of a tyrannous Castleman woman. 

The next thing was that "Miss Margaret" took up the notion that atime such as this was not one for Sylvia's husband to be away fromher. What if people were to say that they had separated? There werefamily consultations, and in the midst of them there came word thatvan Tuiver was called North upon business. When the familydelegations came to Sylvia, to insist that she go with him, theanswer they got was that if they could not let her stay quietly athome without asking her any questions, she would go off to New Yorkand live with a divorced woman Socialist! 

"Of course, they gave up, " she wrote me. "And half an hour ago poordear mamma came to my room and said: 'Sylvia, dear, we will let youdo what you want, but won't you please do one small favour for me?'I got ready for trouble, and asked what she wanted. Her answer was:'Won't you go with Celeste to the Young Matrons' Cotillion tomorrownight, so that people won't think there's anything the matter?'" 

20. Roger Peyton had gone off to Hot Springs, and Douglas van Tuiverwas in New York; so little by little the storms about Castleman Hallbegan to abate in violence. Sylvia was absorbed with her baby, andbeginning to fit her life into that of her people. She found manyways in which she could serve them--entertaining Uncle Mandeville tokeep him sober; checking the extravagrance of Celeste; nursingCastleman Lysle through green apple convulsions. That was to be herlife for the future, she told herself, and she was making herselfreally happy in it--when suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, camean event that swept her poor little plans into chaos. 

It was an afternoon in March, the sun was shining brightly and theSouthern springtime was in full tide, and Sylvia had had the oldfamily carriage made ready, with two of the oldest and gentlestfamily horses, and took the girls upon a shopping expedition totown. In the front seat sat Celeste, driving, with two of herfriends, and in the rear seat was Sylvia, with Peggy and Maria. Whenan assemblage of allurements such as this stopped on the streets ofthe town, the young men would come out of the banks and the officesand gather round to chat. There would be a halt before an ice-creamparlour, and a big tray of ices would be brought out, and the girlswould sit in the carriage and eat, and the boys would stand on thecurb and eat--undismayed by the fact that they had welcomed half adozen such parties during the afternoon. The statistics proved thatthis was a thriving town, with rapidly increasing business, butthere was never so much business as to interfere with gallantrieslike these. 

Sylvia enjoyed the scene; it took her back to happy days, beforeblack care had taken his seat behind her. She sat in a kind ofdream, only half hearing the merriment of the young people, and onlyhalf tasting her ice. How she loved this old town, with its streetsdeep in black spring mud, its mud-plastered "buck-boards" and saddlehorses hitched at every telegraph pole! Its banks and stores and lawoffices seemed shabbier after one had made the "grand tour, " butthey were none the less dear to her for that. She would spend therest of her days in Castleman County, and the sunshine and peacewould gradually enfold her. 

Such were her thoughts when the unforeseen event befel. A man onhorse-back rode down a side-street, crossing Main Street a littleway in front of her; a man dressed in khaki, with a khaki riding hatpulled low over his face. He rode rapidly--appearing and vanishing, so that Sylvia scarcely saw him--really did not see him with herconscious mind at all. Her thoughts were still busy with dreams, andthe clatter of boys and girls; but deep within her had begun atumult--a trembling, a pounding of the heart, a clamouring under thefloors of her consciousness. 

And slowly this excitement mounted. What was the matter, what hadhappened? A man had ridden by, but why should a man--. Surely itcould not have been--no. There were hundreds of men in CastlemanCounty who wore khaki and rode horse-back, and had sturdy, thick-setfigures! But then, how could she make a mistake? How could herinstinct have betrayed her so? It was that same view of him as hesat on a horse that had first thrilled her during the hunting partyyears ago! 

He had gone West, and had said that he would never return. He hadnot been heard from in years. What an amazing thing, that a mereglimpse of a man who looked and dressed and rode like him should beable to set her whole being into such a panic! How futile became herdreams of peace! 

She heard the sound of a vehicle close beside her carriage, andturned and found herself looking into the sharp eyes of Mrs. Armistead. It happened that Sylvia was on the side away from thecurb, and there was no one talking to her; so Mrs. Armistead ran herelectric alongside, and had the stirring occasion to herself. Sylvialooked into her face, so full of malice, and knew two things in aflash: First, it really had been Frank Shirley riding by; andsecond, 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 noattention. She might have made some remark that would have broughtthem into the conversation, and delivered her from the torments ofthis devil. But no, she had never quailed from Mrs. Armistead in herlife, and she would not now give her the satisfaction of driving offto tell the town that Sylvia van Tuiver had seen Frank Shirley, andhad been overcome by it, and had taken refuge behind the skirts ofher 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 allyour old friends! It must set you trembling with ecstasy--angelssinging in the sky above you--little golden bells ringing all overyou!" 

Sylvia recognised these phrases. They were part of an effort she hadmade to describe the raptures of young love to her bosom friend, Harriet Atkinson. And so Harriet had passed them on to the town! Andthey had been cherished all these years. 

She could not afford to recognise these illegitimate children ofromance. "Mrs. Armistead, " she said, "I had no idea you had so muchpoetry in you!" 

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

There was no way save to be bold. "You couldn't expect me not to beexcited, Mrs. Armistead. You see, I had no idea he had come backfrom 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 gentleand sympathetic. "Sylvia, " she said, "don't imagine that I fail toappreciate what is going on in your heart. I know a true romancewhen I see one. If only you could have known in those days what youknow now, there might have been one beautiful love story that didnot end as a tragedy. " 

You would have thought the lady's better self had suddenly beentouched. But Sylvia knew her; too many times she had seen thishuntress trying to lure a victim out of his refuge. 

"Yes, Mrs. Armistead, " she said, gently. "But I have the consolationat least of being a martyr to science. " 

"In what way?" 

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

And Mrs. Armistead looked at her for a moment aghast. "My God, Sylvia!" she whispered; and then--an honest tribute: "You certainlycan 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 ofhell-cats came to an end. 

21. Sylvia rode home in a daze, answering without hearing theprattle of the children. She was appalled at the emotions thatpossessed her--that the sight of Frank Shirley riding down thestreet could have affected her so! She forgot Mrs. Armistead, sheforgot the whole world, in her dismay over her own state of mind. Having dismissed Frank from her life and her thoughts forever, itseemed to her preposterous that she should be at the mercy of suchan excitement. 

She found herself wondering about her family. Did they know thatFrank Shirley had returned? Would they have failed to mention it toher? For a moment she told herself it would not have occurred tothem she could have any interest in the subject. But no--they werenot so _naive_--the Castleman women--as their sense of proprietymade them pretend to be! But how stupid of them not to give herwarning! Suppose she had happened to meet Frank face to face, and inthe presence of others! She must certainly have betrayed herexcitement; and just at this time, when the world had the Castlemanfamily under the microscope! 

She told herself that she would avoid such difficulty in future; shewould stay at home until Frank had gone away. If he had a wife inthe West, presumably he had merely come for a visit to his motherand sisters. And then Sylvia found herself in an argument withherself. What possible difference could it make that Frank Shirleyhad a wife? So long as she, Sylvia, had a husband, what elsemattered? Yet she could not deny it--it brought her a separate andadditional pang that Frank Shirley should have married. What sort ofwife could he have found--he, a stranger in the far West? And whyhad he not brought his wife home to his people? 

When she stepped out of the carriage, it was with her mind made upthat she would stay at home until all danger was past. But the nextafternoon a neighbour called up to ask Sylvia and Celeste to comeand play cards in the evening. It was not a party, Mrs. Witherspoonexplained to "Miss Margaret, " who answered the 'phone; just a fewfriends and a good time, and she did so hope that Sylvia was notgoing to refuse. The mere hint of the fear that Sylvia might refusewas enough to excite Mrs. Castleman. Why should Sylvia refuse? Soshe accepted the invitation, and then came to plead with herdaughter--for Celeste's sake, and for the sake of all her family, sothat the world might see that she was not crushed by misfortune! 

There were reasons why the invitation was a difficult one todecline. Mrs. Virginia Witherspoon was the daughter of a Confederategeneral whose name you read in every history-book; and she had afamous old home in the country which was falling about her ears--herhusband being seldom sober enough to know what was happening. Shehad also three blossoming daughters, whom she must manage to get outof the home before the plastering of the drawing-room fell upon theheads of their suitors; so that the ardour of her husband-huntingwas one of the jokes of the State. Naturally, under suchcircumstances, the Witherspoons had to be treated with considerationby the Castlemans. One might snub rich Yankees, and chasten thesuddenly-prosperous; but a family with an ancient house in ruins, and with faded uniforms and battle-scarred sabres in thecedar-chests in its attic--such a family can with difficultyoverdraw its social bank account. 

Dolly Witherspoon, the oldest daughter, had been Sylvia's rival forthe palm as the most beautiful girl in Castleman County. And Sylviahad triumphed, and Dolly had failed. So, in her secret heart shehated Sylvia, and the mother hated her; and yet--such was the socialgame--they had to invite Sylvia and her sister to theircard-parties, and Sylvia and her sister had to go. They had to goand be the most striking figures there: Celeste, slim and pale fromsorrow, virginal, in clinging white chiffon; and Sylvia, regal andsplendid, shimmering like a mermaid in a gown of emerald green. 

The mermaid imagined that she noticed a slight agitation underneaththe cordiality of her hostess. The next person to greet her was Mrs. Armistead; and Sylvia was sure that she did not imagine thesuppressed excitement in that lady's manner. But even while she wasspeculating and suspecting, she was led toward the drawing-room. Itwas late, her hostess explained; the other guests were waiting, soif they did not mind, the play would start at once. Celeste was tosit at that table over there, with Mr. Witherspoon's crippledbrother, and old Mr. Perkins, who was deaf; and Sylvia was to comethis way--the table in the corner. Sylvia moved toward it, and DollyWitherspoon and her sister, Emma, greeted her cordially, and thenstepped out of the way to let her to her seat; and Sylvia gave oneglance--and found herself face to face with Frank Shirley! 

22. Frank's face was scarlet; and Sylvia had a moment of blindterror, when she wanted to turn and fly. But there about her was thecircle of her enemies; a whole roomful of people, breathless withcuriosity, drinking in with eyes and ears every hint of distressthat she might give. And the next morning the whole town would, inimagination, attend the scene! 

"Good-evening, Julia, " said Sylvia, to Mrs. Witherspoon's youngestdaughter, the other lady at the table. "Good-evening, Malcolm"--toMalcolm McCallum, an old "beau" of hers. And then, taking the seatwhich 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 likethe sound of some old funeral bell to Sylvia; it sent the bloodleaping in torrents to her forehead. Oh, horrible, horrible! 

For a moment her eyes fell like his, and she shuddered, and wasbeaten. But there was the roomful of people, watching; there wasMrs. Armistead, there were the Witherspoon women gloating. Sheforced a tortured smile to her lips, and asked, "What are weplaying?" 

"Oh, didn't you know that?" said Julia. "Progressive whist. " 

"Thank-you, " said Sylvia. "When do we begin?" And she lookedabout--anywhere but at Frank Shirley, with his face grown so old infour years. 

No one said anything, no one made a move. Was everybody in the roomconspiring to break her down? "I thought we were late, " she said, desperately; and then, with another effort--"Shall I cut?" sheasked, of Julia. 

"If you please, " said the girl; but she did not make a motion topass the cards. Her manner seemed to say, You may cut all night, butit won't help you to rob me of this satisfaction. 

Sylvia made a still more determined effort. If the game was to bepostponed indefinitely, so that people might watch her andFrank--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 hiseyes. 

"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 itan old piece of imitation jewelry which she had picked up once onthe street, and had handed to him in jest. He had worn it all theseyears! He had not thrown it away--not even when she had thrown himaway! 

Again came a surge of emotion; and out of the mist she looked abouther and saw the faces of tormenting demons, leering. "Well, " shedemanded, "are we going to play?" 

"We were waiting for you to cut, " said Julia, graciously; andSylvia's fury helped to restore her self-posession. She cut thecards; and fate was kind, sparing both her and Frank the task ofdealing. 

But then a new difficulty arose. Julia dealt, and thirteen cards layin front of Frank Shirley; but he did not seem to know that he oughtto pick them up. And when the opposing lady called him to time, inwhat seemed an unnecessarily penetrating voice, he found that he wasphysically unable to get the cards from the table. And when with hisfumbling efforts he got them into a bunch, he could not straightenthem out--to say nothing of the labour of sorting them according tosuit, which all whist-players know to be an indispensablepreliminary to the game. When the opposing lady prodded him again, Frank's face changed from vivid scarlet to a dark and alarmingpurple. 

Miss Julia led the tray of clubs; and Frank, whose turn came next, spilled three cards upon the table, and finally selected from themthe king of hearts to play--hearts being trumps. "But you have aclub there, Mr. Shirley, " said his opponent; something that waspardonable, inasmuch as the nine of clubs lay face up where he hadshoved it aside. 

"Oh--I beg pardon, " he stammered, and took back his king, andreached into his hand and pulled out the six of clubs, and a diamondwith it. 

It was evident that this could not go on. Sylvia might be equal tothe emergency, but Frank was not. He was too much of a human beingand too little of a social automaton. Something must be done. 

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

And Sylvia lowered her cards. "Surely, my dear, you mustunderstand, " she said, gently. "Mr. Shirley is too much embarrassedto 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 hasseen me in more than three years. And when two people have been asmuch in love as he and I were, they are naturally disturbed whenthey meet, and cannot put their minds upon a game of cards. " 

Julia was speechless. And Sylvia let her glance wander casuallyabout the room. She saw her hostess and her daughters standingwatching; and near the wall at the other side of the room stood thehead-devil, who had planned this torment. 

"Mrs. Armistead, " Sylvia called, "aren't you going to playto-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--andlooked at the three Witherspoon ladies. 

"Dolly and Emma are staying out, " said Mrs. Witherspoon. "Two of ourguests did not come. " 

"Well, " Sylvia exclaimed, "that just makes it right! Please let themtake the place of Mr. Shirley and myself. You see, we haven't seeneach other for three or four years, and it's hard for us to getinterested into a game of cards. " 

The whole room caught its breath at once; and here and there oneheard a little squeak of hysteria, cut short by some one who was notsure whether it was a joke or a scandal. "Why--Sylvia!" stammeredMrs. Witherspoon, completely staggered. 

Then Sylvia perceived that she was mistress of the scene. There camethe old rapture of conquest, that made her social genius. "We haveso much that we want to talk about, " she said, in her most winningvoice. "Let Dolly and Emma take our places, and we will sit on thesofa in the other room and chat. You and Mrs. Armistead come andchaperone 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 tosay to each other; and you can tell everybody about itafterwards--and that will be so much better than having thecard-game delayed any more. " 

And with this side-swipe Sylvia arose. She stood and waited, to makesure that her ex-fiancé was not too paralysed to follow. She led himout through the tangle of card-tables; and in the door-way shestopped and waited for Mrs. Armistead and Mrs. Witherspoon, andliterally forced these two ladies to come with her out of the room. 

23. Do you care to hear the details of the punishment which Sylviaadministered to the two conspirators? She took them to the sofa, andmade Frank draw up chairs for them, and when she had got comfortablyseated, she proceeded to talk to Frank just as gently and sincerelyand touchingly as she would have talked if there had been nobodypresent. She asked about all that had befallen him, and when shediscovered that he was still not able to chat, she told him aboutherself, about her baby, who was beautiful and dear, even if she wasblind, and about all the interesting things she had seen in Europe. When presently the old ladies showed signs of growing restless, sheput hand cuffs on them and chained them to their chairs. 

"You see, " she said, "it would never do for Mr. Shirley and myselfto talk without a chaperon. You got me into this situation, youknow, and papa and mamma would never forgive you. " 

"You are mistaken, Sylvia!" cried Mrs. Witherspoon. "Mr. Shirley soseldom goes out, and he had said he didn't think he would come!" 

"I am willing to accept that explanation, " said Sylvia, politely, "but you must help me out now that the embarrassing accident hashappened. " 

Nor did it avail Mrs. Witherspoon to plead her guests and theirscore. "You may be sure they don't care about the score, " saidSylvia. "They'd much prefer you stayed here, so that you can tellthem how Frank and I behaved. " 

And then, while Mrs. Witherspoon was getting herself together, Sylvia turned upon the other conspirator. "We will now hold one ofmy eugenics classes, " she said, and added, to Frank, "Mrs. Armisteadtold me that you wanted to join my class. " 

"I don't understand, " replied Frank, at a loss. 

"I will explain, " said Sylvia. "It is not a very refined joke theyhave in the town. Mrs. Armistead meant to say that she credits adisgraceful story that was circulated about you when we wereengaged, and which my people made use of to make me break ourengagement. I am glad to have a chance to tell you that I haveinvestigated and satisfied myself that the story was not true. Iwant to apologise to you for ever having believed it; and I am surethat Mrs. Armistead may be glad of this opportunity to apologise forhaving said that she believed it. " 

"I never said that I believed it!" cried Sallie Ann. 

"No, you didn't, Mrs. Armistead--you would not be so crude as to sayit directly. You merely dropped a hint, which would lead everybodyto understand that you believed it. " 

Sylvia paused, just long enough to let the wicked lady suffer, butnot long enough to let her find a reply. "When you tell your friendsabout this scene, " she continued, "please make clear that I did notdrop hints about anything, but said exactly what I meant--that thestory is false, so far as it implies any evil done by Mr. Shirley, and that I am deeply ashamed of myself for having ever believed it. It is all in the past now, of course--we are both of us married, andwe shall probably never meet again. But it will be a help to us infuture to have had this little talk--will it not, Frank?" 

There was a pause, while Sallie Ann Armistead recovered from herdismay, and got back a little of her fighting power. Suddenly sherose: "Virginia, " she said, firmly, "you are neglecting yourguests. " 

"I don't think you ought to go until Frank has got himselftogether, " said Sylvia. "Frank, can you sort your cards now?" 

"Virginia!" commanded Sallie Ann, imperiously. "Come!" 

Mrs. Witherspoon rose, and so did Sylvia. "We can't stay herealone, " said she. "Frank, will you take Mrs. Witherspoon in?" Andshe gently but firmly took Mrs. Armistead's arm, and so they marchedback into the drawing-room. 

Dolly and Emma had progressed to separate tables, it developed, sothat the ordeal of Frank and Sylvia was over. Through the remainderof the evening Sylvia chatted and played, and later partook ofrefreshments with Malcolm McCallum, and mildly teased thatinconsolable bachelor, quite as in the old days. Now and then shestole a glance at Frank Shirley, and saw that he was holding up hisend; but he kept away from her, and she never even caught his eye. 

At last the company broke up, and Sylvia thanked her hostess for amost enjoyable evening. She stepped into the motor with Celeste, andsat with compressed lips, answering in monosyllables her "littlesister's" flood of excited questions--"Oh, Sylvia, didn't you feelperfectly _terrible?_ Oh, sister, I felt _thrills_ running up anddown my back! Sister, what _did_ you say to him? Sister, do you knowold Mr. Perkins kept leaning over me and asking what was happening;and how could I shout into his deaf ear that everybody was stoppingto hear what you were saying to Frank Shirley?" 

At the end of the ride, there was Aunt Varina waiting up asusual--to renew her own youth in the story of the evening, what thisperson had worn and what that person had said. But Sylvia left hersister to tell the story, and fled to her room and locked the door, and flung herself upon the bed and gave way to a torrent of weeping. 

Half an hour later Celeste went up, and finding that the doorbetween her room and Sylvia's was unlocked, opened it softly, andstood listening. Finally she stole to her sister's side and put herarm about her. "Never mind, sister dear, " she whispered, solemnly, "I know how it is! We women all have to suffer!"