CHAPTER XVIII
When the long, hideous night was over, and Edith lay, very white andstill, her wide, frightened eyes never leaving Sylvia's face, the doctor,gathering up his belongings, touched the latter lightly on the arm.
"She'll have to have constant care for several days, perfect quiet fortwo weeks at least. But if I send for a nurse--"
"I know. I'm sure I can do everything necessary for her. I've had someexperience with sickness before."
The doctor nodded, a look of relief and satisfaction passing over hisface. "I see that you have. Get her to drink this. She must have somesleep at once."
But when Sylvia, left alone with her, held the glass to Edith's lips, sheshrank back in terror.
"No, no, no! I don't want to go to sleep--I mustn't--I shall dream!"
"Dear child, you won't--and if you do, I shall be right here beside you,holding your hand like this, and you can feel it, and know that, afterall, dreams are slight things."
"You promise me?"
"Indeed I do."
"Oh, Sylvia, you're so brave--you told the doctor you'd taken care ofsome one that was sick before--who was it?"
It was Sylvia's turn to shudder, but she controlled it quickly, and spokevery quietly.
"I was married for two years to a man who finally died of deliriumtremens. No paid nurse--would have stayed with him--through certaintimes. I can't tell you about it, dear, and I'm trying hard to forgetit--you won't ask me about it again, will you?"
"Oh, _Sylvia_! Please forgive me! I--I didn't guess--I'll drink themedicine--or do anything else you say!"
So Edith fell asleep, and when she woke again, the sun was setting, andSylvia still sat beside her, their fingers intertwined. Sylvia lookeddown, smiling.
"The doctor has been here to see you, but you didn't wake, and we bothfelt it was better not to disturb you. He thinks that all is goingwell with you. Will you drink some milk, and let me bathe your faceand hands?"
"No--not--not yet. Have you really been here--all these hours?"
"Yes, dear."
"With no rest--nothing to eat or drink?"
"Oh, yes, Austin brought me my dinner, but I ate it sitting beside you,and wouldn't let him stay--he's so big, he can't help making a noise."
"Does he know?"
"Not yet."
"And father and mother?"
Sylvia was silent.
"Oh, Sylvia, I'm a wicked, wicked girl, but I'm not what you must think!I'm not a--a murderess! Peter came up behind me on the stairs in the darklast night, and spoke to me suddenly. It startled me--everything seems tohave startled me lately--and I slipped, and fell, and hurt myself--Ididn't do it on purpose."
"You poor child--you don't need to tell me that--I never would havebelieved it of you for a single instant." Then she added, in the strainedvoice which she could not help using on the very rare occasions when sheforced herself to speak of something that had occurred during hermarriage, but still as if she felt that no word which might give comfortshould be left unsaid, "Perhaps your mother has told you that the littlebaby who died when it was two weeks old wasn't the first thatI--expected. A fall or--or a blow--or any shock of--fear or grief--oftenends--in a disaster like this."
"Will the others believe me, too?"
"Of course they will. Don't talk, dear, it's going to be all right."
"I must talk. I've got to tell--I've got to tell _you_. And you canexplain--to the family. You always understand everything--and you neverblame anybody. I often wonder why it is--you're so good yourself--andyet you never say a word against any living creature, or let anybodyelse do it when you're around; but lots of girls, who've--done just whatI have--and didn't happen to get found out--are the ones who speak mostbitterly and cruelly--I know two or three who will be just _glad_ ifthey know--"
"They're not going to know."
"Then you will listen, and--and believe me--and _help_?"
"Yes, Edith."
"I thought it happened only in books, or when girls had no one to takecare of them--not to girls with fathers and mothers and goodhomes--didn't you, Sylvia?"
"No, dear. I knew it happened sometimes--oh, more often than_sometimes_--to girls--just like you."
"And what happens afterwards?"
Sylvia shuddered, but it was too dark in the carefully shuttered room forEdith to see her. She said quite quietly:
"That depends. In many cases--nothing dreadful."
"Ever anything good?"
"Yes, yes, _good_ things can happen. They can be _made_ to."
"Will you make good things happen to me?"
"I will, indeed I will."
"And not hate me?"
"Never that."
"May I tell you now?"
"If you believe that it will make you feel better; and if you willpromise, after you have told me, to let me give you the treatmentyou need."
"I promise--Do you remember that in the spring Hugh Elliott came to spenda couple of months with Fred?"
Sylvia's fingers twitched, but all she said was, "Yes, Edith."
"He used to be in love with Sally; but he got all over that. He said hewas in love with me. I thought he was--he certainly acted that way.Saying--fresh things, and--and always trying to touch me--and--that's theway men usually do when they begin to fall in love, isn't it, Sylvia?"
"No, darling, not _usually_--not--some kinds of men." And Sylvia'sthoughts flew back, for one happy instant, to the man who had knelt ather feet on Christmas night. "But--I know what you mean--"
"And--I liked it. I mean, I thought the talk was fun to listen to, andthat the--rest was--oh, Sylvia, do you understand--"
"Yes, dear, I understand."
"And he was awfully jolly, and gave me such a good time. I felt flatteredto think he didn't treat me like a child, that he paid me more attentionthan the older girls."
"Yes, Edith."
"And I thought what fun it would be to marry him, instead of some slow,poky farmer, and have a beautiful house, and servants, and lovelyclothes. I kept thinking, every night, he would ask me to; but he didn't.And finally, one time, just before we got home after a dance, he said--hewas going away in the morning."
"Yes, Edith."
"Oh, I was so disappointed, and sore, and--angry! That was it, just plainangry. I had been going with Jack all along when Hugh didn't come for me,and Jack came the very night after Hugh went away, and took me for a longride. He told me how terribly jealous he had been, and how thankful hewas that Hugh was out of the way at last, and that Peter was going, too.So I laughed, and said that Peter didn't count at all, and that I hatedHugh--of course neither of those things was true, but I was so hurt, Ifelt _I'd_ like to hurt somebody, too. And finally, I blurted out howmean Hugh had been, to make me think he cared for me, when he wasjust--having a good time. Then Jack said, 'Well, _I_ care about you--I'mjust crazy over you.' 'I don't believe you,' I said; 'I'll never believeany man again.' Just to tease him--that was all.' I'll show you whether Ilove you,' he said, and began to kiss me. I think he had beendrinking--he does, you know. Of course, I ought to have stopped him, butI--had let Hugh--it meant a lot to me, too--the first time. But after Ifound it didn't mean anything to him--it didn't seem to matter--if someone else _did_--kiss me--I was flattered--and pleased--and--comforted.You mustn't think that what--happened afterwards--was all Jack's fault. Ithink I could have stopped it even then--if he'd been sober, anyway. ButI didn't guess--I never dreamed--how far you could--get carried away--andhow quickly. Oh, Sylvia, why didn't somebody tell me? At home--in thesunshine--with people all around you--it's like another world--you'relike another person--than when there's nothing but stillness and darknesseverywhere, and a man who loves you, pleading, with his arms around you--
"And afterwards I thought no one would ever know. Jack thought so, too.Besides, you see, he is crazy to marry me--he'd give anything to. But Iwouldn't marry him for anything in the world--whatever happened--thegreat ignorant, dirty drunkard! Only he isn't unkind--or cowardly--don'
tthink that--or let the others think so! He's willing to take his shareof the blame--he's _sorry_--
"Then, just a little while ago--I began to be afraid of--what hadhappened. But I didn't know much about that, either. I thought, some way,I might be mistaken--I hoped so, anyhow. I wanted to come--and tell youall about it--but I didn't dare. I never saw you kiss Austin butonce--you're so quiet when you're with him, Sylvia, and other people arearound--and it was--it was just like--_a prayer_. After seeing that, I_couldn't_ come to you--with my story--unless _I had_ to--I felt as if itwould be just like throwing mud on a flower.
"Then, yesterday, after the work was done, Peter asked me to go to walkwith him. It was so late, when he and Austin got home, that I hadscarcely seen him. I was going upstairs, in the dark, and I didn't knowthat he was anywhere near--it frightened me when he called. So--so Islipped--and fell--all the way down. I knew, right away, that I washurt; but, of course, I didn't guess how much. I went to walk with himjust the same, because it seemed as if it--would feel good to be withPeter--he's always been so--well, I can't explain--_so square_. Andwhile we were out, I began to feel sick--and now, of course, he'll neverbe willing--to take me to walk--to be seen anywhere with me again! Ican't bear it! I mind--not having been square to him--more than anythingelse--more than half-killing mother, even! Oh, Sylvia, tell them,please, _quickly_! and have it over with--tell them, too, that it was myown fault--don't forget that part! And then take me away with you, whereI won't see them--or any one else I know--and teach me to be good--evenif you can't help me to forget!"
* * * * *
Two hours later, when Edith was sleeping again, Mrs. Gray came into theroom with a mute, haggard expression on her kind, homely face whichSylvia never forgot, and put her arms around the younger woman.
"Austin's askin' for you, dearie. It's been a hard day for him, too--Ithink you ought to go to him. I'll sit here until you come back."
Sylvia nodded, and stole silently out of the room. Austin was waiting forher at the foot of the stairs, his smile of welcome changing to anexpression of stern solicitude as he looked at her.
"Have you been seeing ghosts? You're whiter than chalk--no wonder, shutup in that hot, dark room all day, without any rest and almost withoutany food! No matter if Edith does want you most, you'll have to taketurns with mother after this. Come out with me where it's cool for alittle while--and then you must have some supper, and a bath, andSally's room to sleep in--if you won't go home, which is really the bestplace for you."
She allowed him to lead her, without saying a word, to the shelteredslope of the river, and sat down under a great elm, while he flunghimself down beside her, laying his head in her lap.
"Sylvia--just think--less than three weeks now! It's been running throughmy head all day--I've almost got it down to hours, minutes, andseconds--What's the matter with Edith, anyway? Father and mother are asdumb as posts."
"The matter is--oh, my darling boy--I might as well tell you at once--wecan't--I've got to go away with Edith. Austin, you must wait forme--another year--" And her courage giving out completely, she threwherself into his arms, and sobbed out the tragic story.
The Old Gray Homestead Page 18