thousands of babies that become blind! It's a dreadful accident that
happens." So I went on--possessed with a dread that had been with me
for days, that had kept me awake for hours in the night: Had I, in
any of my talks with Sylvia about venereal disease, mentioned
blindness in infants as one of the consequences? I could not
rememher; but now was the time I would find out!
She lay there, immovable, like a woman who had died in grief; until
at 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 make
you laugh."
"Laugh, Mary?"
"Yes-I will tell you about the quarrel between Aunt Varina and
myself. You know what times we've been having-how I shocked the poor
lady?"
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 to
give you something else to think about!"
And then suddenly I saw the healing tears begin to come. She could
not weep for her own grief-but she could weep because of what she
knew we two had had to suffer for her!
21. I went out and told the others what I had done; and Mrs. Tuis
rushed 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 will
of the Lord."
Later on came Dr. Perrin, and it was touching to see how Sylvia
treated him. She had, it appeared, conceived the idea that the
calamity must be due to some blunder on his part, and then she had
reflected that he was young, and that chance had thrown upon him a
responsibility for which he had not bargained. He must be
reproaching himself bitterly, so she had to persuade him that it was
really not so bad as we were making it-that a blind child was a
great joy to a mother's soul-in some ways even a greater joy than a
perfectly sound child, because it appealed so to her protective
instinct! I had called Sylvia a shameless payer of compliments, and
now I went away by myself and wept.
Yet it was true in a way. When the infant was brought in to be
nursed again, how she clung to it, a very picture of the sheltering
and protecting instinct of motherhood! She knew the worst now--her
mind was free, and she could partake of what happiness was allowed
her. The child was hers to love and care for, and she would find
ways to atone to it for the harshness of fate.
So little by little we got our existence upon a working basis. We
lived a peaceful, routine life, to the music of cocoanut-palms
rustling in the warm breezes which blew incessantly off the Mexican
Gulf. Aunt Varina had, for the time, her undisputed way with the
family; her niece reclined upon the veranda in true Southern lady
fashion, and was read aloud to from books of indisputable
respectability. I remember Aunt Varina selected the "Idylls of the
King," 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, after
a pale and unhappy heroine.
I remember the long discussions of this point, the family-lore which
Aunt Varina brought forth. It did not seem to her quite the thing to
call a blind child after a member of one's family. Something
strange, romantic, wistful--yes, Elaine was the name! Mrs. Tuis, it
transpired, had already baptised the infant, in the midst of the
agonies and alarms of its illness. She had called it "Sylvia," and
now she was tremulously uncertain whether this counted--whether
perhaps the higher powers might object to having to alter their
records. But in the end a clergyman came out from Key West and heard
Aunt Varina's confession, and gravely concluded that the error might
be corrected by a formal ceremony. How strange it all seemed to
me--being carried back two or three hundred years in the world's
history! But I gave no sign of what was going on in my rebellious
mind.
22. Dr. Overton on his return to New York, sent a special nurse to
take charge of Sylvia's case. There was also an infant's nurse, and
both had been taken into the doctor's confidence. So now there was
an elaborate conspiracy--no less than five women and two men, all
occupied in keeping a secret from Sylvia. It was a thing so contrary
to my convictions that I was never free from the burden of it for a
moment. Was it my duty to tell her?
Dr. Perrin no longer referred to the matter--I realised that both he
and Dr. Gibson considered the matter settled. Was it conceivable
that anyone of sound mind could set out, deliberately and in cold
blood, to betray such a secret? But I had maintained all my life the
right of woman to know the truth, and was I to back down now, at the
first test of my convictions?
When the news reached Douglas van Tuiver that his wife had been
informed of the infant's blindness, there came a telegram saying
that he was coming. There was much excitement, of course, and Aunt
Varina came to me, in an attempt to secure a definite pledge of
silence. When I refused it, Dr. Perrin came again, and we fought the
matter over for the better part of a day and night.
He was a polite little gentleman, and he did not tell me that my
views were those of a fanatic, but he said that no woman could see
things in their true proportion, because of her necessary ignorance
concerning the nature of men, and the temptations to which they were
exposed. I replied that I believed I understood these matters
thoroughly, and I went on, quite simply and honestly, to make clear
to him that this was so. In the end my pathetically chivalrous
little Southern gentleman admitted everything I asked. Yes, it was
true that these evils were ghastly, and that they were increasing,
and that women were the worst sufferers from men. There might even
be something in my idea that the older women of the community should
devote themselves to this service, making themselves race-mothers,
and helping, not merely in their homes, but in the schools and
churches, to protect and save the future generations. But all that
was in the future, he argued, while here was a case which had gone
so far that "letting in the light" could only blast the life of two
people, making it impossible for a young mother ever again to
tolerate the father of her child. I argued that Sylvia was not of
the hysterical type, but I could not make him agree that it was
possible to predict what the attitude of any woman would be. His
ideas were based on one peculiar experience he had had--a woman
patient who had said to him: "Doctor, I know what is the matter with
me, 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 leave
him!"
23. The Master-of-the-House was coming! You could feel the quiver of
excitement in the air of the place. The boatmen were polishing the
brasses of the launch; the yard-man was raking up the dry strips of
palm from beneath the cocoanut trees; Aunt Varina was ordering new
supplies, and entering into conspiracies with the cook. The nurses
asked me timidly, what was He like, and even Dr. Gibson, a testy old
gentleman who had clashed violently with me on the subject of
woman's suffrage, and had avoided me ever since as a suspicious
character, now came and confided his troubles. He had sent home for
a trunk, and the graceless express companies had sent it astray. Now
he was wondering if it was necessary for him to journey to Key West
and have a suit of dinner clothes made over night. I told him that I
had not sent for any party-dresses, and that I expected to meet Mr.
Douglas van Tuiver at his dinner-table in plain white linen. His
surprise was so great that I suspected the old gentleman of having
wondered whether I meant to retire to a "second-table" when the
Master-of-the-House arrived.
I went away by myself, seething with wrath. Who was this great one
whom we honoured? Was he an inspired poet, a maker of laws, a
discoverer of truth? He was the owner of an indefinite number of
millions of dollars--that was all, and yet I was expected, because
of my awe of him, to abandon the cherished convictions of my
lifetime. The situation was one that challenged my fighting blood.
This was the hour to prove whether I really meant the things I
talked.
On the morning of the day that van Tuiver was expected, I went early
to Aunt Varina's room. She was going in the launch, and was in a
state 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 Tuiver
instead 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 she
finally hinted, it might not be agreeable to Mr. van Tuiver. I was
sorry 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 she
concluded that van Tuiver was the man to handle me, and the quicker
he got at it the better.
It is a trying thing to deal with the rich and great. If you treat
them as the rest of the world does, you are a tuft-hunter; if you
treat them as the rest of the world pretends to, you are a
hypocrite; whereas, if you deal with them truly, it is hard not to
seem, even to yourself, a bumptious person. I remember trying to
tell 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 is
excited?"
"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 out
upon the platform, followed by his secretary and his valet. I went
forward to meet him. "Good morning, Mr. van Tuiver."
I saw at once that he did not remember me. "Mrs. Abbott," I
prompted. "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 was
on the side of caution.
"Your wife is doing well," I said, "and the child as well as could
be expected."
"Thank you," he said. "Did no one else come?"
"Mrs. Tuis was not able," I said, diplomatically, and we moved
towards the launch.
24. He did not offer to help me into the vessel, but I, crude
Western woman, did not miss the attention. We seated ourselves in
the 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 like
to 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's
motion, made it certain that no one could hear us, and so I began my
attack: "Mr. van Tuiver, I am a friend of your wife's. I came here
to help her in this crisis, and I came to-day to meet you because it
was necessary for someone to talk to you frankly about the
situation. 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. After
waiting, I continued: "Perhaps you will wonder why your wife's
physicians could not have handled the matter. The reason is, there
is a woman's side to such questions and often it is difficult for
men to understand it. If Sylvia knew the truth, she could speak for
herself; so long as she does not know it, I shall have to take the
liberty of speaking for her."
Again there was a pause. He did nothing more than watch me, yet I
could feel his affronted maleness rising up for battle. I waited on
purpose 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 the
flicker of an eyelash any sign of uneasiness.
"Let me explain one thing," I continued. "I owe it to Dr. Perrin to
make clear that he had nothing whatever to do with my coming into
possession of the secret. In fact, as he will no doubt tell you, I
knew it before he did; it is possible that you owe it to me that the
infant 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. So
far, the secret has been kept from her. I consented to this, because
her very life was at stake, it seemed to us all. But now she is well
enough to know, and the question is SHALL she know. I need hardly
tell you that Dr. Perrin thinks she should not, and that he has been
using his influence to persuade me to agree with him; so also has
Mrs. Tuis----"
Then I saw the first trace of uncertainty in his eyes. "There was a
critical time," I explained, "when Mrs. Tuis had to be told. You may
be sure, however, that no hint of the truth will be given by her. I
am the only person who is troubled with the problem of Sylvia's
rights."
I waited. "May I suggest, Mrs.--Mrs. Abbott--that the protection of
Mrs. van Tuiver's rights can be safely left to her physicians and
her husband?"
"One would wish so, Mr. van Tuiver, but the medical books are full
of eviden
ce that women's rights frequently need other protection."
I perceived that he was nearing the end of his patience now. "You
make it difficult for me to talk to you," he said. "I am not
accustomed to having my affairs taken out of my hands by strangers."
"Mr. van Tuiver," I replied, "in this most critical matter it is
necessary to speak without evasion. Before her marriage Sylvia made
an attempt to safeguard herself in this very matter, and she was not
dealt with fairly."
At last I had made a hole in the mask! His face was crimson as he
replied: "Madam, your knowledge of my private affairs is most
astonishing. May I inquire how you learned these things?"
I did not reply at once, and he repeated the question. I perceived
that this was to him the most important matter--his wife's lack of
reserve!
"The problem that concerns us here," I said, "is whether you are
willing to repair the error you made. Will you go frankly to your
wife and admit your responsibility----"
He broke in, angrily: "Madam, the assumption you are making is one I
see no reason for permitting."
"Mr. van Tuiver," said I, "I hoped that you would not take that line
of argument. I perceive that I have been _naive._"
"Really, madam!" he replied, with cruel intent, "you have not
impressed me so!"
I continued unshaken: "In this conversation it will be necessary to
assume that you are responsible for the presence of the disease."
"In that case," he replied, haughtily, "I can have no further part
in 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 the
end he would have to come and ask for terms. But that would have
seemed childish to me, with the grave matters we had to settle.
After a minute or two, I said, quietly: "Mr. van Tuiver, you wish me
to believe that previous to your marriage you had always lived a
chaste life?"
He was equal to the effort it cost to control himself. He sat
examining me with his cold grey eyes. I suppose I must have been as
new and monstrous a phenomenon to him as he was to me.
At last, seeing that he would not reply, I said, coldly: "It will
help us to get forward if you will give up the idea that it is
possible for you to put me off, or to escape this situation."
"Madam," he cried, suddenly, "come to the point! What is it that you
want? Money?"
I had thought I was prepared for everything; but this was an aspect
of his world which I could hardly have been expected to allow for. I
stared at him and then turned from the sight of him. "And to think
that Sylvia is married to such a man!" I whispered, half to myself.
"Mrs. Abbott," he exclaimed, "how can anyone understand what you are
driving at?"
But I turned away without answering, and for a long time sat gazing
over the water. What was the use of pleading with such a man? What
was the use of pouring out one's soul to him? I would tell Sylvia
the truth at once, and leave him to her!
25. I heard him again, at last; he was talking to my back, his tone
a trifle less aloof. "Mrs. Abbott, do you realize that I know
nothing whatever about you--your character, your purpose, the nature
of your hold upon my wife? So what means have I of judging? You
threaten me with something that seems to me entirely insane--and
what can I make of it? If you wish me to understand you, tell me in
plain 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 to
go to your wife and tell her the truth."
He took a few moments to make sure of his self-possession. "And
would you explain what good you imagine that could do?"
Sylvia's Marriage Page 15