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

We came to a little bay, where the power was shut off, and we glided
towards the shore. There was a boat-house, a sort of miniature
dry-dock, with a gate which closed behind us. I had visions of
Sylvia waiting to meet me, but apparently our arrival had not been
noted, and for this I was grateful. There were seats in the
boat-house, and I sank into one, and asked the man to wait a few
minutes while I recovered myself. When I got up and went to the
house, what I found made me quickly forget that I had such a thing
as a body. 

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

But then I saw it was the English maid, whom I had come to know in
New 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 the
house was going to be washed away! Oh, my lady, it's the loveliest
baby!" 

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

"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 thoughts
together. "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 opened
upon it, and we entered one of them, and by the dim-shaded light I
saw a white-clad woman bending over a crib. "Miss Lyman, this is
Mrs. Abbott," said the maid. 

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

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

It is the form in which the miracle of life becomes most apparent to
us, and dull indeed must be he who can encounter it without being
stirred to the depths. To see, not merely new life come into the
world, but life which has been made by ourselves, or by those we
love--life that is a mirror and copy of something dear to us! To see
this tiny mite of warm and living flesh, and to see that it was
Sylvia! To trace each beloved lineament, so much alike, and yet so
different--half a portrait and half a caricature, half sublime and
half ludicrous! The comical little imitation of her nose, with each
dear little curve, with even a remainder of the tiny groove
underneath the tip, and the tiny corresponding dimple underneath the
chin! The soft silken fuzz which was some day to be Sylvia's golden
glory! The delicate, sensitive lips, which were some day to quiver
with feeling! I gazed at them and saw them moving, I saw the breast
moving--and a wave of emotion swept over me, and the tears
half-blinded me as I knelt. 

But I could not forget the reason for my coming. It meant little
that the child was alive and seemingly well; I was not dealing with
a disease which, like syphilis, starves and deforms in the very
womb. The little one was asleep, but I moved the light so as to
examine its eyelids. Then I turned to the nurse and asked: "Miss
Lyman, 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 into
them?" 

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

"It's an important precaution," I replied; "there are always
possibilities 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 sensed
some of the emotion I was trying to conceal. 

"It might be very serious," I said. "I really ought to have a talk
with 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, to
have a chance to get myself together. But suddenly I heard a rustle
of skirts in the doorway behind me, and turned and saw a white-clad
figure; an elderly gentlewoman, slender and fragile, grey-haired and
rather 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 to
a hand at parting. 

She was a very prim and stately little lady, and I think she did not
intend to shake hands; but I felt pretty certain that under her
coating 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 help
smiling. A few months ago, "the little stranger," and now "our
babe"! 

She bent over the cradle, with her dear old sentimental, romantic
soul 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 my
own!" 

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

She rose, and suddenly remembering hospitality, asked me as to my
present needs. Then she said, "I must go and see to sending some
telegrams." 

"Telegrams?" I inquired. 

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

"You haven't informed them?" 

"We couldn't send any smaller boat on account of the storm. We must
telegraph 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 of
Sylvia's skill in social lying! "Every newly-born infant ought to be
examined by a specialist, you know; there may be a particular
_rГ©gime,_ 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's
anything the matter?" 

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

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

I was too polite to offer the suggestion that "dear Douglas" might
be finding ways to amuse himself. The next moment I heard steps
approaching on the veranda, and turned to meet the nurse with the
doctor. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps not. But it is not necessary to wait, in such a matter. You
have 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 omitted
to provide something so essential!" 

There was nothing left of the little man's affability now. "In the
first place," he said, "I must remind you that I did not come to
attend a confinement case. I came to look after Mrs. van Tuiver's
condition 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 in
one contingency." 

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

"Madam, I have visited hospitals, and I think I know something of
what 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 it
on hand." 

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

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

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

I held the baby for him, while he made an examination. He admitted
that there seemed to be ground for uneasiness. His professional
dignity 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 get
some 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 Key
West." 

"And how long will that take?" 

"It depends upon the sea. In good weather it takes us eight hours to
go and return." I could not repress a shudder. The child might be
blind 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 I
ventured to add the hint that Mr. van Tuiver would hardly wish
expense to be considered in such an emergency; and in the end, I
persuaded the doctor not merely to telegraph for the great surgeon,
but to ask a hospital in Atlanta to send the nearest eye-specialist
by the first train. 

We called back Mrs. Tuis, and I apologized abjectly for my
presumption, and Dr. Perrin announced that he thought he ought to
see Dr. Overton, and another doctor as well. I saw fear leap into
Aunt Varina's eyes. "Oh, what is it?" she cried. "What is the matter
with 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 in
her book of fate for that night! 

15. I find myself lingering over these preliminaries, dreading the
plunge into the rest of my story. We spent our time hovering over
the child's crib, and in two or three hours the little eyelids had
become so inflamed that there could no longer be any doubt what was
happening. We applied alternate hot and cold cloths; we washed the
eyes 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 these
measures. In a couple of hours more the eyes were beginning to exude
pus, 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 quickly
prevented 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 out
wildly: "What _right_ have you?" 

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

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

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

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

"Mrs. Tuis," said the doctor, interfering, "we are not yet sure what
the trouble is, we only wish to take precautions. It is really
imperative 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 dialect
as herself, and with the same quaint stateliness. A charming little
Southern gentleman--I could realise how Douglas van Tuiver had
"picked him out for his social qualities." In the old-fashioned
Southern medical college where he had got his training, I suppose
they had taught him the old-fashioned idea of gonorrhea. Now he was
acquiring our extravagant modern notions in the grim school of
experience! 

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

"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 if
that was according to the ethics of the situation, but the words
came. 

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

The poor, poor lady! 

"She might as well understand now as later," he continued. "She will
have 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 a
woman." 

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

"Mrs. Tuis, you may remember a circumstance which your niece
mentioned to me--that just before her marriage she urged you to have
certain inquiries made as to Mr. van Tuiver's health, his fitness
for marriage?" 

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

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

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

"You--you mean--" she stammered, her voice hardly a whisper. "Oh--it
is impossible!" Then, with a flare of indignation: "Do you realise
what you are implying--that Mr. van Tuiver--" 

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

She cowered and swayed before me, hiding her face in her hands. I
heard her sobbing and murmuring incoherent cries to her god. I took
the 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 and
chivalry, and all the rest of the highfalutin romanticism of the
South, I said: "Mrs Tuis, it is necessary that you should get
yourself together. You have a serious duty before you--that you owe
both to Sylvia and her child." 

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

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

"Very well," she murmured. She was really a brave little body, but
I, not knowing her, and thinking only of the peril, was cruel in
hammering things into her consciousness. Finally, I left her, seated
upon the steps of the deserted boat-house, rocking back and forth
and sobbing softly to herself--one of the most pitiful figures it
has ever been my fortune to encounter in my pilgrimage through a
world of sentimentality and incompetence. 

16. I went back to the house, and because we feared the sounds of
the infant's crying might carry, we hung blankets before the doors
and 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, staring
from one to another of us with wide eyes of fright. 

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

In the doorway I paused for an instant to gaze at her. She was
exquisite, lying there with the flush of sleep still upon her, and
the ecstasy of her great achievement in her face. I fled to her, and
we caught each other in our arms. "Oh, Mary, Mary! I'm so glad
you'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 to
tell 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 really
so?" 

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

"Mary," she went on, half whispering, "I think it solves all my
problems--all that I wrote you about. I don't believe I shall ever
be unhappy again. I can't believe that such a thing has really
happened--that I've been given such a treasure. And she's my own! I
can watch her little body grow and help to make it strong and
beautiful! I can help mould her little mind--see it opening up, one
chamber of wonder after another! I can teach her all the things I
have 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 be
dissatisfied with anything afterwards would be an ingrate!" She
paused, then added: "Mary, now she's here in flesh, I feel she'll be
a bond between Douglas and me. He must see her rights, her claim
upon life, as he couldn't see mine." 

I assented gravely. So that was the thing she was thinking most
about--a bond between her husband and herself! A moment later the
nurse 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 has
to be explained." 

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

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

"Well, then?" she said. 

"Nothing, only the doctor's had to put some salve on them, and they
don'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's
something I made the doctor do, and you mustn't blame me, or I'll be
sorry 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 a
sudden?" 

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

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

"Yes, dear," I said. (Such a difficult person to deceive!) "To tell
the truth, I'm pretty nearly done up. You see, I was caught in the
storm, 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. I
came to see one Sylvia and I found two!" 

"Isn't it absurd," she cried, "how she looks like me? Oh, I want to
see 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 to
squeeze her in my arms all the time. Just think, Mary, they won't
let 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 the
child 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've
just had to interfere with his arrangements, and he'll be getting
cross pretty soon." 

"Oh," she cried with laughter in her eyes, "you've had a scene with
him? 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've
shocked your aunt beyond all hope." 

"What have you done?" 

"I've talked about things I'd no business to--I've bossed the
learned doctor--and I'm sure Aunt Varina has guessed I'm not a
lady." 

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

But I could not keep up the game any longer. "Not now, dear," I
said. "It's a long story, and I really am exhausted. I must go and
get 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 I
was out of sight of the doorway, I literally ran. At the other end
of the veranda I sank down upon the steps, and wept softly to
myself. 

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

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

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

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

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

"What is that?" 

"It's _me._" Then, seeing her look of bewilderment, "You must tell
her that I've affronted you, Mrs. Tuis; I've outraged your sense of
propriety. You're indignant with me and you don't see how you can
remain 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 I
have been so rude--" 

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

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

Then I spoke harshly, seeing that I would actually have to shock
her. "I assure you, Mrs. Tuis, that if you don't feel that way about
me, it's simply because you don't know the truth. It is not possible
that you would consider me a proper person to visit Sylvia. I don't
believe in your religion; I don't believe in anything that you would
call religion, and I argue about it at the least provocation. I
deliver violent harangues on street-corners, and have been arrested
during a strike. I believe in woman's suffrage, I even argue in
approval of window-smashing. I believe that women ought to earn
their own living, and be independent and free from any man's
control. I am a divorced woman--I left my husband because I wasn't
happy with him, what's more, I believe that any woman has a right to
do the same--I'm liable to teach such ideas to Sylvia, and to urge
her 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 it
already, but she will be horrified, because I have let you and the
doctor 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 just
a wee bit of powder--not enough to be noticed, you understand----" 

I took her to the wash-stand, and poured out some cold water for
her, and saw her bathe her eyes and face, and dry them, and braid
her thin grey hair. While with a powder puff I was trying deftly to
conceal the ravages of the night's crying, the dear lady turned to
me, and whispered in a trembling voice, "Mrs. Abbott, you really
don'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 to
leave her husband?" 

18. In the course of the day we received word that Dr. Gibson, the
specialist for whom we had telegraphed, was on his way. The boat
which brought his message took back a letter from Dr. Perrin to
Douglas van Tuiver, acquainting him with the calamity which had
befallen. We had talked it over and agreed that there was nothing to
be gained by telegraphing the information. We did not wish any hint
of 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 that
the victim of his misdeeds should be kept in ignorance. Already the
little man had begun to drop hints to me on this subject.
Unfortunate accidents happened, which were not always to be blamed
upon the husband, nor was it a thing to contemplate lightly, the
breaking up of a family. I gave a non-committal answer, and changed
the subject by asking the doctor not to mention my presence in the
household. If by any chance van Tuiver were to carry his sorrows to
Claire, 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 of
saving any remnant of the sight, but the child might be so fortunate
as to escape disfigurement--it did not appear that the eyeballs
were destroyed, as happens generally in these cases. This bit of
consolation I still have: that little Elaine, who sits by me as I
write, has left in her pupils a faint trace of the soft
red-brown--just enough to remind us of what we have lost, and keep
fresh in our minds the memory of these sorrows. If I wish to see
what her eyes might have been, I look above my head to the portrait
of Sylvia's noble ancestress, a copy made by a "tramp artist" in
Castleman County, and left with me by Sylvia. 

There was the question of the care of the mother--the efforts to
stay the ravages of the germ in the tissues broken and weakened by
the strain of child-birth. We had to invent excuses for the presence
of 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 the
child. It would be a calamity to have to put it upon the bottle, but
on the other hand, there were many precautions necessary to keep the
infection from spreading. 

I remember vividly the first time that the infant was fed: all of us
gathered round, with matter-of-course professional air, as if these
elaborate hygienic ceremonies were the universal custom when
newly-born infants first taste their mothers' milk. Standing in the
background, I saw Sylvia start with dismay, as she noted how pale
and thin the poor little one had become. It was hunger that caused
the whimpering, so the nurse declared, busying herself in the
meantime to keep the tiny hands from the mother's face. The latter
sank back and closed her eyes--nothing, it seemed, could prevail
over the ecstasy of that first marvellous sensation, but afterwards
she asked that I might stay with her, and as soon as the others were
gone, 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 possible
sources 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--this
mystery--this vagueness!" 

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

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

"My dear Sylvia," I chided, "if you worry about it you will simply
be 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 under
which lying is necessary, but always when we come to the lies we
find them an insult to the soul. Each day I perceived that I was
getting in deeper--and each day I watched Aunt Varina and the doctor
busied 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. "I
expect no failure in your supply of the necessary tact." By this
vagueness we perceived that he too was trusting no secrets to
telegraph operators. Yet for us it was explicit and illuminative. It
recalled the tone of quiet authority I had noted in his dealings
with his chauffeur, and it sent me off by myself for a while to
shake my fist at all husbands. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I could not help smiling. "My dear Mrs. Tuis, what do you imagine
you know about the prevalence of gonorrhea? Consider just one
fact--that I heard a college professor state publicly that in his
opinion eighty-five per cent. of the men students at his university
were infected with some venereal disease. And that is the pick of
our 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 could
get them to tell you. My two sons studied at a State university, and
they would bring me home what they heard--the gossip, the slang, the
horrible obscenity. Fourteen fellows in one dormitory using the same
bathroom--and on the wall you saw a row of fourteen syringes! And
they told that on themselves, it was the joke of the campus. They
call the disease a 'dose'; and a man's not supposed to be worthy the
respect of his fellows until he's had his 'dose'--the sensible thing
is to get several, till he can't get any more. They think it's 'no
worse than a bad cold'; that's the idea they get from the
'clap-doctors,' and the women of the street who educate our sons in
sex matters." 

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

"That is what is going on among our boys," I said. "The Castleman
boys, the Chilton boys! It's going on in every fraternity house,
every 'prep school' dormitory in America. And the parents refuse to
know, 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 the
young girls." 

She whispered, aghast, "You would rob the young girls of their
innocence. Why, with their souls full of these ideas their faces
would soon be as hard--oh, you horrify me!" 

"My daughter's face is not hard," I said. "And I taught her. Stop
and think, Mrs. Tuis--ten thousand blind children every year! A
hundred thousand women under the surgeon's knife! Millions of women
going to pieces with slowly creeping diseases of which they never
hear the names! I say, let us cry this from the housetops, until
every woman knows--and until every man knows that she knows, and
that unless he can prove that he is clean he will lose her! That is
the remedy, Mrs. Tuis!" 

Poor dear lady! I got up and went away, leaving her there, with
clenched hands and trembling lips. I suppose I seemed to her like
the mad women who were just then rising up to horrify the
respectability of England--a phenomenon of Nature too portentous to
be comprehended, or even to be contemplated, by a gentlewoman of the
South! 

20. There came in due course a couple of letters from Douglas van
Tuiver. The one to Aunt Varina, which was shown to me, was vague and
cautious--as if the writer were uncertain how much this worthy lady
knew. He merely mentioned that Sylvia was to be spared every
particle of "painful knowledge." He would wait in great anxiety, but
he would not come, because any change in his plans might set her to
questioning. 

The letter to Dr. Perrin was not shown to me; but I judged that it
must have contained more strenuous injunctions. Or had Aunt Varina
by any chance got up the courage to warn the young doctor against
me? His hints, at any rate, became more pointed. He desired me to
realize how awkward it would be for him, if Sylvia were to learn the
truth; it would be impossible to convince Mr. van Tuiver that this
knowledge had not come from the physician in charge. 

"But, Dr. Perrin," I objected, "it was I who brought the information
to you! And Mr. van Tuiver knows that I am a radical woman; he would
not expect me to be ignorant of such matters." 

"Mrs. Abbott," was the response, "it is a grave matter to destroy
the possibility of happiness of a young married couple." 

However I might dispute his theories, in practice I was doing what
he asked. But each day I was finding the task more difficult; each
day it became more apparent that Sylvia was ceasing to believe me. I
realized at last, with a sickening kind of fright, that she knew I
was hiding something from her. Because she knew me, and knew that I
would not do such a thing lightly, she was terrified. She would lie
there, gazing at me, with a dumb fear in her eyes--and I would go on
asseverating blindly, like an unsuccessful actor before a jeering
audience. 

A dozen times she made an effort to break through the barricade of
falsehood; and a dozen times I drove her back, all but crying to
her, "No, No! Don't ask me!" Until at last, late one night, she
caught 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 know
why--because I'll make myself ill. But it won't do any longer; it's
preying on me, Mary--I've taken to imagining things. So you must
tell me the truth!" 

I sat, avoiding her eyes, beaten; and in the pause I could feel her
hands 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 bad
as you imagine--" 

"Tell me what it is!" 

"But it is bad, Sylvia. And you must be brave. You must be, for your
baby's sake." 

"Make haste!" she cried. 

"The baby," I said, "may be blind." 

"Blind!" There we sat, gazing into each other's eyes, like two
statues of women. But the grasp of her hand tightened, until even my
big fist was hurt. "Blind!" she whispered again. 

"Sylvia," I rushed on, "it isn't so bad as it might be! Think--if
you had lost her altogether!" 

"_Blind!_" 

"You will have her always; and you can do things for her--take care
of her. They do wonders for the blind nowadays--and you have the
means; to do everything. Really, you know, blind children are not
unhappy--some of them are happier than other children, I think. They
haven't so much to miss. Think--" 

"Wait, wait," she whispered; and again there was silence, and I
clung 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 let
yourself 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 of
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."