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 evidence 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?" 

"Your wife," I said, "must be put in position to protect herself in
future. There is no means of making sure in such a matter, except to
tell her the truth. You love her--and you are a man who has never
been accustomed to do without what he wants." 

"Great God, woman!" he cried. "Don't you suppose one blind child is
enough?" 

It was the first human word that he had spoken, and I was grateful
for it. "I have already covered that point," I said, in a low voice.
"The medical books are full of painful evidence that several blind
children are often not enough. There can be no escaping the
necessity--Sylvia must _know._ The only question is, who shall tell
her? You must realize that in urging you to be the person, I am
thinking of your good as well as hers. I will, of course, not
mention that I have had anything to do with persuading you, and so
it will seem to her that you have some realization of the wrong you
have done her, some desire to atone for it, and to be honourable and
fair in your future dealings with her. When she has once been made
to realize that you are no more guilty than other men of your
class--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 my
wife!" 

"If you continue to resent my existence," I answered, gravely, "you
will 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 realize
it is quite possible that you were not wholly to blame when you
wrote to Bishop Chilton that you were fit to marry; I know that you
may have believed it--that you might even have found physicians to
tell you so. There is wide-spread ignorance on the subject of this
disease. Men have the idea that the chronic forms of it cannot be
communicated to women, and it is difficult to make them realize what
modern investigations have proven. You can explain that to Sylvia,
and I will back you up in it. You were in love with her, you wanted
her. Go to her now, and admit to her honestly that you have wronged
her. Beg her to forgive you, and to let you help make the best of
the 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 remarkable
proposition. My answer is that I must ask you to withdraw from this
intimate matter, which concerns only my wife and myself." 

He was back where we started! Trying to sweep aside these grim and
terrible realities with the wave of a conventional hand! Was this
the way he met Sylvia's arguments? I felt moved to tell him what I
thought of him. 

"You are a proud man, Mr. van Tuiver--an obstinate man, I fear. It
is hard for you to humble yourself to your wife--to admit a crime
and beg forgiveness. Tell me--is that why you hesitate? Is it
because you fear you will have to take second place in your family
from 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 not
help any man to hold such a position in a woman's life. Women have
to bear half the burdens of marriage, they pay half, or more than
half, the penalties; and so it is necessary that they have a voice
in its affairs. Until they know the truth, they can never have a
voice." 

Of course my little lecture on Feminism might as well have been
delivered to a sphinx. "How stupid you are!" I cried. "Don't you know
that some day Sylvia must find out the truth for herself?" 

This was before the days when newspapers and magazines began to
discuss such matters frankly; but still there were hints to be
picked up. I had a newspaper-item in my bag--the board of health in
a certain city had issued a circular giving instructions for the
prevention of blindness in newly-born infants, and discussing the
causes thereof; and the United States post office authorities had
barred the circular from the mails. I said, "Suppose that item had
come under Sylvia's eyes; might it not have put her on the track. It
was in her newspaper the day before yesterday; and it was only by
accident that I got hold of it first. Do you suppose that can go on
forever?" 

"Now that I am here," he replied, "I will be glad to relieve you of
such responsibilities." 

Which naturally made me cross. I drew from my quiver an arrow that I
thought would penetrate his skin. "Mr. van Tuiver," I said, "a man
in your position must always be an object of gossip and scandal.
Suppose some enemy were to send your wife an anonymous letter? Or
suppose there were some woman who thought that you had wronged her?"

I stopped. He gave me one keen look--and then again the impenetrable
mask! "My wife will have to do as other women in her position
do--pay no attention to scandal-mongers of any sort." 

I paused, and then went on: "I believe in marriage. I consider it a
sacred thing; I would do anything in my power to protect and
preserve a marriage. But I hold that it must be an equal
partnership. I would fight to make it that; and wherever I found
that it could not be that, I would say it was not marriage, but
slavery, and I would fight just as hard to break it. Can you not
understand that attitude upon a woman's part?" 

He gave no sign that he could understand. But still I would not give
up my battle. "Mr. van Tuiver," I pleaded, "I am a much older person
than you. I have seen a great deal of life--I have seen suffering
even worse than yours. And I am trying most earnestly to help you.
Can you not bring yourself to talk to me frankly? Perhaps you have
never talked with a woman about such matters--I mean, with a good
woman. But I assure you that other men have found it possible, and
never regretted the confidence they placed in me." 

I went on to tell him about my own sons, and what I had done for
them; I told him of a score of other boys in their class who had
come to me, making me a sort of mother-confessor. I do not think
that I was entirely deceived by my own eloquence--there was, I am
sure, a minute or two when he actually wavered. But then the habits
of a precocious life-time reasserted themselves, and he set his lips
and told himself that he was Douglas van Tuiver. Such things might
happen in raw Western colleges, but they were not according to the
Harvard manner, nor the tradition of life in Fifth Avenue clubs. 

He could not be a boy! He had never had any boyhood, any
childhood--he had been a state personage ever since he had known
that he was anything. I found myself thinking suddenly of the
thin-lipped old family lawyer, who had had much to do with shaping
his character, and whom Sylvia described to me, sitting at her
dinner-table and bewailing the folly of people who "admitted
things." That was what made trouble for family lawyers--not what
people did, but what they admitted. How easy it was to ignore
impertinent questions! And how few people had the wit to do it!-it
seemed as if the shade of the thin-lipped old family lawyer were
standing by Douglas van Tuiver's side. 

In a last desperate effort, I cried, "Even suppose that I grant your
request, even suppose I agree not to tell Sylvia the truth--still
the day will come when you will hear from her the point-blank
question: 'Is my child blind because of this disease?' And what will
you answer?" 

He said, in his cold, measured tones, "I will answer that there are
a thousand ways in which the disease can be innocently acquired." 

For a long time there was silence between us. At last he spoke
again, and his voice was as emotionless as if we had just met: "Do I
understand you, madam, that if I reject your advice and refuse to
tell my wife what you call the truth, it is your intention to tell
her 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 it
over--to consult with the doctors, in case you wish to. I will not
take the step without giving you fair notice." 

"For that I am obliged to you," he said, with a touch of irony; and
that was our last word. 

26. Our island was visible in the distance and I was impatient for
the time when I should be free from this man's presence. But as we
drew nearer, I noticed a boat coming out; it proved to be one of the
smaller launches heading directly for us. Neither van Tuiver nor I
spoke, 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 made
out that its passengers were Dr. Perrin and Dr. Gibson. 

We slowed up, and the other boat did the same, and they lay within a
few feet of each other. Dr. Perrin greeted van Tuiver, and after
introducing the other man, he said: "We came out to have a talk with
you. Would you be so good as to step into this boat?" 

"Certainly," was the reply. The two launches were drawn side by
side, and the transfer made; the man who was running the smaller
launch stepped into ours--evidently having been instructed in
advance. 

"You will excuse us please?" said the little doctor to me. The man
who had stepped into our launch spoke to the captain of it, and the
power was then put on, and we moved away a sufficient distance to be
out of hearing. I thought this a strange procedure, but I
conjectured that the doctors had become nervous as to what I might
have told van Tuiver. So I dismissed the matter from my mind, and
spent my time reviewing the exciting adventure I had just passed
through. 

How much impression had I made? It was hard for me to judge such a
man. He would pretend to be less concerned than he actually was. But
surely he must see that he was in my power, and would have to give
way in the end! 

There came a hail from the little vessel, and we moved alongside
again. "Would you kindly step in here with us, Mrs. Abbott?" said
Dr. Perrin, and when I had done so, he ordered the boatman to move
away once more. Van Tuiver said not a word, but I noted a strained
look upon his face, and I thought the others seemed agitated also. 

As soon as the other vessel was out of hearing, Dr. Perrin turned to
me and said: "Mrs. Abbott, we came out to see Mr. van Tuiver, to
warn him of a distressing accident which has just happened. Mrs. van
Tuiver was asleep in her room, and Miss Lyman and another of the
nurses were in the next room. They indiscreetly made some remarks on
the subject which we have all been discussing--how much a wife
should be told about these matters, and suddenly they discovered
Mrs. 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 is
trying to find out. She asked to see you." 

"Ah, yes!" I said. 

"She declared that she wished to see you as soon as you
returned--that she would not see anyone else, not even Mr. van
Tuiver. You will understand that this portends trouble for all of
us. 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 no
longer a question of abstract ideas, but of an immediate emergency.
We feel that we, as the physicians in charge of the case, have the
right to take control of the matter. We do not see----" 

"Dr. Perrin," I said, "let us come to the point. You want me to spin
a new web of deception?" 

"We are of the opinion, Mrs. Abbott, that in such matters the
physicians 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 the
proposition 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 the
opinion 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 it
were a question of telling her deliberately, it might be better to
put it off for a while. I would have been willing to wait for
months, but for the fact that I dreaded something like the present
situation. Now that it has happened, surely it is best to use our
opportunity while all of us are here and can persuade her to take
the kindest attitude towards her husband." 

"Madam!" broke in Dr. Gibson. (He was having difficulty in
controlling his excitement.) "You are asking us to overstep the
bounds of our professional duty. It is not for the physician to
decide upon the attitude a wife should take toward her husband." 

"Dr. Gibson," I replied, "that is what you propose to do, only you
wish to conceal the fact. You would force Mrs. van Tuiver to accept
your 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 own
convictions and think of her health. You are the only person who can
calm 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 knows
too much to be deceived for very long. You know what a mind she
has--a lawyer's mind! How can I persuade her that the nurses--why, I
do 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 have
forgotten some of it? Sylvia has not forgotten, you may be
sure--every word is burned with fire into her brain. She has put
with this everything she ever heard on the subject--the experience
of her friend, Harriet Atkinson-all that I've told her in the past
about such things----" 

"Ah!" growled Dr. Gibson. "That's it! If you had not meddled in the
beginning----" 

"Now, now!" said the other, soothingly. "You ask me to relieve you
of the embarrassment of this matter. I quite agree with Mrs. Abbott
that there is too much ignorance about these things, but she must
recognise, I am sure, that this is not the proper moment for
enlightening Mrs. van Tuiver." 

"I do not recognise it at all," I said. "If her husband will go to
her 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 something
loathsome--some kind of criminal----" 

"Of course she would be shocked," I said, "but she has the coolest
head of anyone I know--I do not think of any man I would trust so
fully to take a rational attitude in the end. We can explain to her
what extenuating circumstances there are, and she will have to
recognise 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 of
this case----" 

Dr. Perrin managed to frown him down, and went on trying to placate
me. But through the argument I could hear the old man muttering in
his collar a kind of double bass _pizzicato_: "Suffragettes!
Fanatics! Hysteria! Woman's Rights!" 

27. The breeze was feeble, and the sun was blazing hot, but
nevertheless I made myself listen patiently for a while. They had
said 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 van
Tuiver's presence. 

"Dr. Perrin," I exclaimed, "even supposing we make the attempt to
deceive her, we have not one plausible statement to make----" 

"You are mistaken, Mrs. Abbott," said he. "We have the perfectly
well-known fact that this disease is often contracted in ways which
involve no moral blame. And in this case I believe I am in position
to state how the accident happened." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I don't know whether you heard that just before Mrs. van Tuiver's
confinement, I was called away to one of the other keys to attend a
negro-woman. And since this calamity has befallen us, I have
realized that I was possibly not as careful in sterilizing my
instruments as I might have been. It is of course a dreadful thing
for any physician to have to believe----" 

He stopped, and there was a long silence. I gazed from one to
another of the men. Two of them met my gaze; one did not. "He is
going to let you say that?" I whispered, at last. 

"Honour and fairness compel me to say it, Mrs. Abbott. I
believe----" 

But I interrupted him. "Listen to me, Dr. Perrin. You are a
chivalrous gentleman, and you think you are helping a man in
desperate need. But I say that anyone who would permit you to tell
such a tale is a contemptible coward!" 

"Madam," cried Dr. Gibson, furiously, "there is a limit even to a
woman's rights!" 

A silence followed. At last I resumed, in a low voice, "You
gentlemen have your code: you protect the husband--you protect him
at all hazards. I could understand this, if he were innocent of the
offence in question; I could understand it if there were any
possibility of his being innocent. But how can you protect him, when
you 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 let
me remind you of one circumstance, which is known to Dr.
Perrin--that I came to this place with the definite information that
symptoms of the disease were to be anticipated. Dr. Perrin knows
that I told that to Dr. Overton in New York. Has he informed you of
it?" 

There was an awkward interval. I glanced at van Tuiver, and I saw
that he was leaning forward, staring at me. I thought he was about
to speak, when Dr. Gibson broke in, excitedly, "All this is beside
the mark! We have a serious emergency to face, and we are not
getting anywhere. As the older of the physicians in charge of this
case----" 

And he went on to give me a lecture on the subject of authority. He
talked 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 say
when 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 her
right to freedom and knowledge! 

28. "I have always been positive," Dr. Gibson was saying, "but the
present discussion has made me more positive than ever. As the older
of the physicians in charge of this case, I say most emphatically
that 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 to
speak. And so I heard once more his cold, deliberate voice. "We have
done all we can. There can no longer be any question as to the
course 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 been
rather wild at that moment. 

"You left my home of your own free will. I think I need hardly point
out to you that I am not compelled to invite you back to it." 

"And what will Sylvia----" I stopped; appalled at the vista the
words opened up. 

"My wife," said van Tuiver, "will ultimately choose between her
husband and her most remarkable acquaintance." 

"And you gentlemen?" I turned to the others. "You would give your
sanction to this outrageous action?" 

"As the older of the physicians in charge of this case----" began
Dr. Gibson. 

I turned to van Tuiver again. "When your wife finds out what you
have 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 shall
get 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 I
ask if she has sufficient money in her purse to take her to New
York?" 

I could not help laughing. The thing was so wild--and yet I could
see 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," I
replied. "If she does go, it will not be with Mr. van Tuiver's
money." 

"One thing more," said Dr. Perrin. It was the first time he had
spoken since van Tuiver's incredible announcement. "I trust, Mrs.
Abbott, that this unfortunate situation may at all costs be
concealed from servants, and from the world in general." 

From which I realized how badly I had them frightened. They actually
saw 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 be
overborne, and that you will regret it some day." 

He made no answer. Douglas van Tuiver put an end to the discussion
by rising and signalling the other launch. When it had come
alongside, he said to the captain, "Mrs. Abbott is going back to the
railroad. You will take her at once." 

Then he waited; I was malicious enough to give him an anxious moment
before 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 with
us any longer." 

I think it was something to my credit that I was able to play out
the game before the boatmen. "I am sorry, too," I countered. "I am
hoping I shall be able to return." 

And then came the real ordeal. "Good-bye, Mrs. Abbott," said Douglas
van Tuiver, with his stateliest bow; and I managed to answer him! 

As I took my seat, he beckoned his secretary. There was a whispered
consultation for a minute or two, and then the master returned to
the smaller launch with the doctors. He gave the word, and the two
vessels set out--one to the key, and the other to the railroad. The
secretary went in the one with me! 

29. And here ends a certain stage of my story. I have described
Sylvia as I met her and judged her; and if there be any reader who
has been irked by this method, who thinks of me as a crude and
pushing person, disposed to meddle in the affairs of others, here is
where that reader will have his satisfaction and revenge. For if
ever a troublesome puppet was jerked suddenly off the stage--if ever
a long-winded orator was effectively snuffed out--I was that puppet
and that orator. I stop and think--shall I describe how I paced up
and down the pier, respectfully but emphatically watched by the
secretary? And all the melodramatic plots I conceived, the muffled
oars and the midnight visits to my Sylvia? My sense of humour
forbids it. For a while now I shall take the hint and stay in the
background of this story. I shall tell the experiences of Sylvia as
Sylvia herself told them to me long afterwards; saying no more about
my own fate--save that I swallowed my humiliation and took the next
train 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 her
husband and herself; how desperately she tried to avoid discussing
the issue with him--out of her very sense of fairness to him. But he
came to her room, in spite of her protest, and by his implacable
persistence he made her hear what he had to say. When he had made up
his mind to a certain course of action, he was no more to be
resisted 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 some
statements that I must be permitted to make, and there are simply no
two ways about it--you must get yourself together and hear me." 

"Let me see Mary Abbott!" she insisted, again and again. "It may not
be what you want--but I demand to see her." 

So at last he said, "You cannot see Mrs. Abbott. She has gone back
to New York." And then, at her look of consternation: "That is one
of 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 a
chair for her. "Will you not pleased to be seated," he said. And at
last she turned, rigidly, and seated herself. 

"The time has come," he declared, "when we have to settle this
question of Mrs. Abbott, and her influence upon your life. I have
argued with you about such matters, but now what has happened makes
further discussion impossible. You were brought up among people of
refinement, and it has been incredible to me that you should be
willing to admit to your home such a woman as this--not merely of
the commonest birth, but without a trace of the refinement to which
you have been accustomed. And now you see the consequences of your
having brought such a person into our life!" 

He paused. She made no sound, and her gaze was riveted upon the
window-curtain. 

"She happens to be here," he went on, "at a time when a dreadful
calamity befalls us--when we are in need of the utmost sympathy and
consideration. Here is an obscure and terrible affliction, which has
baffled the best physicians in the country; but this ignorant
farmer's wife considers that she knows all about it. She proceeds to
discuss it with every one--sending your poor aunt almost into
hysterics, setting the nurses to gossiping--God knows what else she
has done, or what she will do, before she gets through. I don't
pretend to know her ultimate purpose--blackmail, possibly----" 

"Oh, how can you!" she broke out, involuntarily. "How can you say
such a thing about a friend of mine?" 

"I might answer with another question--how can you have such a
friend? A woman who has cast off every restraint, every
consideration of decency--and yet is able to persuade a daughter of
the Castlemans to make her an intimate! Possibly she is an honest
fanatic. 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 to
the most obscene and hideous explanation of this misfortune of
ours--an explanation which pleased her because it blackened the
honour of a man." 

He stopped again. Sylvia's eyes had moved back to the
window-curtain. 

"I am not going to insult your ears," he said, "with discussions of
her 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 knows
about the case. But I wish you to realize somehow what this thing
has meant to me. I have managed to control myself----" He saw her
shut her lips more tightly. "The doctors tell me that I must not
excite you. But picture the situation. I come to my home, bowed down
with grief for you and for my child. And this mad woman thrusts
herself forward, shoves aside your aunt and your physicians, and
comes in the launch to meet me at the station. And then she accuses
me of being criminally guilty of the blindness of my child--of
having wilfully deceived my wife! Think of it--that is my welcome to
my home!" 

"Douglas," she cried, wildly, "Mary Abbott would not have done such
a thing without reason----" 

"I do not purpose to defend myself," he said, coldly. "If you are
bent upon filling your mind with such matters, go to Dr. Perrin. He
will tell you that he, as a physician, knows that the charge against
me is preposterous. He will tell you that even granting that the
cause of the blindness is what Mrs. Abbott guesses, there are a
thousand ways in which such an infection can be contracted, which
are perfectly innocent, involving no guilt on the part of anyone.
Every doctor knows that drinking-cups, wash-basins, towels, even
food, can be contaminated. He knows that any person can bring the
affliction into a home--servants, nurses, even the doctors
themselves. Has your mad woman friend told you any of that?" 

"She has told me nothing. You know that I have had no opportunity to
talk with her. I only know what the nurses believe----" 

"They believe what Mrs. Abbott told them. That is absolutely all the
reason 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--this
is 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 nurse
unless 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 the
conclusion that pleased her, because it involved the humiliation of
a rich man." 

He went on, his voice trembling with suppressed passion: "When you
know the real truth, the thing becomes a nightmare. You, a delicate
woman, lying here helpless--the victim of a cruel misfortune, and
with the life of an afflicted infant depending upon your peace of
mind. Your physicians planning day and night to keep you quiet, to
keep the dreadful, unbearable truth from you----" 

"Oh, what truth? That's the terrifying thing--to know that people
are keeping things from me! What _was_ it they were keeping?" 

"First of all, the fact that the baby was blind; and then the cause
of it----" 

"Then they _do_ know the cause?" 

"They don't know positively--no one can know positively. But poor
Dr. Perrin had a dreadful idea, that he had to hide from you because
otherwise 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 away
to the case of a negro-woman--you knew that, did you not?" 

"Go on." 

"He had the torturing suspicion that possibly he was not careful
enough in sterilizing his instruments, and that he, your friend and
protector, 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 she
stretched out her hands to him, crying desperately: "Oh, is this
true?" 

He did not take the outstretched hands. "Since I am upon the
witness-stand, I have to be careful of my replies. It is what Dr.
Perrin tells me. Whether the explanation he gives is the true
one--whether he himself, or the nurse he recommended, may have
brought the infection----" 

"It couldn't have been the nurse," she said quickly. "She was so
careful----" 

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 to
both you and my friend. Of course, if Mary Abbott was mistaken, I
have done you a great injustice--" 

He saw that she was softening, and that it was safe for him to be a
man. "It has been with some difficulty that I have controlled myself
throughout this experience," he said, rising to his feet. "If you do
not mind, I think I will not carry the discussion any further, as I
don't feel that I can trust myself to listen to a defence of that
woman from your lips. I will only tell you my decision in the
matter. I have never before used my authority as a husband; I hoped
I should never have to use it. But the time has come when you will
have to choose between Mary Abbott and your husband. I will
positively not tolerate your corresponding with her, or having
anything further to do with her. I take my stand upon that, and
nothing will move me. I will not even permit of any discussion of
the subject. And now I hope you will excuse me. Dr. Perrin wishes me
to tell you that either he or Dr. Gibson are ready at any time to
advise you about these matters, which have been forced upon your
mind against their judgment and protests." 

2. You can see that it was no easy matter for Sylvia to get at the
truth. The nurses, already terrified because of their indiscretion,
had been first professionally thrashed, and then carefully drilled
as to the answers they were to make. But as a matter of fact they
did not have to make any answers at all, because Sylvia was
unwilling to reveal to anyone her distrust of her husband. 

One of two things was certain: either she had been horribly wronged
by her husband, or now she was horribly wronging him. Which was the
truth? Was it conceivable that I, Mary Abbott, would leap to a false
conclusion about such a matter? She knew that I felt intensely,
almost fanatically, on the subject, and also that I had been under
great emotional stress. Was it possible that I would have voiced
mere suspicions to the nurses? Sylvia could not be sure, for my
standards were as strange to her as my Western accent. She knew that
I talked freely to everyone about such matters--and would be as apt
to select the nurses as the ladies of the house. On the other hand,
how was it conceivable that I could know positively? To recognize a
disease might be easy; but to specify from what source it had
come--that was surely not in my power! 

They did not leave her alone for long. Mrs. Tuis came in, with her
feminine terrors. "Sylvia, you must know that you are treating your
husband dreadfully! He has gone away down the beach by himself, and
has 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 grief
because of this affliction; and you overwhelm him with the most
cruel and wicked reproaches with charges you have no way in the
world 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 sees
her! If I loved him--" Then, seeing her aunt's face of horror, she
was seized with a sudden impulse of pity, and caught the poor old
lady in her arms. "Aunt Varina," she said, "I am making you suffer,
I know--I am making everyone suffer! But if you only knew how I am
suffering myself! How can I know what to do." 

Mrs. Tuis was weeping; but quickly she got herself together, and
answered in a firm voice, "Your old auntie can tell you what to do.
You must come to your senses, my child--you must let your reason
prevail. Get your face washed, make yourself presentable, and come
and take your husband to see your baby. Women have to suffer, dear;
we must not shirk our share of life's burdens." 

"There is no danger of my shirking," said Sylvia, bitterly. 

"Come, dear, come," pleaded Mrs. Tuis. She was trying to lead the
girl to the mirror. If only she could be made to see how distraught
and disorderly she looked! "Let me help you to dress, dear--you know
how much better it always makes you feel." 

Sylvia laughed, a trifle wildly--but Mrs. Tuis had dealt with
hysteria before. "What would you like to wear?" she demanded. And
then, without waiting for an answer, "Let me choose something. One
of your pretty frocks." 

"A pretty frock, and a seething volcano underneath! That is your
idea of a woman's life!" 

The other responded very gravely, "A pretty frock, my dear, and a
smile--instead of a vulgar scene, and ruin and desolation
afterwards." 

Sylvia made no reply. Yes, that was the life of woman--her old aunt
knew! And her old aunt knew also the psychology of her sex. She did
not go on talking about pretty frocks in the abstract; she turned at
once to the clothes-closet, and began laying pretty frocks upon the
bed! 

3. Sylvia emerged upon the "gallery," clad in dainty pink muslin,
her beautiful shiny hair arranged under a semi-invalid's cap of pink
maline. Her face was pale, and the big red-brown eyes were hollow;
but she was quiet, and apparently mistress of herself again. She
even humoured Aunt Varina by leaning slightly upon her feeble arm,
while the maid hastened to place her chair in a shaded spot. 

Her husband came, and the doctors; the tea-things were brought, and
Aunt Varina poured tea, a-flutter with excitement. They talked about
the comparative temperatures of New York and the Florida Keys, and
about hedges of jasmine to shade the gallery from the evening sun.
And after a while, Aunt Varina arose, explaining that she would
prepare Elaine for her father's visit. In the doorway she stood for
a moment, smiling upon the pretty picture; it was all settled
now--the outward forms had been observed, and the matter would end,
as such matters should end between husband and wife--a few tears, a
few reproaches, and then a few kisses. 

The baby was made ready, with a new dress, and a fresh silk bandage
to cover the pitiful, lifeless eyes. Aunt Varina had found pleasure
in making these bandages; she made them soft and pretty--less
hygienic, perhaps, but avoiding the suggestion of the hospital. 

When Sylvia and her husband came into the room, the faces of both of
them were white. Sylvia stopped near the door-way; and poor Aunt
Varina fluttered about, in agony of soul. When van Tuiver went to
the cradle, she hurried to his side, and sought to awaken the little
one with gentle nudges. Quite unexpectedly to her, van Tuiver sought
to pick up the infant; she helped him, and he stood, holding it
awkwardly, as if afraid it might go to pieces in his arms. 

So any man might appear, with his first infant; but to Sylvia it
seemed the most tragic sight she had ever seen in her life. She gave
a low cry, "Douglas!" and he turned, and she saw his face was
working with the feeling he was ashamed for anyone to see. "Oh,
Douglas," she whispered, "I'm so _sorry_ for you!" At which Aunt
Varina decided that it was time for her to make her escape. 

4. But the trouble between these two were not such as could be
settled by any burst of emotion. The next day they were again in a
dispute, for he had come to ask her word of honour that she would
never see me again, and would give him my letters to be returned
unopened. This last was what she had let her father do in the case
of Frank Shirley; and she had become certain in her own mind that
she had done wrong. 

But he was insistent in his demand; declaring that it should be
obvious to her there could be no peace of mind for him so long as my
influence continued in her life. 

"But surely," protested Sylvia, "to hear Mary Abbott's
explanation----" 

"There can be no explanation that is not an insult to your husband,
and to those who are caring for you. I am speaking in this matter
not merely for myself, but for your physicians, who know this woman,
heard her menaces and her vulgarity. It is their judgment that you
should be protected at all hazards from further contact with her." 

"Douglas," she argued, "you must realize that I am in distress of
mind about this matter----" 

"I certainly realize that." 

"And if you are thinking of my welfare, you should choose a course
that would set my mind at rest. But when you come to me and ask me
that I should not even read a letter from my friend--don't you
realize what you suggest to me, that there is something you are
afraid for me to know?" 

"I do not attempt to deny my fear of this woman. I have seen how she
has been able to poison your mind with suspicions----" 

"Yes, Douglas--but now that has been done. What else is there to
fear from her?" 

"I have no idea what. She is a bitter, jealous woman, with a mind
full of hatred; and you are an innocent girl, who cannot judge about
these matters. What idea have you of the world in which you live, of
the slanders to which a man in your husband's position is exposed?" 

"I am not quite such a child as that----" 

"You have simply no idea, I tell you. I remember your consternation
when we first met, and I told you about the woman who had written me
a begging letter, and got an interview with me, and then started
screaming, and refused to leave the house till I had paid her a lot
of money. You had never heard such stories, had you? Yet it is the
kind of thing that is happening to rich men continually; it was one
of the first rules I was taught, never to let myself be alone with a
strange woman, no matter of what age, or under what circumstances." 

"But, I assure you, I would not listen to such people----" 

"You are asking right now to listen! And you would be influenced by
her--you could not help it, any more than you can help being
distressed about what she has already said. She intimated to Dr.
Perrin that she believed that I had been a man of depraved life, and
that my wife and child were now paying the penalty. How can I tell
what vile stories concerning me she may not have heard? How could I
have any peace of mind while I knew that she was free to pour them
into your ear?"