see me upon her return to New York.
"There is much that has happened that I do not understand," she
added. "For the present, however, I shall try to dismiss it from my
mind. I am sure you will agree that it is right for me to give a
year to being a mother; as I wish you to feel perfectly at peace in
the meantime, I mention that it is my intention to be a mother only,
and not a wife. I am showing this letter to my husband before I mail
it, so that he may know exactly what I am doing, and what I have
decided to do in the future."
"Of course," he said, after reading this, "you may send the letter,
if you insist--but you must realize that you are only putting off
the issue."
She made no reply; and at last he asked, "You mean you intend to
defy me in this matter?"
"I mean," she replied, quietly, "that for the sake of my baby I
intend to put off all discussion for a year."
7. I figured that I should hear from Claire Lepage about two days
after I reached New York; and sure enough, she called me on the
'phone. "I want to see you at once," she declared; and her voice
showed the excitement under which she was labouring.
"Very well," I said, "come down."
She entered my little living-room. It was the first time she had
ever visited me, but she did not stop for a glance about her; she
did not even stop to sit down. "Why didn't you tell me that you knew
Sylvia Castleman?" she cried.
"My dear woman," I replied, "I was not under the least obligation to
tell you."
"You have betrayed me!" she exclaimed, wildly.
"Come, Claire," I said, after I had looked her in the eye a bit to
calm her. "You know quite well that I was under no bond of secrecy.
And, besides, I haven't done you any harm."
"Why did you do it?" I regret to add that she swore.
"I never once mentioned your name, Claire."
"How much good do you imagine that does me? They have managed to
find out everything. They caught me in a trap."
I reminded myself that it would not do to show any pity for her.
"Sit down, Claire," I said. "Tell me about it."
She cried, in a last burst of anger, "I don't want to talk to you!"
"All right," I answered. "But then, why did you come?"
There was no reply to that. She sat down. "They were too much for
me!" she lamented. "If I'd had the least hint, I might have held my
own. As it was--I let them make a fool of me."
"You are talking hieroglyphics to me. Who are 'they'?"
"Douglas, and that old fox, Rossiter Torrance."
"Rossiter Torrance?" I repeated the name, and then suddenly
remembered. The thin-lipped old family lawyer!
"He sent up his card, and said he'd been sent to see me by Mary
Abbot. Of course, I had no suspicion--I fell right into the trap. We
talked about you for a while--he even got me to tell him where you
lived; and then at last he told me that he hadn't come from you at
all, but had merely wanted to find out if I knew you, and how
intimate we were. He had been sent by Douglas; and he wanted to know
right away how much I had told you about Douglas, and why I had done
it. Of course, I denied that I had told anything. Heavens, what a
time he gave me!"
Claire paused. "Mary, how could you have played such a trick upon
me?"
"I had no thought of doing you any harm," I replied. "I was simply
trying to help Sylvia."
"To help her at any expense!"
"Tell me, what will come of it? Are you afraid they'll cut off your
allowance?"
"That's the threat."
"But will they carry it out?"
She sat, gazing at me resentfully. "I don't know whether I ought to
trust you any more," she said.
"Do what you please about that," I replied. "I don't want to urge
you."
She hesitated a bit longer, and then decided to throw herself upon
my mercy. They would not dare to carry out their threat, so long as
Sylvia had not found out the whole truth. So now she had come to beg
me to tell no more than I had already told. She was utterly abject
about it. I had pretended to be her friend, I had won her confidence
and listened to her confessions; how did I wish to ruin her utterly,
to have her cast out on the street?
Poor Claire! I said in the early part of my story that she
understood the language of idealism; but I wonder what I have told
about her that justifies this. The truth is, she was going down so
fast that already she seemed a different person; and she had been
frightened by the thin-lipped old family lawyer, so that she was
incapable of even a decent pretence.
"Claire," I said, "there is no need for you to go on like this. I
have not the slightest intention of telling Sylvia about you. I
cannot imagine the circumstances that would make me want to tell
her. Even if I should do it, I would tell her in confidence, so that
her husband would never have any idea----"
She went almost wild at this. To imagine that a woman would keep
such a confidence! As if she would not throw it at her husband's
head the first time they quarreled! Besides, if Sylvia knew this
truth, she might leave him; and if she left him, Claire's hold on
his money would be gone.
Over this money we had a long and lachrymose interview. And at the
end of it, there she sat gazing into space, baffled and bewildered.
What kind of a woman was I? How had I got to be the friend of Sylvia
van Tuiver? What had she seen in me, and what did I expect to get
out of her? I answered briefly; and suddenly Claire was overwhelmed
by a rush of curiosity--plain human curiosity. What was Sylvia like?
Was she as clever as they said? What was the baby like, and how was
Sylvia taking the misfortune? Could it really be true that I had
been visiting the van Tuivers in Florida, as old Rossiter Torrance
had implied?
Needless to say, I did not answer these questions freely. And I
really think my visitor was more pained by my uncommunicativeness
than she was by my betrayal of her. It was interesting also to
notice a subtle difference in her treatment of me. Gone was the
slight touch of condescension, gone was most of the familiarity! I
had become a personage, a treasurer of high state secrets, an
intimate of the great ones! There must be something more to me than
Claire had realized before!
Poor Claire! She passes here from this story. For years thereafter I
used to catch a glimpse of her now and then, in the haunts of the
birds of gorgeous plumage; but I never got a chance to speak to her,
nor did she ever call on me again. So I do not know if Douglas van
Tuiver still continues her eight thousand a year. All I can say is
that when I saw her, her plumage was as gorgeous as ever, and its
style duly certified to the world that it had not been held over
from a previous season of prosperity. Twice I thought she had been
drinking too much; but then--so had many of the other ladies with
the little glasses of bright-coloured l
iquids before them.
8. For the rest of that year I knew nothing about Sylvia except what
I read in the "society" column of my newspaper--that she was
spending the late summer in her husband's castle in Scotland. I
myself was suffering from the strain of what I had been through, and
had to take a vacation. I went West; and when I came back in the
fall, to plunge again into my work, I read that the van Tuivers, in
their yacht, the "Triton," were in the Mediterranean, and were
planning to spend the winter in Japan.
And then one day in January, like a bolt from the blue, came a
cablegram from Sylvia, dated Cairo: "Sailing for New York, Steamship
'Atlantic,' are you there, answer."
Of course I answered. And I consulted the sailing-lists, and waited,
wild with impatience. She sent me a wireless, two days out, and so I
was at the pier when the great vessel docked. Yes, there she was,
waving her handkerchief to me; and there by her side stood her
husband.
It was a long, cold ordeal, while the ship was warped in. We could
only gaze at each other across the distance, and stamp our feet and
beat our hands. There were other friends waiting for the van
Tuivers, I saw, and so I held myself in the background, full of a
thousand wild speculations. How incredible that Sylvia, arriving
with her husband, should have summoned me to meet her!
At last the gangway was let down, and the stream of passengers began
to flow. In time came the van Tuivers, and their friends gathered to
welcome them. I waited; and at last Sylvia came to me--outwardly
calm--but with her emotions in the pressure of her two hands. "Oh,
Mary, Mary!" she murmured. "I'm so glad to see you! I'm so glad to
see you!"
"What has happened?" I asked.
Her voice went to a whisper. "I am leaving my husband."
"Leaving your husband!" I stood, dumbfounded.
"Leaving him for ever, Mary."
"But--but----" I could not finish the sentence. My eyes moved to
where he stood, calmly chatting with his friends.
"He insisted on coming back with me, to preserve appearances. He is
terrified of the gossip. He is going all the way home, and then
leave me."
"Sylvia! What does it mean?" I whispered.
"I can't tell you here. I want to come and see you. Are you living
at the same place?"
I answered in the affirmative.
"It's a long story," she added. "I must apologise for asking you to
come here, where we can't talk. But I did it for an important
reason. I can't make my husband really believe that I mean what I
say; and you are my Declaration of Independence!" And she laughed,
but a trifle wildly, and looking at her suddenly, I realized that
she was keyed almost to the breaking point.
"You poor dear!" I murmured.
"I wanted to show him that I meant what I said. I wanted him to see
us meet. You see, he's going home, thinking that with the help of my
people he can make me change my mind."
"But why do you go home? Why not stay here with me? There's an
apartment vacant next to mine."
"And with a baby?"
"There are lots of babies in our tenement," I said. But to tell the
truth, I had almost forgotten the baby in the excitement of the
moment. "How is she," I asked.
"Come and see," said Sylvia; and when I glanced enquiringly at the
tall gentleman who was chatting with his friends, she added, "She's
_my_ baby, and I have a right to show her."
The nurse, a rosy-cheeked English girl in a blue dress and a bonnet
with long streamers, stood apart, holding an armful of white silk
and lace. Sylvia turned back the coverings; and again I beheld the
vision which had so thrilled me--the comical little miniature of
herself--her nose, her lips, her golden hair. But oh, the pitiful
little eyes, that did not move! I looked at my friend, uncertain
what I should say; I was startled to see her whole being aglow with
mother-pride. "Isn't she a dear?" she whispered. "And, Mary, she's
learning so fast, and growing--you couldn't believe it!" Oh, the
marvel of mother-love, I thought--that is blinder than any child it
ever bore!
We turned away; and Sylvia said, "I'll come to you as soon as I've
got the baby settled. Our train starts for the South to-night, so I
shan't waste any time."
"God bless you, dear," I whispered; and she gave my hand a squeeze,
and turned away. I stood for a few moments watching, and saw her
approach her husband, and exchange a few smiling words with him in
the presence of their friends. I, knowing the agony that was in the
hearts of that desperate young couple, marvelled anew at the
discipline of caste.
9. She sat in my big arm-chair; and how proud I was of her, and how
thrilled by her courage. Above all, however, I was devoured by
curiosity. "Tell me!" I exclaimed.
"There's so much," she said.
"Tell me why you are leaving him."
"Mary, because I don't love him. That's the one reason. I have
thought it out--I have thought of little else for the last year. I
have come to see that it is wrong for a woman to live with a man she
does not love. It is the supreme crime a woman can commit."
"Ah, yes!" I said. "If you have got that far!"
"I have got that far. Other things have contributed, but they are
not the real things--they might have been forgiven. The fact that he
had this disease, and made my child blind----"
"Oh! You found out that?"
"Yes, I found it out."
"How?"
"It came to me little by little. In the end, he grew tired of
pretending, I think." She paused for a moment, then went on, "The
trouble was over the question of my obligations as a wife. You see,
I had told him at the outset that I was going to live for my baby,
and for her alone. That was the ground upon which he had persuaded
me not to see you or read any of your letters. I was to ask no
questions, and be nice and bovine--and I agreed. But then, a few
months ago, my husband came to me with the story of his needs. He
said that the doctors had given their sanction to our reunion. Of
course, I was stunned. I knew that he had understood me before we
left Florida."
She stopped. "Yes, dear," I said, gently.
"Well, he said now the doctors were agreed there was no danger to
either of us. We could take precautions and not have children. I
could only plead that the whole subject was distressing to me. He
had asked me to put off my problems till my baby was weaned; now I
asked him to put off his. But that would not do, it seemed. He took
to arguing with me. It was an unnatural way to live, and he could
not endure it. I was a woman, and I couldn't understand this. It
seemed utterly impossible to make him realize what I felt. I suppose
he has always had what he wanted, and he simply does not know what
it is to be denied. It wasn't only a physical thing, I think; it was
an affront to his pride, a denial of his authority." She st
opped,
and I saw her shudder.
"I have been through it all," I said.
"He wanted to know how long I expected to withhold myself. I said,
'Until I have got this disease out of my mind, as well as out of my
body; until I know that there is no possibility of either of us
having it, to give to the other.' But then, after I had taken a
little more time to think it over, I said, 'Douglas, I must be
honest with you. I shall never be able to live with you again. It is
no longer a question of your wishes or mine--it is a question of
right or wrong. I do not love you. I know now that it can never
under any circumstances be right for a woman to give herself in the
intimacy of the sex-relation without love. When she does it, she is
violating the deepest instinct of her nature, the very voice of God
in her soul.'
"His reply was, 'Why didn't you know that before you married?'
"I answered, 'I did not know what marriage meant; and I let myself
be persuaded by others.'
"'By your own mother!' he declared.
"I said, 'A mother who permits her daughter to commit such an
offence is either a slave-dealer, or else a slave.' Of course, he
thought I was out of my mind at that. He argued about the duties of
marriage, the preserving of the home, wives submitting themselves to
their husbands, and so on. He would not give me any peace----"
And suddenly she started up. I saw in her eyes the light of old
battles. "Oh, it was a horror!" she cried, beginning to pace the
floor. "It seemed to me that I was living the agony of all the
loveless marriages of the world. I felt myself pursued, not merely
by the importunate desires of one man--I suffered with all the
millions of women who give themselves night after night without
love! He came to seem like some monster to me; I could not meet him
unexpectedly without starting. I forbade him to mention the subject
to me again, and for a long time he obeyed. But several weeks ago he
brought it up afresh, and I lost my self-control completely.
'Douglas,' I said, 'I can stand it no longer! It is not only the
tragedy of my blind child--it's that you have driven me to hate you.
You have crushed all the life and joy and youth out of me! You've
been to me like a terrible black cloud, constantly pressing down on
me, smothering me. You stalk around me like a grim, sepulchral
figure, closing me up in the circle of your narrow ideas. But now I
can endure it no longer. I was a proud, high-spirited girl, you've
made of me a colourless social automaton, a slave of your stupid
worldly traditions. I'm turning into a feeble, complaining,
discontented wife! And I refuse to be it. I'm going home--where at
least there's some human spontaneity left in people; I'm going back
to my father!'--And I went and looked up the next steamer!"
She stopped. She stood before me, with the fire of her wild Southern
blood shining in her cheeks and in her eyes.
I sat waiting, and finally she went on, "I won't repeat all his
protests. When he found that I was really going, he offered to take
me in the yacht, but I wouldn't go in the yacht. I had got to be
really afraid of him--sometimes, you know, his obstinacy seems to be
abnormal, almost insane. So then he decided he would have to go in
the steamer with me to preserve appearances. I had a letter saying
that papa was not well, and he said that would serve for an excuse.
He is going to Castleman County, and after he has stayed a week or
so, he is going off on a hunting-trip, and not return."
"And will he do it?"
"I don't think he expects to do it at present. I feel sure he has
the idea of starting mamma to quoting the Bible to me, and dragging
me down with her tears. But I have done all I can to make clear to