him that it will make no difference. I told him I would not say a
word about my intentions at home until he had gone away, and that I
expected the same silence from him. But, of course--" She stopped
abruptly, and after a moment she asked: "What do you think of it,
Mary?"
I leaned forward and took her two hands in mine. "Only," I said,
"that I'm glad you fought it out alone! I knew it had to come--and I
didn't want to have to help you to decide!"
10. She sat for a while absorbed in her own thoughts. Knowing her as
I did, I understood what intense emotions were seething within her,
what a terrific struggle her decision must have represented.
"Dear Friend," she said, suddenly, "don't think I haven't seen his
side of the case. I try to tell myself that I dealt with him frankly
from the beginning. But then I ask was there ever a man I dealt with
frankly? There was coquetry in the very clothes I wore! And now that
we are so entangled, now that he loves me, what is my duty? I find I
can't respect his love for me. A part of it is because my beauty
fascinates him, but more of it seems to me just wounded vanity. I
was the only woman who ever flouted him, and he has a kind of
snobbery that made him think I must be something remarkable because
of it. I talked that all out with him--yes, I've dragged him
through all that humiliation. I wanted to make him see that he
didn't really love me, that he only wanted to conquer me, to force
me to admire him and submit to him. I want to be myself, and he
wants to be himself--that has always been the issue between us."
"That is the issue in many unhappy marriages," I said.
"I've done a lot of thinking in the last year," she resumed--"about
things generally, I mean. We American women think we are so free.
That is because our husbands indulge us, give us money, and let us
run about. But when it comes to real freedom--freedom of intellect
and of character, English women are simply another kind of being
from us. I met a cabinet minister's wife--he's a Conservative in
everything, and she's an ardent suffragist; she not merely gives
money, she makes speeches and has a public name. Yet they are
friends, and have a happy home-life. Do you suppose my husband would
consider such an arrangement?"
"I thought he admired English ways," I said.
"There was the Honorable Betty Annersley--the sister of a chum of
his. She was friendly with the militants, and I wanted to talk to
her to understand what such women thought. Yet my husband tried to
stop me from going to see her. And it's the same way with everything
I try to do, that threatens to take me out of his power. He wanted
me to accept the authority of the doctors as to any possible danger
from venereal disease. When I got the books, and showed him what the
doctors admitted about the question--the narrow margin of safety
they allowed, the terrible chances they took--he was angry again."
She stopped, seeing a question in my eyes. "I've been reading up on
the subject," she explained. "I know it all now--the things I should
have known before I married."
"How did you manage that?"
"I tried to get two of the doctors to give me something to read, but
they wouldn't hear of it. I'd set myself crazy imagining things, it
was no sort of stuff for a woman's mind. So in the end I took the
bit in my teeth. I found a medical book store, and I went in and
said: 'I am an American physician, and I want to see the latest
works on venereal disease.' So the clerk took me to the shelves, and
I picked out a couple of volumes."
"You poor child!" I exclaimed.
"When Douglas found that I was reading these books he threatened to
burn them. I told him 'There are more copies in the store, and I am
determined to be educated on this subject.'"
She paused. "How much like my own experience!" I thought.
"There were chapters on the subject of wives, how much they were not
told, and why this was. So very quickly I began to see around my own
experience. Douglas must have figured out that this would be so, for
the end of the matter was an admission."
"You don't mean he confessed to you!"
She smiled bitterly. "No," she said. "He brought Dr. Perrin to
London to do it for him. Dr. Perrin said he had concluded I had best
know that my husband had had some symptoms of the disease. He, the
doctor, wished to tell me who was to blame for the attempt to
deceive me. Douglas had been willing to admit the truth, but all the
doctors had forbidden it. I must realise the fearful problem they
had, and not blame them, and, above all I must not blame my husband,
who had been in their hands in the matter."
"How stupid men are! As if that would excuse him!"
"I'm afraid I showed the little man how poor an impression he had
made--both for himself and for his patron. But I had suffered all
there was to suffer, and I was tired of pretending. I told him it
would have been far better for them if they had told me the truth at
the beginning."
"Ah, yes!" I said. "That is what I tried to make them see; but all I
got for it was a sentence of deportation!"
11. When Sylvia's train arrived at the station of her home town, the
whole family was waiting upon the platform for her, and a good part
of the town besides. The news that she had arrived in New York, and
was coming home on account of her father's illness, had, of course,
been reproduced in all the local papers, with the result that the
worthy major had been deluged with telegrams and letters concerning
his health. Notwithstanding, he had insisted upon coming to the
train to meet his daughter. He was not going to be shut up in a
sickroom to please all the gossips of two hemispheres. In his best
black broad-cloth, his broad, black hat newly brushed, and his
old-fashioned, square-toed shoes newly shined, he paced up and down
the station platform for half an hour, and it was to his arms that
Sylvia flew when she alighted from the train.
There was "Miss Margaret," who had squeezed her large person and
fluttering draperies out of the family automobile, and was waiting
to shed tears over her favourite daughter; there was Celeste,
radiant with a wonderful piece of news which she alone was to impart
to her sister; there were Peggy and Maria, shot up suddenly into two
amazingly-gawky girls; there was Master Castleman Lysle, the only
son of the house, with his black-eyed and bad-tempered French
governess. And finally there was Aunt Varina, palpitating with
various agitations, not daring to whisper to anyone else the fears
which this sudden home-coming inspired in her. Bishop Chilton and
his wife were away, but a delegation of cousins had come; also Uncle
Mandeville Castleman had sent a huge bunch of roses, which were in
the family automobile, and Uncle Barry Chilton had sent a pair of
wild turkeys, which were soon to be in the family.
Behind Sylvia stalked her cold and haughty husband, and behind him
trip
ped the wonderful nursemaid, with her wonderful blue streamers,
and her wonderful bundle of ruffles and lace. All the huge family
had to fall upon Sylvia and kiss and embrace her rapturously, and
shake the hand of the cold and haughty husband, and peer into the
wonderful bundle, and go into ecstasies over its contents. Rarely,
indeed, did the great ones of this earth condescend to spread so
much of their emotional life before the public gaze; and was it any
wonder that the town crowded about, and the proprieties were
temporarily repealed?
It had never been published, but it was generally known throughout
the State that Sylvia's child was blind, and it was whispered that
this portended something strange and awful. So there hung about the
young mother and the precious bundle an atmosphere of mystery and
melancholy. How had she taken her misfortune? How had she taken all
the great events that had befallen her--her progress through the
courts and camps of Europe? Would she still condescend to know her
fellow-townsmen? Many were the hearts that beat high as she bestowed
her largess of smiles and friendly words. There were even humble old
negroes who went off enraptured to tell the town that "Mi' Sylvia"
had actually shaken hands with them. There was almost a cheer from
the crowd as the string of automobiles set out for Castleman Hall.
12. There was a grand banquet that evening, at which the turkeys
entered the family. Not in years had there been so many people
crowded into the big dining-room, nor so many servants treading upon
each other's toes in the kitchen.
Such a din of chatter and laughter! Sylvia was her old radiant self,
and her husband was quite evidently charmed by the patriarchal
scene. He was affable, really genial, and won the hearts of
everybody; he told the good major, amid a hush which almost turned
his words into a speech, that he was able to understand how they of
the South loved their own section so passionately; there was about
the life an intangible something--a spell, an elevation of spirit,
which set it quite apart by itself. And since this was the thing
which they of the South most delighted to believe concerning
themselves, they listened enraptured, and set the speaker apart as a
rare and discerning spirit.
Afterwards came the voice of Sylvia: "You must beware of Douglas,
Papa; he is an inveterate flatterer." She laughed as she said it;
and of those present it was Aunt Varina alone who caught the ominous
note, and saw the bitter curl of her lips as she spoke. Aunt Varina
and her niece were the only persons there who knew Douglas van
Tuiver well enough to appreciate the irony of the term "inveterate
flatterer."
Sylvia realized at once that her husband was setting out upon a
campaign to win her family to his side. He rode about the major's
plantations, absorbing information about the bollweevil. He rode
back to the house, and exchanged cigars, and listened to stories of
the major's boyhood during the war. He went to call upon Bishop
Chilton, and sat in his study, with its walls of faded black volumes
on theology. Van Tuiver himself had had a Church of England tutor,
and was a punctilious high churchman; but he listened respectfully
to arguments for a simpler form of church organization, and took
away a voluminous _expos?_ of the fallacies of "Apostolic
Succession." And then came Aunt Nannie, ambitious and alert as when
she had helped the young millionaire to find a wife; and the young
millionaire made the suggestion that Aunt Nannie's third daughter
should not fail to visit Sylvia at Newport.
There was no limit, apparently, to what he would do. He took Master
Castleman Lysle upon his knee, and let him drop a valuable watch
upon the floor. He got up early in the morning and went horse-back
riding with Peggy and Maria. He took Celeste automobiling, and
helped by his attentions to impress the cocksure young man with whom
Celeste was in love. He won "Miss Margaret" by these attentions to
all her children, and the patience with which he listened to
accounts of the ailments which had afflicted the precious ones at
various periods of their lives. To Sylvia, watching all these
proceedings, it was as if he were binding himself to her with so
many knots.
She had come home with a longing to be quiet, to avoid seeing
anyone. But this could not be, she discovered. There was gossip
about the child's blindness, and the significance thereof; and to
have gone into hiding would have meant an admission of the worst.
The ladies of the family had prepared a grand "reception," at which
all Castleman County was to come and gaze upon the happy mother. And
then there was the monthly dance at the Country Club, where
everybody would come, in the hope of seeing the royal pair. To
Sylvia it was as if her mother and aunts were behind her every
minute of the day, pushing her out into the world. "Go on, go on!
Show yourself! Do not let people begin to talk!"
13. She bore it for a couple of weeks; then she went to her cousin,
Harley Chilton. "Harley," she said, "my husband is anxious to go on
a hunting-trip. Will you go with him?"
"When?" asked the boy.
"Right away; to-morrow or the next day."
"I'm game," said Harley.
After which she went to her husband. "Douglas, it is time for you to
go."
He sat studying her face. "You still have that idea?" he said, at
last.
"I still have it."
"I was hoping that here, among your home-people, your sanity would
partially return."
"I know what you have been hoping, Douglas. And I am sorry--but I am
quite unchanged."
"Have we not been getting along happily here?" he demanded.
"No, I have not--I have been wretched. And I cannot have any peace
until you no longer haunt me. I am sorry for you, but I must be
alone--and so long as you are here the entertainments will
continue."
"We could make it clear that we did not care for entertainments. We
could find some quiet place near your people, where we could live in
peace."
"Douglas," she said, "I have spoken to Cousin Harley. He is ready to
go hunting with you. Please call him up and make arrangements to
start to-morrow. If you are still here the following day, I shall
leave for one of Uncle Mandeville's plantations."
There was a long silence. "Sylvia," he said, at last, "how long do
you imagine this behaviour of yours can continue?"
"It will continue forever. My mind is made up. It is necessary that
you make up yours."
Again he waited, while he made sure of his self-control. "You
propose to keep the baby with you?" he asked, at last.
"For the present, yes. The baby cannot get along without me."
"And for the future?"
"We will make a fair arrangement as to that. Give me a little time
to get myself together, and then I will come and live somewhere near
you in New York, and I will arra
nge it so that you can see the child
as often as you please. I have no desire to take her from you--I
only want to take myself from you."
"Sylvia," he said, "have you realized all the unhappiness this
course of yours is going to bring to your people?"
"Oh, don't begin that now!" she pleaded.
"I know," he said, "how determined you are to punish me. But I
should think you would try to find some way to spare them."
"Douglas," she replied, "I know exactly what you have been doing. I
have watched your change of character since you came here. You may
be able to make my people so unhappy that I must be unhappy also.
You see how deeply I love them, how I yield everything for love of
them. But let me make it clear, I will not yield this. It was for
their sake I went into this marriage, but I have come to see that it
was wrong, and no power on earth can induce me to stay in it. My
mind is made up--I will not live with a man I do not love. I will
not even pretend to do it. Now do you understand me, Douglas?"
There was a silence, while she waited for some word from him. When
none came, she asked, "You will arrange to go to-morrow?"
He answered calmly, "I see no reason why I, your husband, should
permit you to pursue this insane course. You propose to leave me;
and the reason you give is one that would, if it were valid, break
up two-thirds of the homes in the country. Your own family will
stand by me in my effort to prevent your ruin."
"What do you expect to do?" she asked in a suppressed voice.
"I have to assume that my wife is insane; and I shall look after her
till she comes to her senses."
She sat watching him for a few moments, wondering at him. Then she
said, "You are willing to stay on here, day after day, pursuing me
in the only refuge I have. Well then, I shall not consider your
feelings. I have a work to do here--and I think that when I begin
it, you will want to be far away."
"What do you mean?" he asked--and he looked at her as if she were
really a maniac.
"You see my sister Celeste is about to marry. That was the wonderful
news she had to tell me at the depot. It happens that I have known
Roger Peyton all my life, and know he has the reputation of being
one of the 'fastest' boys in the town."
"Well?" he asked.
"Just this, Douglas--I do not intend to leave my sister unprotected
as I was. I am going to tell her about Elaine. I am going to tell
her all that she needs to know. It is bound to mean arguments with
the old people, and in the end the whole family will be discussing
the subject. I feel sure you will not care to be here under such
circumstances."
"And may I ask when this begins?" he inquired, with intense
bitterness in his tone.
"Right away," she said. "I have merely been waiting until you should
go."
He said not a word, but she knew by the expression on his face that
she had carried her point at last. He turned and left the room; and
that was the last word she had with him, save for their formal
parting in the presence of the family.
14. Roger Peyton was the son and heir of one of the oldest families
in Castleman County. I had heard of this family before--in a
wonderful story that Sylvia told of the burning of "Rose Briar,"
their stately mansion, some years previously: how the neighbours had
turned out to extinguish the flames, and failing, had danced a last
whirl in the ball-room, while the fire roared in the stories
overhead. The house had since been rebuilt, more splendid than ever,
and the prestige of the family stood undiminished. One of the sons
was an old "flame" of Sylvia's, and another was married to one of
the Chilton girls. As for Celeste, she had been angling for Roger
the past year or two, and she stood now at the apex of happiness.