Sylvia's Marriage

go away. I was full of pity, and a desire to help. I said I wanted

  him to know that no matter how much we might disagree about some

  things, I meant to learn to live happily with him. We must find some

  sort of compromise, for the sake of the child, if not for ourselves;

  we must not let the child suffer. He answered coldly that there

  would be no need for the child to suffer, the child would have the

  best the world could afford. I suggested that there might arise some

  question as to just what the best was; but to that he said nothing.

  He went on to rebuke my discontent; had he not given me everything a

  woman could want? he asked. He was too polite to mention money; but

  he said that I had leisure and entire freedom from care. I was

  persisting in assuming cares, while he was doing all in his power to

  prevent it.

  "And that was as far as we got. I gave up the discussion, for we

  should only have gone the old round over again.

  "Douglas has taken up a saying that my cousin brought with him:

  'What you don't know won't hurt you!' I think that before he left,

  Harley had begun to suspect that all was not well between my husband

  and myself, and he felt it necessary to give me a little friendly

  counsel. He was tactful, and politely vague, but I understood

  him--my worldly-wise young cousin. I think that saying of his sums

  up the philosophy that he would teach to all women--'What you don't

  know won't hurt you!'"

  7. A week or so later Sylvia wrote me that her husband was in New

  York. And I waited another week, for good measure, and then one

  morning dropped in for a call upon Claire Lepage.

  Why did I do it? you ask. I had no definite purpose--only a general

  opposition to the philosophy of Cousin Harley.

  I was ushered into Claire's boudoir, which was still littered with

  last evening's apparel. She sat in a dressing-gown with resplendent

  red roses on it, and brushed the hair out of her eyes, and

  apologized for not being ready for callers.

  "I've just had a talking to from Larry," she explained.

  "Larry?" said I, inquiringly; for Claire had always informed me

  elaborately that van Tuiver had been her one departure from

  propriety, and always would be.

  Apparently she had now reached a stage in her career where pretences

  were too much trouble. "I've come to the conclusion that I don't

  know how to manage men," she said. "I never can get along with one

  for any time."

  I remarked that I had had the same experience; though of course I

  had only tried it once. "Tell me," I said, "who's Larry?"

  "There's his picture." She reached into a drawer of her dresser.

  I saw a handsome blonde gentleman, who looked old enough to know

  better. "He doesn't seem especially forbidding," I said.

  "That's just the trouble--you can never tell about men!"

  I noted a date on the picture. "He seems to be an old friend. You

  never told me about him."

  "He doesn't like being told about. He has a troublesome wife."

  I winced inwardly, but all I said was, "I see."

  "He's a stock-broker; and he got 'squeezed,' so he says, and it's

  made him cross--and careful with his money, too. That's trying, in a

  stock-broker, you must admit." She laughed. "And still he's just as

  particular--wants to have his own way in everything, wants to say

  whom I shall know and where I shall go. I said, 'I have all the

  inconveniences of matrimony, and none of the advantages.'"

  I made some remark upon the subject of the emancipation of woman;

  and Claire, who was now leaning back in her chair, combing out her

  long black tresses, smiled at me out of half-closed eyelids. "Guess

  whom he's objecting to!" she said. And when I pronounced it

  impossible, she looked portentous. "There are bigger fish in the sea

  than Larry Edgewater!"

  "And you've hooked one?" I asked, innocently.

  "Well, I don't mean to give up all my friends."

  I went on casually to talk about my plans for the summer; and a few

  minutes later, after a lull--"By the way," remarked Claire, "Douglas

  van Tuiver is in town."

  "How do you know?"

  "I've seen him."

  "Indeed! Where?"

  "I got Jack Taylor to invite me again. You see, when Douglas fell in

  love with his peerless southern beauty, Jack predicted he'd get over

  it even more quickly. Now he's interested in proving he was right."

  I waited a moment, and then asked, carelessly, "Is he having any

  success?"

  "I said, 'Douglas, why don't you come to see me?' He was in a

  playful mood. 'What do you want? A new automobile?' I answered, 'I

  haven't any automobile, new or old, and you know it. What I want is

  you. I always loved you--surely I proved that to you.' 'What you

  proved to me was that you were a sort of wild-cat. I'm afraid of

  you. And anyway, I'm tired of women. I'll never trust another one.'"

  "About the same conclusion as you've come to regarding men," I

  remarked.

  "'Douglas,' I said, 'come and see me, and we'll talk over old times.

  You may trust me, I swear I'll not tell a living soul.' 'You've been

  consoling yourself with someone else,' he said. But I knew he was

  only guessing. He was seeking for something that would worry me, and

  he said, 'You're drinking too much. People that drink can't be

  trusted.' 'You know,' I replied, 'I didn't drink too much when I was

  with you. I'm not drinking as much as you are, right now.' He

  answered, 'I've been off on a desert island for God knows how many

  months, and I'm celebrating my escape.' 'Well,' I answered, 'let me

  help celebrate!'"

  "What did he say to that?"

  Claire resumed the combing of her silken hair, and smiled a slow

  smile at me. "'You may trust me, Douglas,' I said. 'I swear I'll not

  tell a living soul!'"

  "Of course," I remarked, appreciatively, "that means he said he'd

  come!"

  "_I_ haven't told you!" was the reply.

  8. I knew that I had only to wait for Claire to tell me the rest of

  the story. But her mind went off on another tack. "Sylvia's going to

  have a baby," she remarked, suddenly.

  "That ought to please her husband," I said.

  "You can see him beginning to swell with paternal pride!--so Jack

  said. He sent for a bottle of some famous kind of champagne that he

  has, to celebrate the new 'millionaire baby.' (They used to call

  Douglas that, once upon a time.) Before they got through, they had

  made it triplets. Jack says Douglas is the one man in New York who

  can afford them."

  "Your friend Jack seems to be what they call a wag," I commented.

  "It isn't everybody that Douglas will let carry on with him like

  that. He takes himself seriously, as a rule. And he expects to take

  the new baby seriously."

  "It generally binds a man tighter to his wife, don't you think?"

  I watched her closely, and saw her smile at my naivet?. "No," she

  said, "I don't. It leaves them restless. It's a bore all round."

  I did not dispute her authority; she ought to know her husbands, I

&
nbsp; thought.

  She was facing the mirror, putting up her hair; and in the midst of

  the operation she laughed. "All that evening, while we were having a

  jolly time at Jack Taylor's, Larry was here waiting."

  "Then no wonder you had a row!" I said.

  "He hadn't told me he was coming. And was I to sit here all night

  alone? It's always the same--I never knew a man who really in his

  heart was willing for you to have any friends, or any sort of good

  time without him."

  "Perhaps," I replied, "he's afraid you mightn't be true to him." I

  meant this for a jest, of the sort that Claire and her friends would

  appreciate. Little did I foresee where it was to lead us!

  I remember how once on the farm my husband had a lot of dynamite,

  blasting out stumps; and my emotions when I discovered the children

  innocently playing with a stick of it. Something like these children

  I seem now to myself, looking back on this visit to Claire, and our

  talk.

  "You know," she observed, without smiling, "Larry's got a bee in his

  hat. I've seen men who were jealous, and kept watch over women, but

  never one that was obsessed like him."

  "What's it about?"

  "He's been reading a book about diseases, and he tells me tales

  about what may happen to me, and what may happen to him. When you've

  listened a while, you can see microbes crawling all over the walls

  of the room."

  "Well----" I began.

  "I was sick of his lecturing, so I said, 'Larry, you'll have to do

  like me--have everything there is, and get over it, and then you

  won't need to worry.'"

  I sat still, staring at her; I think I must have stopped breathing.

  At the end of an eternity, I said, "You've not really had any of

  these diseases, Claire?"

  "Who hasn't?" she countered.

  Again there was a pause. "You know," I observed, "some of them are

  dangerous----"

  "Oh, of course," she answered, lightly. "There's one that makes your

  nose fall in and your hair fall out--but you haven't seen anything

  like that happening to me!"

  "But there's another," I hinted--"one that's much more common." And

  when she did not take the hint, I continued, "Also it's more serious

  than people generally realize."

  She shrugged her shoulders. "What of it? Men bring you these

  things, and it's part of the game. So what's the use of bothering?"

  9. There was a long silence; I had to have time to decide what

  course to take. There was so much that I wanted to get from her, and

  so much that I wanted to hide from her!

  "I don't want to bore you, Claire," I began, finally, "but really

  this is a matter of importance to you. You see, I've been reading up

  on the subject as well as Larry. The doctors have been making new

  discoveries. They used to think this was just a local infection,

  like a cold, but now they find it's a blood disease, and has the

  gravest consequences. For one thing, it causes most of the surgical

  operations that have to be performed on women."

  "Maybe so," she said, still indifferent. "I've had two operations.

  But it's ancient history now."

  "You mayn't have reached the end yet," I persisted. "People suppose

  they are cured of gonorrhea, when really it's only suppressed, and

  is liable to break out again at any time."

  "Yes, I knew. That's some of the information Larry had been making

  love to me with."

  "It may get into the joints and cause rheumatism; it may cause

  neuralgia; it's been known to affect the heart. Also it causes

  two-thirds of all the blindness in infants----"

  And suddenly Claire laughed. "That's Sylvia Castleman's lookout it

  seems to me!"

  "Oh! OH!" I whispered, losing my self-control.

  "What's the matter?" she asked, and I noticed that her voice had

  become sharp.

  "Do you really mean what you've just implied?"

  "That Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver may have to pay something for what she

  has done to me? Well, what of it?" And suddenly Claire flew into a

  passion, as she always did when our talk came to her rival. "Why

  shouldn't she take chances the same as the rest of us? Why should I

  have it and she get off?"

  I fought for my composure. After a pause, I said: "It's not a thing

  we want anybody to have, Claire. We don't want anybody to take such

  a chance. The girl ought to have been told."

  "Told? Do you imagine she would have given up her great catch?"

  "She might have, how can you be sure? Anyhow, she should have had

  the chance."

  There was a long silence. I was so shaken that it was hard for me to

  find words. "As a matter of fact," said Claire, grimly, "I thought

  of warning her myself. There'd have been some excitement at least!

  You remember--when they came out of church. You helped to stop me!

  "

  "It would have been too late then," I heard myself saying.

  "Well," she exclaimed, with fresh excitement, "it's Miss Sylvia's

  turn now! We'll see if she's such a grand lady that she can't get my

  diseases!"

  I could no longer contain myself. "Claire," I cried, "you are

  talking like a devil!"

  She picked up a powder-puff, and began to use it diligently. "I

  know," she said--and I saw her burning eyes in the glass--"you can't

  fool me. You've tried to be kind, but you despise me in your heart.

  You think I'm as bad as any woman of the street. Very well then, I

  speak for my class, and I tell you, this is where we prove our

  humanity. They throw us out, but you see we get back in!"

  "My dear woman," I said, "you don't understand. You'd not feel as

  you do, If you knew that the person to pay the penalty might be an

  innocent little child."

  "_Their_ child! Yes, it's too bad if there has to be anything the

  matter with the little prince! But I might as well tell you the

  truth--I've had that in mind all along. I didn't know just what

  would happen, or how--I don't believe anybody does, the doctors who

  pretend to are just faking you. But I knew Douglas was rotten, and

  maybe his children would be rotten, and they'd all of them suffer.

  That was one of the things that kept me from interfering and

  smashing him up."

  I was speechless now, and Claire, watching me, laughed. "You look as

  if you'd had no idea of it. Don't you know that I told you at the

  time?"

  "You told me at the time!"

  "I suppose, you didn't understand. I'm apt to talk French when I'm

  excited. We have a saying: 'The wedding present which the mistress

  leaves in the basket of the bride.' That was pretty near telling,

  wasn't it?"

  "Yes," I said, in a low voice.

  And the other, after watching me for a moment more, went on: "You

  think I'm revengeful, don't you? Well, I used to reproach myself

  with this, and I tried to fight it down; but the time comes when you

  want people to pay for what they take from you. Let me tell you

  something that I never told to anyone, that I never expected to

  tell. You see me drinking and going to t
he devil; you hear me

  talking the care-free talk of my world, but in the beginning I was

  really in love with Douglas van Tuiver, and I wanted his child. I

  wanted it so that it was an ache to me. And yet, what chance did I

  have? I'd have been the joke of his set for ever if I'd breathed it;

  I'd have been laughed out of the town. I even tried at one time to

  trap him--to get his child in spite of him, but I found that the

  surgeons had cut me up, and I could never have a child. So I have to

  make the best of it--I have to agree with my friends that it's a

  good thing, it saves me trouble! But _she_ comes along, and she has

  what I wanted, and all the world thinks it wonderful and sublime.

  She's a beautiful young mother! What's she ever done in her life

  that she has everything, and I go without? You may spend your time

  shedding tears over her and what may happen to her but for my part,

  I say this--let her take her chances! Let her take her chances with

  the other women in the world--the women she's too good and too pure

  to know anything about!"

  10. I came out of Claire's house, sick with horror. Not since the

  time when I had read my poor nephew's letter had I been so shaken.

  Why had I not thought long ago of questioning Claire about these

  matters. How could I have left Sylvia all this time exposed to

  peril?

  The greatest danger was to her child at the time of birth. I figured

  up, according to the last letter I had received; there was about ten

  days yet, and so I felt some relief. I thought first of sending a

  telegram, but reflected that it would be difficult, not merely to

  tell her what to do in a telegram, but to explain to her afterwards

  why I had chosen this extraordinary method. I recollected that in

  her last letter she had mentioned the name of the surgeon who was

  coming from New York to attend her during her confinement. Obviously

  the thing for me to do was to see this surgeon.

  "Well, madame?" he said, when I was seated in his inner office.

  He was a tall, elderly man, immaculately groomed, and formal and

  precise in his manner. "Dr. Overton," I began, "my friend, Mrs.

  Douglas van Tuiver writes me that you are going to Florida shortly."

  "That is correct," he said.

  "I have come to see you about a delicate matter. I presume I need

  hardly say that I am relying upon the seal of professional secrecy."

  I saw his gaze become suddenly fixed. "Certainly, madame," he said.

  "I am taking this course because Mrs. van Tuiver is a very dear

  friend of mine, and I am concerned about her welfare. It has

  recently come to my knowledge that she has become exposed to

  infection by a venereal disease."

  He would hardly have started more if I had struck him. "HEY?" he

  cried, forgetting his manners.

  "It would not help you any," I said, "if I were to go into details

  about this unfortunate matter. Suffice it to say that my information

  is positive and precise--that it could hardly be more so."

  There was a long silence. He sat with eyes rivetted upon me. "What

  is this disease?" he demanded, at last.

  I named it, and then again there was a pause. "How long has

  this--this possibility of infection existed?"

  "Ever since her marriage, nearly eighteen months ago."

  That told him a good part of the story. I felt his look boring me

  through. Was I a mad woman? Or some new kind of blackmailer? Or, was

  I, possibly, a Claire? I was grateful for my forty-cent bonnet and

  my forty-seven years.

  "Naturally," he said at length, "this information startles me."

  "When you have thought it over," I responded, "you will realise that

  no possible motive could bring me here but concern for the welfare

  of my friend."

  He took a few moments to consider. "That may be true, madame, but