for words; and the ones that came were: "Dear Douglas must not be
kept waiting."
I was too polite to offer the suggestion that "dear Douglas" might
be finding ways to amuse himself. The next moment I heard steps
approaching on the veranda, and turned to meet the nurse with the
doctor.
14. "How do you do, Mrs. Abbott?" said Dr. Perrin. He was in his
dressing-gown, and had a newly-awakened look. I started to
apologize, but he replied, "It's pleasant to see a new face in our
solitude. Two new faces!"
That was behaving well, I thought, for a man who had been routed out
of sleep. I tried to meet his mood. "Dr. Perrin, Mrs. van Tuiver
tells me that you object to amateur physicians. But perhaps you
won't mind regarding me as a midwife. I have three children of my
own, and I've had to help bring others into the world."
"All right," he smiled. "We'll consider you qualified. What is the
matter?"
"I wanted to ask you about the child's eyes. It is a wise precaution
to drop some nitrate of silver into them, to provide against
possible infection."
I waited for my answer. "There have been no signs of any sort of
infection in this case," he said, at last.
"Perhaps not. But it is not necessary to wait, in such a matter. You
have not taken the precaution?"
"No, madam."
"You have some of the drug, of course?"
Again there was a pause. "No, madam, I fear that I have not."
I winced, involuntarily. I could not hide my distress. "Dr. Perrin,"
I exclaimed, "you came to attend a confinement case, and you omitted
to provide something so essential!"
There was nothing left of the little man's affability now. "In the
first place," he said, "I must remind you that I did not come to
attend a confinement case. I came to look after Mrs. van Tuiver's
condition up _to_ the time of confinement."
"But you knew there would always be the possibility of an accident!"
"Yes, to be sure."
"And you didn't have any nitrate of silver!"
"Madam," he said, stiffly, "there is no use for this drug except in
one contingency."
"I know," I cried, "but it is an important precaution. It is the
practice to use it in all maternity hospitals."
"Madam, I have visited hospitals, and I think I know something of
what the practice is."
So there we were, at a deadlock. There was silence for a space.
"Would you mind sending for the drug?" I asked, at last.
"I presume," he said, with _hauteur,_ "it will do no harm to have it
on hand."
I was aware of an elderly lady watching us, with consternation
written upon every sentimental feature. "Dr. Perrin," I said, "if
Mrs. Tuis will pardon me, I think I ought to speak with you alone."
The nurse hastily withdrew; and I saw the elderly lady draw herself
up with terrible dignity--and then suddenly quail, and turn and
follow the nurse.
I told the little man what I knew. After he had had time to get over
his consternation, he said that fortunately there did not seem to be
any sign of trouble.
"There does seem so to me," I replied. "It may be only my
imagination, but I think the eyelids are inflamed."
I held the baby for him, while he made an examination. He admitted
that there seemed to be ground for uneasiness. His professional
dignity was now gone, and he was only too glad to be human.
"Dr. Perrin," I said, "there is only one thing we can do--to get
some nitrate of silver at the earliest possible moment. Fortunately,
the launch is here."
"I will have it start at once," he said. "It will have to go to Key
West."
"And how long will that take?"
"It depends upon the sea. In good weather it takes us eight hours to
go and return." I could not repress a shudder. The child might be
blind in eight hours!
But there was no time to be wasted in foreboding. "About Dr.
Overton," I said. "Don't you think he had better come?" But I
ventured to add the hint that Mr. van Tuiver would hardly wish
expense to be considered in such an emergency; and in the end, I
persuaded the doctor not merely to telegraph for the great surgeon,
but to ask a hospital in Atlanta to send the nearest eye-specialist
by the first train.
We called back Mrs. Tuis, and I apologized abjectly for my
presumption, and Dr. Perrin announced that he thought he ought to
see Dr. Overton, and another doctor as well. I saw fear leap into
Aunt Varina's eyes. "Oh, what is it?" she cried. "What is the matter
with our babe?"
I helped the doctor to answer polite nothings to all her questions.
"Oh, the poor, dear lady!" I thought to myself. The poor, dear lady!
What a tearing away of veils and sentimental bandages was written in
her book of fate for that night!
15. I find myself lingering over these preliminaries, dreading the
plunge into the rest of my story. We spent our time hovering over
the child's crib, and in two or three hours the little eyelids had
become so inflamed that there could no longer be any doubt what was
happening. We applied alternate hot and cold cloths; we washed the
eyes in a solution of boric acid, and later, in our desperation,
with bluestone. But we were dealing with the virulent gonococcus,
and we neither expected nor obtained much result from these
measures. In a couple of hours more the eyes were beginning to exude
pus, and the poor infant was wailing in torment.
"Oh, what can it be? Tell me what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Tuis.
She sought to catch the child in her arms, and when I quickly
prevented her, she turned upon me in anger. "What do you mean?"
"The child must be quiet," I said.
"But I wish to comfort it!" And when I still insisted, she burst out
wildly: "What _right_ have you?"
"Mrs. Tuis," I said, gently, "it is possible the infant may have a
very serious infection. If so, you would be apt to catch it."
She answered with a hysterical cry: "My precious innocent! Do you
think that I would be afraid of anything it could have?"
"You may not be afraid, but we are. We should have to take care of
you, and one case is more than enough."
Suddenly she clutched me by the arm. "Tell me what this awful thing
is! I demand to know!"
"Mrs. Tuis," said the doctor, interfering, "we are not yet sure what
the trouble is, we only wish to take precautions. It is really
imperative that you should not handle this child or even go near it.
There is nothing you can possibly do."
She was willing to take orders from him; he spoke the same dialect
as herself, and with the same quaint stateliness. A charming little
Southern gentleman--I could realise how Douglas van Tuiver had
"picked him out for his social qualities." In the old-fashioned
Southern medical college where he had got his training, I suppose
they had taught him the old-fashioned idea of gonorrhea. Now he was
acquiring our extravagant modern notions in the grim school o
f
experience!
It was necessary to put the nurse on her guard as to the risks we
were running. We should have had concave glasses to protect our
eyes, and we spent part of our time washing our hands in bichloride
solution.
"Mrs. Abbott, what is it?" whispered the woman.
"It has a long name," I replied--"_opthalmia neonatorum._"
"And what has caused it?"
"The original cause," I responded, "is a man." I was not sure if
that was according to the ethics of the situation, but the words
came.
Before long the infected eye-sockets were two red and yellow masses
of inflammation, and the infant was screaming like one of the
damned. We had to bind up its eyes; I was tempted to ask the doctor
to give it an opiate for fear lest it should scream itself into
convulsions. Then as poor Mrs. Tuis was pacing the floor, wringing
her hands and sobbing hysterically, Dr. Perrin took me to one side
and said: "I think she will have to be told."
The poor, poor lady!
"She might as well understand now as later," he continued. "She will
have to help keep the situation from the mother."
"Yes," I said, faintly; and then, "Who shall tell her?"
"I think," suggested the doctor, "she might prefer to be told by a
woman."
So I shut my lips together and took the distracted lady gently by
the arm and led her to the door. We stole like two criminals down
the veranda, and along the path to the beach, and near the boathouse
we stopped, and I began.
"Mrs. Tuis, you may remember a circumstance which your niece
mentioned to me--that just before her marriage she urged you to have
certain inquiries made as to Mr. van Tuiver's health, his fitness
for marriage?"
Never shall I forget her face at that moment. "Sylvia told you
that!"
"The inquiries were made," I went on, "but not carefully enough, it
seems. Now you behold the consequence of this negligence."
I saw her blank stare. I added: "The one to pay for it is the
child."
"You--you mean--" she stammered, her voice hardly a whisper. "Oh--it
is impossible!" Then, with a flare of indignation: "Do you realise
what you are implying--that Mr. van Tuiver--"
"There is no question of implying," I said, quietly. "It is the
facts we have to face now, and you will have to help us to face
them."
She cowered and swayed before me, hiding her face in her hands. I
heard her sobbing and murmuring incoherent cries to her god. I took
the poor lady's hand, and bore with her as long as I could, until,
being at the end of my patience with prudery and purity and
chivalry, and all the rest of the highfalutin romanticism of the
South, I said: "Mrs Tuis, it is necessary that you should get
yourself together. You have a serious duty before you--that you owe
both to Sylvia and her child."
"What is it?" she whispered. The word "duty" had motive power for
her.
"At all hazards, Sylvia must be kept in ignorance of the calamity
for the present. If she were to learn of it it would quite possibly
throw her into a fever, and cost her life or the child's. You must
not make any sound that she can hear, and you must not go near her
until you have completely mastered your emotions."
"Very well," she murmured. She was really a brave little body, but
I, not knowing her, and thinking only of the peril, was cruel in
hammering things into her consciousness. Finally, I left her, seated
upon the steps of the deserted boat-house, rocking back and forth
and sobbing softly to herself--one of the most pitiful figures it
has ever been my fortune to encounter in my pilgrimage through a
world of sentimentality and incompetence.
16. I went back to the house, and because we feared the sounds of
the infant's crying might carry, we hung blankets before the doors
and windows of the room, and sat in the hot enclosure, shuddering,
silent, grey with fear. After an hour or two, Mrs. Tuis rejoined us,
stealing in and seating herself at one side of the room, staring
from one to another of us with wide eyes of fright.
By the time the first signs of dawn appeared, the infant had cried
itself into a state of exhaustion. The faint light that got into the
room revealed the three of us, listening to the pitiful whimpering.
I was faint with weakness, but I had to make an effort and face the
worst ordeal of all. There came a tapping at the door--the maid, to
say that Sylvia was awake and had heard of my arrival and wished to
see me. I might have put off our meeting for a while, on the plea of
exhaustion, but I preferred to have it over with, and braced myself
and went slowly to her room.
In the doorway I paused for an instant to gaze at her. She was
exquisite, lying there with the flush of sleep still upon her, and
the ecstasy of her great achievement in her face. I fled to her, and
we caught each other in our arms. "Oh, Mary, Mary! I'm so glad
you've come!" And then: "Oh, Mary, isn't it the loveliest baby!"
"Perfectly glorious!" I exclaimed.
"Oh, I'm so happy--so happy as I never dreamed! I've no words to
tell you about it."
"You don't need any words--I've been through it," I said.
"Oh, but she's so _beautiful!_ Tell me, honestly, isn't that really
so?"
"My dear," I said, "she is like you."
"Mary," she went on, half whispering, "I think it solves all my
problems--all that I wrote you about. I don't believe I shall ever
be unhappy again. I can't believe that such a thing has really
happened--that I've been given such a treasure. And she's my own! I
can watch her little body grow and help to make it strong and
beautiful! I can help mould her little mind--see it opening up, one
chamber of wonder after another! I can teach her all the things I
have had to grope so to get!"
"Yes," I said, trying to speak with conviction. I added, hastily:
"I'm glad you don't find motherhood disappointing."
"Oh, it's a miracle!" she exclaimed. "A woman who could be
dissatisfied with anything afterwards would be an ingrate!" She
paused, then added: "Mary, now she's here in flesh, I feel she'll be
a bond between Douglas and me. He must see her rights, her claim
upon life, as he couldn't see mine."
I assented gravely. So that was the thing she was thinking most
about--a bond between her husband and herself! A moment later the
nurse appeared in the doorway, and Sylvia set up a cry: "My baby!
Where's my baby? I want to see my baby!"
"Sylvia, dear," I said, "there's something about the baby that has
to be explained."
Instantly she was alert. "What is the matter?"
I laughed. "Nothing, dear, that amounts to anything. But the little
one's eyes are inflamed--that is to say, the lids. It's something
that happens to newly-born infants."
"Well, then?" she said.
"Nothing, only the doctor's had to put some salve on them, and they
don't look ve
ry pretty."
"I don't mind that, if it's all right."
"But we've had to put a bandage over them, and it looks forbidding.
Also the child is apt to cry."
"I must see her at once!" she exclaimed.
"Just now she's asleep, so don't make us disturb her."
"But how long will this last?"
"Not very long. Meantime you must be sensible and not mind. It's
something I made the doctor do, and you mustn't blame me, or I'll be
sorry I came to you."
"You dear thing," she said, and put her hand in mine. And then,
suddenly: "Why did you take it into your head to come, all of a
sudden?"
"Don't ask me," I smiled. "I have no excuse. I just got homesick and
had to see you."
"It's perfectly wonderful that you should be here now," she
declared. "But you look badly. Are you tired?"
"Yes, dear," I said. (Such a difficult person to deceive!) "To tell
the truth, I'm pretty nearly done up. You see, I was caught in the
storm, and I was desperately sea-sick."
"Why, you poor dear! Why didn't you go to sleep?"
"I didn't want to sleep. I was too much excited by everything. I
came to see one Sylvia and I found two!"
"Isn't it absurd," she cried, "how she looks like me? Oh, I want to
see her again. How long will it be before I can have her?"
"My dear," I said, "you mustn't worry--"
"Oh, don't mind me, I'm just playing. I'm so happy, I want to
squeeze her in my arms all the time. Just think, Mary, they won't
let me nurse her, yet--a whole day now! Can that be right?"
"Nature will take care of that," I said.
"Yes, but how can you be sure what Nature means? Maybe it's what the
child is crying about, and it's the crying that makes its eyes red."
I felt a sudden spasm grip my heart. "No, dear, no," I said,
hastily. "You must let Dr. Perrin attend to these things, for I've
just had to interfere with his arrangements, and he'll be getting
cross pretty soon."
"Oh," she cried with laughter in her eyes, "you've had a scene with
him? I knew you would! He's so quaint and old-fashioned!"
"Yes," I said, "and he talks exactly like your aunt."
"Oh! You've met her too! I'm missing all the fun!"
I had a sudden inspiration--one that I was proud of. "My dear girl,"
I said, "maybe _you_ call it fun!" And I looked really agitated.
"Why, what's the matter?" she cried.
"What could you expect?" I asked. "I fear, my dear Sylvia, I've
shocked your aunt beyond all hope."
"What have you done?"
"I've talked about things I'd no business to--I've bossed the
learned doctor--and I'm sure Aunt Varina has guessed I'm not a
lady."
"Oh, tell me about it!" cried Sylvia, full of delight.
But I could not keep up the game any longer. "Not now, dear," I
said. "It's a long story, and I really am exhausted. I must go and
get some rest."
I rose, and she caught my hand, whispering: "I shall be happy, Mary!
I shall be really happy now!" And then I turned and fled, and when I
was out of sight of the doorway, I literally ran. At the other end
of the veranda I sank down upon the steps, and wept softly to
myself.
17. The launch arrived, bringing the nitrate of silver. A solution
was dropped into the baby's eyes, and then we could do nothing but
wait. I might have lain down and really tried to rest; but the maid
came again, with the announcement that Sylvia was asking for her
aunt. Excuses would have tended to excite her suspicions; so poor
Mrs. Tuis had to take her turn at facing the ordeal, and I had to
drill and coach her for it. I had a vision of the poor lady going in
to her niece, and suddenly collapsing. Then there would begin a