Sylvia's Marriage

have known!"

  Then for a long time I sat still and let her suffer. "Tenement

  sweat-shops! Little children in factories!" I heard her whisper.

  At last I put my hand on hers. "I tried to put it off for a while,"

  I said. "But I knew it would have to come."

  "Think of me!" she exclaimed, "going about scolding other people for

  the way they make their money! When I thought of my own, I had

  visions of palatial hotels and office-buildings--everything splendid

  and clean!"

  "Well, my dear, you've learned now, and you will be able to do

  something--"

  She turned upon me suddenly, and for the first time I saw in her

  face the passions of tragedy. "Do you believe I will be able to do

  anything? No! Don't have any such idea!"

  I was struck dumb. She got up and began to pace the room. "Oh, don't

  make any mistake, I've paid for my great marriage in the last hour

  or two. To think that he cares about nothing save the possibility of

  being found out and made ridiculous! All his friends have been

  'muckraked,' as he calls it, and he has sat aloft and smiled over

  their plight; he was the landed gentleman, the true aristrocrat,

  whom the worries of traders and money-changers didn't concern. Now

  perhaps he's caught, and his name is to be dragged in the mire, and

  it's my flightiness, my lack of commonsense that has done it!"

  "I shouldn't let that trouble me," I said. "You could not know--"

  "Oh, it's not that! It's that I hadn't a single courageous word to

  say to him--not a hint that he ought to refuse to wring blood-money

  from sweat-shops! I came away without having done it, because I

  couldn't face his anger, because it would have meant a quarrel!"

  "My dear," I said gently, "it is possible to survive a quarrel."

  "No, you don't understand! We should never make it up again, I

  know--I saw it in his words, in his face. He will never change to

  please me, no, not even a simple thing like the business-methods of

  the van Tuiver estates."

  I could not help smiling. "My dear Sylvia! A simple thing!"

  She came and sat beside me. "That's what I want to talk about. It is

  time I was growing up. It it time that I knew about these things.

  Tell me about them."

  "What, my dear?"

  "About the methods of the van Tuiver estates, that can't be changed

  to please me. I made out one thing, we had recently paid a fine for

  some infraction of the law in one of those buildings, and my husband

  said it was because we had refused to pay more money to a

  tenement-house inspector. I asked him: 'Why should we pay any money

  at all to a tenement-house inspector? Isn't it bribery?' He

  answered: 'It's a custom--the same as you give a tip to a hotel

  waiter.' Is that true?"

  I could not help smiling. "Your husband ought to know, my dear," I

  said.

  I saw her compress her lips. "What is the tip for?"

  "I suppose it is to keep out of trouble with him."

  "But why can't we keep out of trouble by obeying the law?"

  "My dear, sometimes the law is inconvenient, and sometimes it is

  complicated and obscure. It might be that you are violating it

  without knowing the fact. It might be uncertain whether you are

  violating it or not, so that to settle the question would mean a lot

  of expense and publicity. It might even be that the law is

  impossible to obey--that it was not intended to be obeyed."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean, maybe it was passed to put you at the mercy of the

  politicians."

  "But," she protested, "that would be blackmail."

  "The phrase," I replied, "is 'strike-legislation.'"

  "But at least, that wouldn't be our fault!"

  "No, not unless you had begun it. It generally happens that the

  landlord discovers it's a good thing to have politicians who will

  work with him. Maybe he wants his assessments lowered; maybe he

  wants to know where new car lines are to go, so that he can buy

  intelligently; maybe he wants the city to improve his neighbourhood;

  maybe he wants influence at court when he has some heavy damage

  suit."

  "So we bribe everyone!"

  "Not necessarily. You may simply wait until campaign-time, and then

  make your contribution to the machine. That is the basis of the

  'System.'."

  "The 'System '?"

  "A semi-criminal police-force, and everything that pays tribute to

  it; the saloon and the dive, the gambling hell the white-slave

  market, and the Arson trust."

  I saw a wild look in her eyes. "Tell me, do you _know_ that all

  these things are true? Or are you only guessing about them?"

  "My dear Sylvia," I answered, "you said it was time you grew up. For

  the present I will tell you this: Several months before I met you, I

  made a speech in which I named some of the organised forces of evil

  in the city. One was Tammany Hall, and another was the Traction

  Trust, and another was the Trinity Church Corporation, and yet

  another was the van Tuiver estates."

  27. The following Sunday there appeared a "magazine story" of an

  interview with the infinitely beautiful young wife of the infinitely

  rich Mr. Douglas van Tuiver, in which the views of the wife on the

  subject of child-labour were liberally interlarded with descriptions

  of her reception-room and her morning-gown. But mere picturesqueness

  by that time had been pretty well discounted in our minds. So long

  as the article did not say anything about the ownership of

  child-labour tenements!

  I did not see Sylvia for several weeks after that. I took it for

  granted that she would want some time to get herself together and

  make up her mind about the future. I did not feel anxious; the seed

  had sprouted, and I felt sure it would continue to grow.

  Then one day she called me up, asking if I could come to see her. I

  suggested that afternoon, and she said she was having tea with some

  people at the Palace Hotel, and could I come there just after

  tea-time? I remember the place and the hour, because of the curious

  adventure into which I got myself. One hears the saying, when

  unexpected encounters take place, "How small the world is!" But I

  thought the world was growing really too small when I went into a

  hotel tea-room to wait for Sylvia, and found myself face to face

  with Claire Lepage!

  The place appointed had been the "orange-room"; I stood in the

  door-way, sweeping the place with my eyes, and I saw Mrs. van Tuiver

  at the same moment that she saw me. She was sitting at a table with

  several other people and she nodded, and I took a seat to wait. From

  my position I could watch her, in animated conversation; and she

  could send me a smile now and then. So I was decidedly startled when

  I heard a voice, "Why, how do you do?" and looked up and saw Claire

  holding out her hand to me.

  "Well, for heaven's sake!" I exclaimed.

  "You don't come to see me any more," she said.

  "Why, no--no, I've been busy of late." So much I managed to

  ejaculate, in spite of my confusion.
br />   "You seem surprised to see me," she remarked--observant as usual,

  and sensitive to other people's attitude to her.

  "Why, naturally," I said. And then, recollecting that it was not in

  the least natural--since she spent a good deal of her time in such

  places--I added, "I was looking for someone else."

  "May I do in the meantime?" she inquired, taking a seat beside me.

  "What are you so busy about?"

  "My child-labour work," I answered. Then, in an instant, I was sorry

  for the words, thinking she must have read about Sylvia's

  activities. I did not want her to know that I had met Sylvia, for it

  would mean a flood of questions, which I did not want to answer--nor

  yet to refuse to answer.

  But my fear was needless. "I've been out of town," she said.

  "Whereabouts?" I asked, making conversation.

  "A little trip to Bermuda."

  My mind was busy with the problem of getting rid of her. It would be

  intolerable to have Sylvia come up to us; it was intolerable to know

  that they were in sight of each other.

  Even as the thought came to me, however, I saw Claire start. "Look!"

  she exclaimed.

  "What is it?"

  "That woman there--in the green velvet! The fourth table."

  "I see her."

  "Do you know who she is?"

  "Who?" (I remembered Lady Dee's maxim about lying!)

  "Sylvia Castleman!" whispered Claire. (She always referred to her

  thus--seeming to say, "I'm as much van Tuiver as she is!")

  "Are you sure?" I asked--in order to say something.

  "I've seen her a score of times. I seem to be always running into

  her. That's Freddie Atkins she's talking to."

  "Indeed!" said I.

  "I know most of the men I see her with. But I have to walk by as if

  I'd never seen them. A queer world we live in, isn't it?"

  I could assent cordially to that proposition. "Listen," I broke in,

  quickly. "Have you got anything to do? If not, come down to the

  Royalty and have tea with me."

  "Why not have it here?"

  "I've been waiting for someone from there, and I have to leave a

  message. Then I'll be free."

  She rose, to my vast relief, and we walked out. I could feel

  Sylvia's eyes following me; but I dared not try to send her a

  message--I would have to make up some explanation afterwards. "Who

  was your well-dressed friend?" I could imagine her asking; but my

  mind was more concerned with the vision of what would happen if, in

  full sight of her companion, Mr. Freddie Atkins, she were to rise

  and walk over to Claire and myself!

  28. Seated in the palm-room of the other hotel, I sipped a cup of

  tea which I felt I had earned, while Claire had a little glass of

  the fancy-coloured liquids which the ladies in these places affect.

  The room was an aviary, with tropical plants and splashing

  fountains--and birds of many gorgeous hues; I gazed from one to

  another of the splendid creatures, wondering how many of them were

  paying for their plumage in the same way as my present companion. It

  would have taken a more practiced eye than mine to say which, for if

  I had been asked, I would have taken Claire for a diplomat's wife.

  She had not less than a thousand dollars' worth of raiment upon her,

  and its style made clear to all the world the fact that it had not

  been saved over from a previous season of prosperity. She was a fine

  creature, who could carry any amount of sail; with her bold, black

  eyes she looked thoroughly competent, and it was hard to believe in

  the fundamental softness of her character.

  I sat, looking about me, annoyed at having missed Sylvia, and only

  half listening to Claire. But suddenly she brought me to attention.

  "Well," she said, "I've met him."

  "Met whom?"

  "Douglas."

  I stared at her. "Douglas van Tuiver?"

  She nodded; and I suppressed a cry.

  "I told you he'd come back," she added, with a laugh.

  "You mean he came to see you?"

  I could not hide my concern. But there was no need to, for it

  flattered Claire's vanity. "No--not yet, but he will. I met him at

  Jack Taylor's--at a supper-party."

  "Did he know you were to be there?"

  "No. But he didn't leave when he saw me."

  There was a pause. I could not trust myself to say anything. But

  Claire had no intention of leaving me curious. "I don't think he's

  happy with her," she remarked.

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Oh, several things. I know him, you know. He wouldn't say he was."

  "Perhaps he didn't want to discuss it with you."

  "Oh, no--not that. He isn't reserved with me."

  "I should think it was dangerous to discuss one's wife under such

  circumstances," I laughed.

  Claire laughed also. "You should have heard what Jack had to say

  about his wife! She's down at Palm Beach."

  "She'd better come home," I ventured.

  "He was telling what a dance she leads him; she raises Cain if a

  woman looks at him--and she damns every woman he meets before the

  woman has a chance to look. Jack said marriage was hell--just hell.

  Reggie Channing thought it was like a pair of old slippers that you

  got used to." Jack laughed and answered, "You're at the stage where

  you think you can solve the marriage problem by deceiving your

  wife!"

  I made no comment. Claire sat for a while, busy with her thoughts;

  then she repeated, "He wouldn't say he was happy! And he misses me,

  too. When he was going, I held his hand, and said: 'Well, Douglas,

  how goes it?'"

  "And then?" I asked; but she would not say any more.

  I waited a while, and then began, "Claire, let him alone. Give them

  a chance to be happy."

  "Why should I?" she demanded, in a voice of hostility.

  "She never harmed you," I said. I knew I was being foolish, but I

  would do what I could.

  "She took him away from me, didn't she?" And Claire's eyes were

  suddenly alight with the hatred of her outcast class. "Why did she

  get him? Why is she Mrs. van Tuiver, and I nobody? Because her

  father was rich, because she had power and position, while I had to

  scratch for myself in the world. Is that true, or isn't it?"

  I could not deny that it might be part of the truth. "But they're

  married now," I said, "and he loves her."

  "He loves me, too. And I love him still, in spite of the way he's

  treated me. He's the only man I ever really loved. Do you think I'm

  going off and hide in a hole, while she spends his money and plays

  the princess up and down the Avenue? Not much!"

  I fell silent. Should I set out upon another effort at "moulding

  water"? Should I give Claire one more scolding--tell her, perhaps,

  how her very features were becoming hard and ugly, as a result of

  the feelings she was harbouring? Should I recall the pretences of

  generosity and dignity she had made when we first met? I might have

  attempted this--but something held me back. After all, the one

  person who could decide this issue was Douglas van Tuiver.

  I rose. "Well, I have
to be going. But I'll drop round now and then,

  and see what success you have."

  She became suddenly important. "Maybe I won't tell!"

  To which I answered, indifferently, "All right, it's your secret."

  But I went off without much worry over that part of it. Claire must

  have some one to whom to recount her troubles--or her triumphs, as

  the case might be.

  29. I had my talk with Sylvia a day or two later, and made my

  excuse--a friend from the West who had been going out of town in a

  few hours later.

  The seed had been growing, I found. Ever since we had last met, her

  life had consisted of arguments over the costume-ball on which her

  husband had set his heart, and at which she had refused to play the

  hostess.

  "Of course, he's right about one thing," she remarked. "We can't

  stay in New York unless we give some big affair. Everyone expects

  it, and there is no explanation except one he could not offer."

  "I've made a big breach in your life, Sylvia," I said.

  "It wasn't all you. This unhappiness has been in me--it's been like

  a boil, and you've been the poultice." (She had four younger

  brothers and sisters, so these domestic similes came naturally.)

  "Boils," I remarked, "are disfiguring, when they come to a head."

  There was a pause. "How is your child-labour bill?" she asked,

  abruptly.

  "Why, it's all right."

  "Didn't I see a letter in the paper saying it had been referred to a

  sub-committee, some trick to suppress it for this session?"

  I could not answer. I had been hoping she had not seen that letter.

  "If I were to come forward now," she said, "I could possibly block

  that move, couldn't I?"

  Still I said nothing.

  "If I were to take a bold stand--I mean if I were to speak at a

  public meeting, and denounce the move."

  "I suppose you could," I had to admit.

  For a long time she sat with her head bowed. "The children will have

  to wait," she said, at last, half to herself.

  "My dear," I answered (What else was there to answer?) "the children

  have waited a long time."

  "I hate to turn back--to have you say I'm a coward--"

  "I won't say that, Sylvia."

  "You will be too kind, no doubt, but that will be the truth."

  I tried to reassure her. But the acids I had used--intended for

  tougher skins than hers--had burned into the very bone, and now it

  was not possible to stop their action. "I must make you understand,"

  she said, "how serious a thing it seems to me for a wife to stand

  out against her husband. I've been brought up to feel that it was

  the most terrible thing a woman could do."

  She stopped, and when she went on again her face was set like one

  enduring pain. "So this is the decision to which I have come. If I

  do anything of a public nature now, I drive my husband from me; on

  the other hand, if I take a little time, I may be able to save the

  situation. I need to educate myself, and I'm hoping I may be able to

  educate him at the same time. If I can get him to read something--if

  it's only a few paragraphs everyday--I may gradually change his

  point of view, so that he will tolerate what I believe. At any rate,

  I ought to try; I am sure that is the wise and kind and fair thing

  to do."

  "What will you do about the ball?" I asked.

  "I am going to take him away, out of this rush and distraction, this

  dressing and undressing, hurrying about meeting people and

  chattering about nothing."

  "He is willing?"

  "Yes; in fact, he suggested it himself. He thinks my mind is turned,

  with all the things I've been reading, and with Mrs. Frothingham,