Book 3. Sylvia As Rebel - Part 1

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_ BOOK III. SYLVIA AS REBEL - PART I

1. Long afterwards Sylvia told me about what happened between her husband and herself; how desperately she tried to avoid discussing the issue with him--out of her very sense of fairness to him. But he came to her room, in spite of her protest, and by his implacable persistence he made her hear what he had to say. When he had made up his mind to a certain course of action, he was no more to be resisted than a glacier.

"Sylvia," he said, "I know that you are upset by what has happened. I make every allowance for your condition; but there are some statements that I must be permitted to make, and there are simply no two ways about it--you must get yourself together and hear me."

"Let me see Mary Abbott!" she insisted, again and again. "It may not be what you want--but I demand to see her."

So at last he said, "You cannot see Mrs. Abbott. She has gone back to New York." And then, at her look of consternation: "That is one of the things I have to talk to you about."

"Why has she gone back?" cried Sylvia.

"Because I was unwilling to have her here."

"You mean you sent her away?"

"I mean that she understood she was no longer welcome."

Sylvia drew a quick breath and turned away to the window.

He took advantage of the opportunity to come near, and draw up a chair for her. "Will you not pleased to be seated," he said. And at last she turned, rigidly, and seated herself.

"The time has come," he declared, "when we have to settle this question of Mrs. Abbott, and her influence upon your life. I have argued with you about such matters, but now what has happened makes further discussion impossible. You were brought up among people of refinement, and it has been incredible to me that you should be willing to admit to your home such a woman as this--not merely of the commonest birth, but without a trace of the refinement to which you have been accustomed. And now you see the consequences of your having brought such a person into our life!"

He paused. She made no sound, and her gaze was riveted upon the window-curtain.

"She happens to be here," he went on, "at a time when a dreadful calamity befalls us--when we are in need of the utmost sympathy and consideration. Here is an obscure and terrible affliction, which has baffled the best physicians in the country; but this ignorant farmer's wife considers that she knows all about it. She proceeds to discuss it with every one--sending your poor aunt almost into hysterics, setting the nurses to gossiping--God knows what else she has done, or what she will do, before she gets through. I don't pretend to know her ultimate purpose--blackmail, possibly----"

"Oh, how can you!" she broke out, involuntarily. "How can you say such a thing about a friend of mine?"

"I might answer with another question--how can you have such a friend? A woman who has cast off every restraint, every consideration of decency--and yet is able to persuade a daughter of the Castlemans to make her an intimate! Possibly she is an honest fanatic. Dr. Perrin tells me she was the wife of a brutal farmer, who mistreated her. No doubt that has embittered her against men, and accounts for her mania. You see that her mind leaped at once to the most obscene and hideous explanation of this misfortune of ours--an explanation which pleased her because it blackened the honour of a man."

He stopped again. Sylvia's eyes had moved back to the window-curtain.

"I am not going to insult your ears," he said, "with discussions of her ideas. The proper person to settle such matters is a physician, and if you wish Dr. Perrin to do so, he will tell you what he knows about the case. But I wish you to realize somehow what this thing has meant to me. I have managed to control myself----" He saw her shut her lips more tightly. "The doctors tell me that I must not excite you. But picture the situation. I come to my home, bowed down with grief for you and for my child. And this mad woman thrusts herself forward, shoves aside your aunt and your physicians, and comes in the launch to meet me at the station. And then she accuses me of being criminally guilty of the blindness of my child--of having wilfully deceived my wife! Think of it--that is my welcome to my home!"

"Douglas," she cried, wildly, "Mary Abbott would not have done such a thing without reason----"

"I do not purpose to defend myself," he said, coldly. "If you are bent upon filling your mind with such matters, go to Dr. Perrin. He will tell you that he, as a physician, knows that the charge against me is preposterous. He will tell you that even granting that the cause of the blindness is what Mrs. Abbott guesses, there are a thousand ways in which such an infection can be contracted, which are perfectly innocent, involving no guilt on the part of anyone. Every doctor knows that drinking-cups, wash-basins, towels, even food, can be contaminated. He knows that any person can bring the affliction into a home--servants, nurses, even the doctors themselves. Has your mad woman friend told you any of that?"

"She has told me nothing. You know that I have had no opportunity to talk with her. I only know what the nurses believe----"

"They believe what Mrs. Abbott told them. That is absolutely all the reason they have for believing anything!"

She did not take that quite as he expected. "So Mary Abbott _did_ tell them!" she cried.

He hurried on: "The poisonous idea of a vulgar Socialist woman--this is the thing upon which you base your suspicions of your husband!"

"Oh!" she whispered, half to herself. "Mary Abbott _did_ say it!"

"What if she did?"

"Oh, Douglas, Mary would never have said such a thing to a nurse unless she had been certain of it!"

"Certain?" he broke out. "What certainty could she imagine she had? She is a bitter, frantic woman--a divorced woman--who jumped to the conclusion that pleased her, because it involved the humiliation of a rich man."

He went on, his voice trembling with suppressed passion: "When you know the real truth, the thing becomes a nightmare. You, a delicate woman, lying here helpless--the victim of a cruel misfortune, and with the life of an afflicted infant depending upon your peace of mind. Your physicians planning day and night to keep you quiet, to keep the dreadful, unbearable truth from you----"

"Oh, what truth? That's the terrifying thing--to know that people are keeping things from me! What _was_ it they were keeping?"

"First of all, the fact that the baby was blind; and then the cause of it----"

"Then they _do_ know the cause?"

"They don't know positively--no one can know positively. But poor Dr. Perrin had a dreadful idea, that he had to hide from you because otherwise he could not bear to continue in your house----"

"Why, Douglas! What do you mean?"

"I mean that a few days before your confinement, he was called away to the case of a negro-woman--you knew that, did you not?"

"Go on."

"He had the torturing suspicion that possibly he was not careful enough in sterilizing his instruments, and that he, your friend and protector, may be the man who is to blame."

"Oh! Oh!" Her voice was a whisper of horror.

"That is one of the secrets your doctors have been trying to hide."

There was silence, while her eyes searched his face. Suddenly she stretched out her hands to him, crying desperately: "Oh, is this true?"

He did not take the outstretched hands. "Since I am upon the witness-stand, I have to be careful of my replies. It is what Dr. Perrin tells me. Whether the explanation he gives is the true one--whether he himself, or the nurse he recommended, may have brought the infection----"

"It couldn't have been the nurse," she said quickly. "She was so careful----"

He did not allow her to finish. "You seem determined," he said, coldly, "to spare everyone but your husband."

"No!" she protested, "I have tried hard to be fair--to be fair to both you and my friend. Of course, if Mary Abbott was mistaken, I have done you a great injustice--"

He saw that she was softening, and that it was safe for him to be a man. "It has been with some difficulty that I have controlled myself throughout this experience," he said, rising to his feet. "If you do not mind, I think I will not carry the discussion any further, as I don't feel that I can trust myself to listen to a defence of that woman from your lips. I will only tell you my decision in the matter. I have never before used my authority as a husband; I hoped I should never have to use it. But the time has come when you will have to choose between Mary Abbott and your husband. I will positively not tolerate your corresponding with her, or having anything further to do with her. I take my stand upon that, and nothing will move me. I will not even permit of any discussion of the subject. And now I hope you will excuse me. Dr. Perrin wishes me to tell you that either he or Dr. Gibson are ready at any time to advise you about these matters, which have been forced upon your mind against their judgment and protests."

2. You can see that it was no easy matter for Sylvia to get at the truth. The nurses, already terrified because of their indiscretion, had been first professionally thrashed, and then carefully drilled as to the answers they were to make. But as a matter of fact they did not have to make any answers at all, because Sylvia was unwilling to reveal to anyone her distrust of her husband.

One of two things was certain: either she had been horribly wronged by her husband, or now she was horribly wronging him. Which was the truth? Was it conceivable that I, Mary Abbott, would leap to a false conclusion about such a matter? She knew that I felt intensely, almost fanatically, on the subject, and also that I had been under great emotional stress. Was it possible that I would have voiced mere suspicions to the nurses? Sylvia could not be sure, for my standards were as strange to her as my Western accent. She knew that I talked freely to everyone about such matters--and would be as apt to select the nurses as the ladies of the house. On the other hand, how was it conceivable that I could know positively? To recognize a disease might be easy; but to specify from what source it had come--that was surely not in my power!

They did not leave her alone for long. Mrs. Tuis came in, with her feminine terrors. "Sylvia, you must know that you are treating your husband dreadfully! He has gone away down the beach by himself, and has not even seen his baby!"

"Aunt Varina--" she began, "won't you please go away?"

But the other rushed on: "Your husband comes here, broken with grief because of this affliction; and you overwhelm him with the most cruel and wicked reproaches with charges you have no way in the world of proving----" And the old lady caught her niece by the hand. "My child! Come, do your duty!"

"My duty?"

"Make yourself fit, and take your husband to see his baby."

"Oh, I can't!" cried Sylvia. "I don't want to be there when he sees her! If I loved him--" Then, seeing her aunt's face of horror, she was seized with a sudden impulse of pity, and caught the poor old lady in her arms. "Aunt Varina," she said, "I am making you suffer, I know--I am making everyone suffer! But if you only knew how I am suffering myself! How can I know what to do."

Mrs. Tuis was weeping; but quickly she got herself together, and answered in a firm voice, "Your old auntie can tell you what to do. You must come to your senses, my child--you must let your reason prevail. Get your face washed, make yourself presentable, and come and take your husband to see your baby. Women have to suffer, dear; we must not shirk our share of life's burdens."

"There is no danger of my shirking," said Sylvia, bitterly.

"Come, dear, come," pleaded Mrs. Tuis. She was trying to lead the girl to the mirror. If only she could be made to see how distraught and disorderly she looked! "Let me help you to dress, dear--you know how much better it always makes you feel."

Sylvia laughed, a trifle wildly--but Mrs. Tuis had dealt with hysteria before. "What would you like to wear?" she demanded. And then, without waiting for an answer, "Let me choose something. One of your pretty frocks."

"A pretty frock, and a seething volcano underneath! That is your idea of a woman's life!"

The other responded very gravely, "A pretty frock, my dear, and a smile--instead of a vulgar scene, and ruin and desolation afterwards."

Sylvia made no reply. Yes, that was the life of woman--her old aunt knew! And her old aunt knew also the psychology of her sex. She did not go on talking about pretty frocks in the abstract; she turned at once to the clothes-closet, and began laying pretty frocks upon the bed!

3. Sylvia emerged upon the "gallery," clad in dainty pink muslin, her beautiful shiny hair arranged under a semi-invalid's cap of pink maline. Her face was pale, and the big red-brown eyes were hollow; but she was quiet, and apparently mistress of herself again. She even humoured Aunt Varina by leaning slightly upon her feeble arm, while the maid hastened to place her chair in a shaded spot.

Her husband came, and the doctors; the tea-things were brought, and Aunt Varina poured tea, a-flutter with excitement. They talked about the comparative temperatures of New York and the Florida Keys, and about hedges of jasmine to shade the gallery from the evening sun. And after a while, Aunt Varina arose, explaining that she would prepare Elaine for her father's visit. In the doorway she stood for a moment, smiling upon the pretty picture; it was all settled now--the outward forms had been observed, and the matter would end, as such matters should end between husband and wife--a few tears, a few reproaches, and then a few kisses.

The baby was made ready, with a new dress, and a fresh silk bandage to cover the pitiful, lifeless eyes. Aunt Varina had found pleasure in making these bandages; she made them soft and pretty--less hygienic, perhaps, but avoiding the suggestion of the hospital.

When Sylvia and her husband came into the room, the faces of both of them were white. Sylvia stopped near the door-way; and poor Aunt Varina fluttered about, in agony of soul. When van Tuiver went to the cradle, she hurried to his side, and sought to awaken the little one with gentle nudges. Quite unexpectedly to her, van Tuiver sought to pick up the infant; she helped him, and he stood, holding it awkwardly, as if afraid it might go to pieces in his arms.

So any man might appear, with his first infant; but to Sylvia it seemed the most tragic sight she had ever seen in her life. She gave a low cry, "Douglas!" and he turned, and she saw his face was working with the feeling he was ashamed for anyone to see. "Oh, Douglas," she whispered, "I'm so _sorry_ for you!" At which Aunt Varina decided that it was time for her to make her escape.

4. But the trouble between these two were not such as could be settled by any burst of emotion. The next day they were again in a dispute, for he had come to ask her word of honour that she would never see me again, and would give him my letters to be returned unopened. This last was what she had let her father do in the case of Frank Shirley; and she had become certain in her own mind that she had done wrong.

But he was insistent in his demand; declaring that it should be obvious to her there could be no peace of mind for him so long as my influence continued in her life.

"But surely," protested Sylvia, "to hear Mary Abbott's explanation----"

"There can be no explanation that is not an insult to your husband, and to those who are caring for you. I am speaking in this matter not merely for myself, but for your physicians, who know this woman, heard her menaces and her vulgarity. It is their judgment that you should be protected at all hazards from further contact with her."

"Douglas," she argued, "you must realize that I am in distress of mind about this matter----"

"I certainly realize that."

"And if you are thinking of my welfare, you should choose a course that would set my mind at rest. But when you come to me and ask me that I should not even read a letter from my friend--don't you realize what you suggest to me, that there is something you are afraid for me to know?"

"I do not attempt to deny my fear of this woman. I have seen how she has been able to poison your mind with suspicions----"

"Yes, Douglas--but now that has been done. What else is there to fear from her?"

"I have no idea what. She is a bitter, jealous woman, with a mind full of hatred; and you are an innocent girl, who cannot judge about these matters. What idea have you of the world in which you live, of the slanders to which a man in your husband's position is exposed?"

"I am not quite such a child as that----"

"You have simply no idea, I tell you. I remember your consternation when we first met, and I told you about the woman who had written me a begging letter, and got an interview with me, and then started screaming, and refused to leave the house till I had paid her a lot of money. You had never heard such stories, had you? Yet it is the kind of thing that is happening to rich men continually; it was one of the first rules I was taught, never to let myself be alone with a strange woman, no matter of what age, or under what circumstances."

"But, I assure you, I would not listen to such people----"

"You are asking right now to listen! And you would be influenced by her--you could not help it, any more than you can help being distressed about what she has already said. She intimated to Dr. Perrin that she believed that I had been a man of depraved life, and that my wife and child were now paying the penalty. How can I tell what vile stories concerning me she may not have heard? How could I have any peace of mind while I knew that she was free to pour them into your ear?"

Sylvia sat dumb with questions she would not utter, hovering on the tip of her tongue.

He took her silence for acquiesence, and went on, quickly, "Let me give you an illustration. A friend of mine whom you know well--I might as well tell you his name, it was Freddie Atkins--was at supper with some theatrical women; and one of them, not having any idea that Freddie knew me, proceeded to talk about me, and how she had met me, and where we had been together--about my yacht, and my castle in Scotland, and I don't know what all else. It seems that this woman had been my mistress for several years; she told quite glibly about me and my habits. Freddie got the woman's picture, on some pretext or other, and brought it to me; I had never laid eyes on her in my life. He could hardly believe it, and to prove it to him I offered to meet the woman, under another name. We sat in a restaurant, and she told the tale to Freddie and myself together--until finally he burst out laughing, and told her who I was."

He paused, to let this sink in. "Now, suppose your friend, Mary Abbott, had met that woman! I don't imagine she is particularly careful whom she associates with; and suppose she had come and told you that she knew such a woman--what would you have said? Can you deny that the tale would have made an impression on you? Yet, I've not the least doubt there are scores of women who made such tales about me a part of their stock in trade; there are thousands of women whose fortunes would be made for life if they could cause such a tale to be believed. And imagine how well-informed they would be, if anyone were to ask them concerning my habits, and the reason why our baby is blind! I tell you, when the rumour concerning our child has begun to spread, there will be ten thousand people in New York city who will know of first-hand, personal knowledge exactly how it happened, and how you took it, and everything that I said to you about it. There will be sneers in the society-papers, from New York to San Francisco; and smooth-tongued gentlemen calling, to give us hints that we can stop these sneers by purchasing a de-luxe edition of a history of our ancestors for six thousand dollars. There will be well-meaning and beautiful-souled people who will try to get you to confide in them, and then use their knowledge of your domestic unhappiness to blackmail you; there will be threats of law-suits from people who will claim that they have contracted a disease from you or your child--your laundress, perhaps, or your maid, or one of these nurses----"

"Oh, stop! stop!" she cried.

"I am quite aware," he said, quietly, "that these things are not calculated to preserve the peace of mind of a young mother. You are horrified when I tell you of them--yet you clamour for the right to have Mrs. Abbott tell you of them! I warn you, Sylvia--you have married a rich man, who is exposed to the attacks of cunning and unscrupulous enemies. You, as his wife, are exactly as much exposed--possibly even more so. Therefore when I see you entering into what I know to be a dangerous intimacy, I must have the right to say to you, This shall stop, and I tell you, there can never be any safety or peace of mind for either of us, so long as you attempt to deny me that right."

5. Dr. Gibson took his departure three or four days later; and before he went, he came to give her his final blessing; talking to her, as he phrased it, "like a Dutch uncle." "You must understand," he said, "I am almost old enough to be your grandfather. I have four sons, anyone of whom might have married you, if they had had the good fortune to be in Castleman County at the critical time. So you must let me be frank with you."

Sylvia indicated that she was willing.

"We don't generally talk to women about these matters; because they've no standard by which to judge, and they almost always fly off and have hysterics. Their case seems to them exceptional and horrible, their husbands the blackest criminals in the whole tribe."

He paused for a moment. "Now, Mrs. van Tuiver, the disease which has made your baby blind is probably what we call gonorrhea. When it gets into the eyes, it has very terrible results. But it doesn't often get into the eyes, and for the most part it's a trifling affair, that we don't worry about. I know there are a lot of new-fangled notions, but I'm an old man, with experience of my own, and I have to have things proven to me. I know that with as much of this disease as we doctors see, if it was a deadly disease, there'd be nobody left alive in the world. As I say, I don't like to discuss it with women; but it was not I who forced the matter upon your attention----"

"Pray go on, Dr. Gibson," she said. "I really wish to know all that you will tell me."

"The question has come up, how was this disease brought to your child? Dr. Perrin suggested that possibly he--you understand his fear; and possibly he is correct. But it seems to me an illustration of the unwisdom of a physician's departing from his proper duty, which is to cure people. If you wish to find out who brought a disease, what you need is a detective. I know, of course, that there are people who can combine the duties of physician and detective--and that without any previous preparation or study of either profession."

He waited for this irony to sink in; and Sylvia also waited, patiently.

At last he resumed, "The idea has been planted in your mind that your husband brought the trouble; and that idea is sure to stay there and fester. So it becomes necessary for someone to talk to you straight. Let me tell you that eight men out of ten have had this disease at some time in their lives; also that very few of them were cured of it when they thought they were. You have a cold: and then next month, you say the cold is gone. So it is, for practical purposes. But if I take a microscope, I find the germs of the cold still in your membranes, and I know that you can give a cold, and a bad cold, to some one else who is sensitive. It is true that you may go through all the rest of your life without ever being entirely rid of that cold. You understand me?"

"Yes," said Sylvia, in a low voice.

"I say eight out of ten. Estimates would differ. Some doctors would say seven out of ten--and some actual investigations have shown nine out of ten. And understand me, I don't mean bar-room loafers and roustabouts. I mean your brothers, if you have any, your cousins, your best friends, the men who came to make love to you, and whom you thought of marrying. If you had found it out about any one of them, of course you'd have cut the acquaintance; yet you'd have been doing an injustice--for if you had done that to all who'd ever had the disease, you might as well have retired to a nunnery at once."

The old gentleman paused again; then frowning at her under his bushy eye-brows, he exclaimed, "I tell you, Mrs. van Tuiver, you're doing your husband a wrong. Your husband loves you, and he's a good man--I've had some talks with him, and I know he's not got nearly so much on his conscience as the average husband. I'm a Southern man, and I know these gay young bloods you've danced and flirted with all your young life. Do you think if you went probing into their secret affairs, you'd have had much pleasure in their company afterwards? I tell you again, you're doing your husband a wrong! You're doing something that very few men would stand, as patiently as he has stood it so far."

All this time Sylvia had given no sign. So the old gentleman began to feel a trifle uneasy. "Mind you," he said, "I'm not saying that men ought to be like that. They deserve a good hiding, most of them--they're very few of them fit to associate with a good woman. I've always said that no man is really good enough for a good woman. But my point is that when you select one to punish, you select not the guiltiest one, but simply the one who's had the misfortune to fall under suspicion. And he knows that's not fair; he'd have to be more than human if deep in his soul he did not bitterly resent it. You understand me?"

"I understand," she replied, in the same repressed voice.

And the doctor rose and laid his hand on her shoulder. "I'm going home," he said--"very probably we'll never meet each other again. I see you making a great mistake, laying up unhappiness for yourself in the future; and I wish to prevent it if I can. I wish to persuade you to face the facts of the world in which we live. So I am going to tell you something that I never expected I should tell to a lady."

He was looking her straight in the eye. "You see me--I'm an old man, and I seem fairly respectable to you. You've laughed at me some, but even so, you've found it possible to get along with me without too great repugnance. Well, I've had this disease; I've had it, and nevertheless I've raised six fine, sturdy children. More than that-- I'm not free to name anybody else, but I happen to know positively that among the men your husband employs on this island there are two who have the disease right now. And the next charming and well-bred gentleman you are introduced to, just reflect that there are at least eight chances in ten that he has had the disease, and perhaps three or four in ten that he has it at the minute he's shaking hands with you. And now you think that over, and stop tormenting your poor husband!"

6. One of the first things I did when I reached New York was to send a little love-letter to Sylvia. I said nothing that would distress her; I merely assured her that she was in my thoughts, and that I should look to see her in New York, when we could have a good talk. I put this in a plain envelope, with a typewritten address, and registered it in the name of my stenographer. The receipt came back, signed by an unknown hand, probably the secretary's. I found out later that the letter never got to Sylvia.

No doubt it was the occasion of renewed efforts upon her husband's part to obtain from her the promise he desired. He would not be put off with excuses; and at last he got her answer, in the shape of a letter which she told him she intended to mail to me. In this letter she announced her decision that she owed it to her baby to avoid all excitement and nervous strain during the time that she was nursing it. Her husband had sent for the yacht, and they were going to Scotland, and in the winter to the Mediterranean and the Nile. Meantime she would not correspond with me; but she wished me to know that there was to be no break in our friendship, and that she would 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 liquids before them. _

Read next: Book 3. Sylvia As Rebel - Part 2

Read previous: Book 2. Sylvia As Mother - Part 3

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