"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 pa.s.sion: "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 s.e.x. 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.