Sylvia's Marriage

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Sylvia's Marriage Page 12

by Upton Sinclair

let me add that when you say you KNOW this----"

  He stopped. "I MEAN that I know it," I said, and stopped in turn.

  "Has Mrs. van Tuiver herself any idea of this situation?"

  "None whatever. On the contrary, she was assured before her marriage

  that no such possibility existed."

  Again I felt him looking through me, but I left him to make what he

  could of my information. "Doctor," I continued, "I presume there is

  no need to point out to a man in your position the seriousness of

  this matter, both to the mother and to the child."

  "Certainly there is not."

  "I assume that you are familiar with the precautions that have to be

  taken with regard to the eyes of the child?"

  "Certainly, madame." This with just a touch of HAUTEUR, and then,

  suddenly: "Are you by any chance a nurse?"

  "No," I replied, "but many years ago I was forced by tragedy in my

  own family to realise the seriousness of the venereal peril. So when

  I learned this fact about my friend, my first thought was that you

  should be informed of it. I trust that you will appreciate my

  position."

  "Certainly, madame, certainly," he made haste to say. "You are quite

  right, and you may rest assured that everything will be done that

  our best knowledge directs. I only regret that the information did

  not come to me sooner."

  "It only came to me about an hour ago," I said, as I rose to leave.

  "The blame, therefore, must rest upon another person."

  I needed to say no more. He bowed me politely out, and I walked down

  the street, and realised that I was restless and wretched. I

  wandered at random for a while. trying to think what else I could

  do, for my own peace of mind, if not for Sylvia's welfare. I found

  myself inventing one worry after another. Dr. Overton had not said

  just when he was going, and suppose she were to need someone at

  once? Or suppose something were to happen to him--if he were to be

  killed upon the long train-journey? I was like a mother who has had

  a terrible dream about her child--she must rush and fling her arms

  about the child. I realised that I wanted to see Sylvia!

  She had begged me to come; and I was worn out and had been urged by

  the office to take a rest. Suddenly I bolted into a store, and

  telephoned the railroad station about trains to Southern Florida. I

  hailed a taxi-cab, rode to my home post-haste, and flung a few of my

  belongings into a bag and the waiting cab sped with me to the ferry.

  In little more than two hours after Claire had told me the dreadful

  tidings, I was speeding on my way to Sylvia.

  11. From a train-window I had once beheld a cross-section of America

  from West to East; now I beheld another from North to South. In the

  afternoon were the farms and country-homes of New Jersey; and then

  in the morning endless wastes of wilderness, and straggling fields

  of young corn and tobacco; turpentine forests, with half-stripped

  negroes working, and a procession of "depots," with lanky men

  chewing tobacco, and negroes basking in the blazing sun. Then

  another night, and there was the pageant of Florida: palmettos, and

  other trees of which one had seen pictures in the geography books;

  stretches of vine-tangled swamps, where one looked for alligators;

  orange-groves in blossom, and gardens full of flowers beyond

  imagining. Every hour, of course, it got hotter; I was not, like

  Sylvia, used to it, and whenever the train stopped I sat by the open

  window, mopping the perspiration from my face.

  We were due at Miami in the afternoon; but there was a freight-train

  off the track ahead of us, and so for three hours I sat chafing with

  impatience, worrying the conductor with futile questions. I had to

  make connections at Miami with a train which ran to the last point

  on the mainland, where the construction-work over the keys was going

  forward. And if I missed that last train, I would have to wait in

  Miami till morning. I had better wait there, anyhow, the conductor

  argued; but I insisted that my friends, to whom I had telegraphed

  two days before, would meet me with a launch and take me to their

  place that night.

  We got in half an hour late for the other train; but this was the

  South, I discovered, and they had waited for us. I shifted my bag

  and myself across the platform, and we moved on. But then another

  problem arose; we were running into a storm. It came with great

  suddenness; one minute all was still, with a golden sunset, and the

  next it was so dark that I could barely see the palm-trees, bent

  over, swaying madly--like people with arms stretched out, crying in

  distress. I could hear the roaring of the wind above that of the

  train, and I asked the conductor in consternation if this could be a

  hurricane. It was not the season for hurricanes, he replied; but it

  was "some storm, all right," and I would not find any boat to take

  me to the keys until it was over.

  It was absurd of me to be nervous, I kept telling myself; but there

  was something in me that cried out to be there, to be there! I got

  out of the train, facing what I refrain from calling a hurricane out

  of deference to local authority. It was all I could do to keep from

  being blown across the station-platform, and I was drenched with the

  spray and bewildered by the roaring of the waves that beat against

  the pier beyond. Inside the station, I questioned the agent. The

  launch of the van Tuivers had not been in that day; if it had been

  on the way, it must have sought shelter somewhere. My telegram to

  Mrs. van Tuiver had been received two days before, and delivered by

  a boatman whom they employed for that purpose. Presumably,

  therefore, I would be met. I asked how long this gale was apt to

  last; the answer was from one to three days.

  Then I asked about shelter for the night. This was a "jumping-off"

  place, said the agent, with barracks and shanties for a

  construction-gang; there were saloons, and what was called a hotel,

  but it wouldn't do for a lady. I pleaded that I was not

  fastidious--being anxious to nullify the effect which the name van

  Tuiver had produced. But the agent would have it that the place was

  unfit for even a Western farmer's wife; and as I was not anxious to

  take the chance of being blown overboard in the darkness, I spent

  the night on one of the benches in the station. I lay, listening to

  the incredible clamour of wind and waves, feeling the building

  quiver, and wondering if each gust might not blow it away.

  I was out at dawn, the force of the wind having abated somewhat by

  that time. I saw before me a waste of angry foam-strewn water, with

  no sign of any craft upon it. Late in the morning came the big

  steamer which ran to Key West, in connection with the railroad; it

  made a difficult landing, and I interviewed the captain, with the

  idea of bribing him to take me to my destination. But he had his

  schedule, which neither storms nor the name of van Tuiver could

  alter. Besides, he pointed out, he could not land me at their place,

  as his vessel
drew too much water to get anywhere near; and if he

  landed me elsewhere, I should be no better off, "If your friends are

  expecting you, they'll come here," he said, "and their launch can

  travel when nothing else can."

  To pass the time I went to inspect the viaduct of the railway-to-be.

  The first stretch was completed, a long series of concrete arches,

  running out, apparently, into the open sea. It was one of the

  engineering wonders of the world, but I fear I did not appreciate

  it. Towards mid-afternoon I made out a speck of a boat over the

  water, and my friend, the station-agent, remarked, "There's your

  launch."

  I expressed my amazement that they should have ventured out in such

  weather. I had had in mind the kind of tiny open craft that one

  hears making day and night hideous at summer-resorts; but when the

  "Merman" drew near, I realized afresh what it was to be the guest of

  a multi-millionaire. She was about fifty feet long, a vision of

  polished brass and shining, new-varnished cedar. She rammed her

  shoulder into the waves and flung them contemptuously to one side;

  her cabin was tight, dry as the saloon of a liner.

  Three men emerged on deck to assist in the difficult process of

  making a landing. One of them sprang to the dock, and confronting

  me, inquired if I was Mrs. Abbott. He explained that they had set

  out to meet me the previous afternoon, but had had to take refuge

  behind one of the keys.

  "How is Mrs. van Tuiver?" I asked, quickly.

  "She is well."

  "I don't suppose--the baby----" I hinted.

  "No, ma'am, not yet," said the man; and after that I felt interested

  in what he had to say about the storm and its effects. We could

  return at once, it seemed, if I did not mind being pitched about.

  "How long does it take?" I asked.

  "Three hours, in weather like this. It's about fifty miles."

  "But then it will be dark," I objected.

  "That won't matter, ma'am--we have plenty of light of our own. We

  shan't have trouble, unless the wind rises, and there's a chain of

  keys all the way, where we can get shelter if it does. The worst you

  have to fear is spending a night on board."

  I reflected that I could not well be more uncomfortable than I had

  been the previous night, so I voted for a start. There was mail and

  some supplies to be put on board; then I made a spring for the deck,

  as it surged up towards me on a rising wave, and in a moment more

  the cabin-door had shut behind me, and I was safe and snug, in the

  midst of leather and mahogany and electric-lighted magnificence.

  Through the heavy double windows I saw the dock swing round behind

  us, and saw the torrents of green spray sweep over us and past. I

  grasped at the seat to keep myself from being thrown forward, and

  then grasped behind, to keep from going in that direction. I had a

  series of sensations as of an elevator stopping suddenly--and then I

  draw the curtains of the "Merman's" cabin, and invite the reader to

  pass by. This is Sylvia's story, and not mine, and it is of no

  interest what happened to me during that trip. I will only remind

  the reader that I had lived my life in the far West, and there were

  some things I could not have foreseen.

  12. "We are there, ma'am," I heard one of the boatmen say, and I

  realised vaguely that the pitching had ceased. He helped me to sit

  up, and I saw the search-light of the craft sweeping the shore of an

  island. "It passes off 'most as quick as it comes, ma'am," added my

  supporter, and for this I murmured feeble thanks.

  We came to a little bay, where the power was shut off, and we glided

  towards the shore. There was a boat-house, a sort of miniature

  dry-dock, with a gate which closed behind us. I had visions of

  Sylvia waiting to meet me, but apparently our arrival had not been

  noted, and for this I was grateful. There were seats in the

  boat-house, and I sank into one, and asked the man to wait a few

  minutes while I recovered myself. When I got up and went to the

  house, what I found made me quickly forget that I had such a thing

  as a body.

  There was a bright moon, I remember, and I could see the long, low

  bungalow, with windows gleaming through the palm-trees. A woman's

  figure emerged from the house and came down the white shell-path to

  meet me. My heart leaped. My beloved!

  But then I saw it was the English maid, whom I had come to know in

  New York; I saw, too, that her face was alight with excitement. "Oh,

  my lady!" she cried. "The baby's come!"

  It was like a blow in the face. "_What?_" I gasped.

  "Came early this morning. A girl."

  "But--I thought it wasn't till next week!"

  "I know, but it's here. In that terrible storm, when we thought the

  house was going to be washed away! Oh, my lady, it's the loveliest

  baby!"

  I had presence of mind enough to try to hide my dismay. The

  semi-darkness was a fortunate thing for me. "How is the mother?" I

  asked.

  "Splendid. She's asleep now."

  "And the child?"

  "Oh! Such a dear you never saw!"

  "And it's all right?"

  "It's just the living image of its mother! You shall see!"

  We moved towards the house, slowly, while I got my thoughts

  together. "Dr. Perrin is here?" I asked.

  "Yes. He's gone to his place to sleep."

  "And the nurse?"

  "She's with the child. Come this way."

  We went softly up the steps of the veranda. All the rooms opened

  upon it, and we entered one of them, and by the dim-shaded light I

  saw a white-clad woman bending over a crib. "Miss Lyman, this is

  Mrs. Abbott," said the maid.

  The nurse straightened up. "Oh! so you got here! And just at the

  right time!"

  "God grant it may be so!" I thought to myself. "So this is the

  child!" I said, and bent over the crib. The nurse turned up the

  light for me.

  It is the form in which the miracle of life becomes most apparent to

  us, and dull indeed must be he who can encounter it without being

  stirred to the depths. To see, not merely new life come into the

  world, but life which has been made by ourselves, or by those we

  love--life that is a mirror and copy of something dear to us! To see

  this tiny mite of warm and living flesh, and to see that it was

  Sylvia! To trace each beloved lineament, so much alike, and yet so

  different--half a portrait and half a caricature, half sublime and

  half ludicrous! The comical little imitation of her nose, with each

  dear little curve, with even a remainder of the tiny groove

  underneath the tip, and the tiny corresponding dimple underneath the

  chin! The soft silken fuzz which was some day to be Sylvia's golden

  glory! The delicate, sensitive lips, which were some day to quiver

  with feeling! I gazed at them and saw them moving, I saw the breast

  moving--and a wave of emotion swept over me, and the tears

  half-blinded me as I knelt.

  But I could not forget the reason for my coming. It meant little

  that
the child was alive and seemingly well; I was not dealing with

  a disease which, like syphilis, starves and deforms in the very

  womb. The little one was asleep, but I moved the light so as to

  examine its eyelids. Then I turned to the nurse and asked: "Miss

  Lyman, doesn't it seem to you the eyelids are a trifle inflamed?"

  "Why, I hadn't noticed it," she answered.

  "Were the eyes washed?" I inquired.

  "I washed the baby, of course--"

  "I mean the eyes especially. The doctor didn't drop anything into

  them?"

  "I don't think he considered it necessary."

  "It's an important precaution," I replied; "there are always

  possibilities of infection."

  "Possibly," said the other. "But you know, we did not expect this.

  Dr. Overton was to be here in three or four days."

  "Dr. Perrin is asleep?" I asked.

  "Yes. He was up all last night."

  "I think I will have to ask you to waken him," I said.

  "Is it as serious as that?" she inquired, anxiously, having sensed

  some of the emotion I was trying to conceal.

  "It might be very serious," I said. "I really ought to have a talk

  with the doctor."

  13. The nurse went out, and I drew up a chair and sat by the crib,

  watching the infant go back to sleep. I was glad to be alone, to

  have a chance to get myself together. But suddenly I heard a rustle

  of skirts in the doorway behind me, and turned and saw a white-clad

  figure; an elderly gentlewoman, slender and fragile, grey-haired and

  rather pale, wearing a soft dressing-gown. Aunt Varina!

  I rose. "This must be Mrs. Abbott," she said. Oh, these soft,

  caressing Southern voices, that cling to each syllable as a lover to

  a hand at parting.

  She was a very prim and stately little lady, and I think she did not

  intend to shake hands; but I felt pretty certain that under her

  coating of formality, she was eager for a chance to rhapsodize. "Oh,

  what a lovely child!" I cried; and instantly she melted.

  "You have seen our babe!" she exclaimed; and I could not help

  smiling. A few months ago, "the little stranger," and now "our

  babe"!

  She bent over the cradle, with her dear old sentimental, romantic

  soul in her eyes. For a minute or two she quite forgot me; then,

  looking up, she murmured, "It is as wonderful to me as if it were my

  own!"

  "All of us who love Sylvia feel that," I responded.

  She rose, and suddenly remembering hospitality, asked me as to my

  present needs. Then she said, "I must go and see to sending some

  telegrams."

  "Telegrams?" I inquired.

  "Yes. Think what this news will mean to dear Douglas! And to Major

  Castleman!"

  "You haven't informed them?"

  "We couldn't send any smaller boat on account of the storm. We must

  telegraph Dr. Overton also, you understand."

  "To tell him not to come?" I ventured. "But don't you think, Mrs.

  Tuis, that he may wish to come anyhow?"

  "Why should he wish that?"

  "I'm not sure, but--I think he might." How I longed for a little of

  Sylvia's skill in social lying! "Every newly-born infant ought to be

  examined by a specialist, you know; there may be a particular

  _r�gime,_ a diet for the mother--one cannot say."

  "Dr. Perrin didn't consider it necessary."

  "I am going to have a talk with Dr. Perrin at once," I said.

  I saw a troubled look in her eyes. "You don't mean you think there's

  anything the matter?"

  "No--no," I lied. "But I'm sure you ought to wait before you have

  the launch go. Please do."

  "If you insist," she said. I read bewilderment in her manner, and

  just a touch of resentment. Was it not presumptuous of me, a

  stranger, and one--well, possibly not altogether a lady? She groped

 

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