Sylvia's Marriage

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by Upton Sinclair

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

 

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