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,
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
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