Sylvia's Marriage Part 9

"She'd better come home," I ventured.

"He was telling what a dance she leads him; she raises Cain if a woman looks at him--and she d.a.m.ns every woman he meets before the woman has a chance to look. Jack said marriage was h.e.l.l--just h.e.l.l. Reggie Channing thought it was like a pair of old slippers that you got used to." Jack laughed and answered, "You're at the stage where you think you can solve the marriage problem by deceiving your wife!"

I made no comment. Claire sat for a while, busy with her thoughts; then she repeated, "He wouldn't say he was happy! And he misses me, too. When he was going, I held his hand, and said: 'Well, Douglas, how goes it?'"

"And then?" I asked; but she would not say any more.

I waited a while, and then began, "Claire, let him alone. Give them a chance to be happy."

"Why should I?" she demanded, in a voice of hostility.

"She never harmed you," I said. I knew I was being foolish, but I would do what I could.

"She took him away from me, didn't she?" And Claire's eyes were suddenly alight with the hatred of her outcast cla.s.s. "Why did she get him?

Why is she Mrs. van Tuiver, and I n.o.body? Because her father was rich, because she had power and position, while I had to scratch for myself in the world. Is that true, or isn't it?"

I could not deny that it might be part of the truth. "But they're married now," I said, "and he loves her."

"He loves me, too. And I love him still, in spite of the way he's treated me. He's the only man I ever really loved. Do you think I'm going off and hide in a hole, while she spends his money and plays the princess up and down the Avenue? Not much!"

I fell silent. Should I set out upon another effort at "moulding water"?

Should I give Claire one more scolding--tell her, perhaps, how her very features were becoming hard and ugly, as a result of the feelings she was harbouring? Should I recall the pretences of generosity and dignity she had made when we first met? I might have attempted this--but something held me back. After all, the one person who could decide this issue was Douglas van Tuiver.

I rose. "Well, I have to be going. But I'll drop round now and then, and see what success you have."

She became suddenly important. "Maybe I won't tell!"

To which I answered, indifferently, "All right, it's your secret." But I went off without much worry over that part of it. Claire must have some one to whom to recount her troubles--or her triumphs, as the case might be.

29. I had my talk with Sylvia a day or two later, and made my excuse--a friend from the West who had been going out of town in a few hours later.

The seed had been growing, I found. Ever since we had last met, her life had consisted of arguments over the costume-ball on which her husband had set his heart, and at which she had refused to play the hostess.

"Of course, he's right about one thing," she remarked. "We can't stay in New York unless we give some big affair. Everyone expects it, and there is no explanation except one he could not offer."

"I've made a big breach in your life, Sylvia," I said.

"It wasn't all you. This unhappiness has been in me--it's been like a boil, and you've been the poultice." (She had four younger brothers and sisters, so these domestic similes came naturally.)

"Boils," I remarked, "are disfiguring, when they come to a head."

There was a pause. "How is your child-labour bill?" she asked, abruptly.

"Why, it's all right."

"Didn't I see a letter in the paper saying it had been referred to a sub-committee, some trick to suppress it for this session?"

I could not answer. I had been hoping she had not seen that letter.

"If I were to come forward now," she said, "I could possibly block that move, couldn't I?"

Still I said nothing.

"If I were to take a bold stand--I mean if I were to speak at a public meeting, and denounce the move."

"I suppose you could," I had to admit.

For a long time she sat with her head bowed. "The children will have to wait," she said, at last, half to herself.

"My dear," I answered (What else was there to answer?) "the children have waited a long time."

"I hate to turn back--to have you say I'm a coward--"

"I won't say that, Sylvia."

"You will be too kind, no doubt, but that will be the truth."

I tried to rea.s.sure her. But the acids I had used--intended for tougher skins than hers--had burned into the very bone, and now it was not possible to stop their action. "I must make you understand," she said, "how serious a thing it seems to me for a wife to stand out against her husband. I've been brought up to feel that it was the most terrible thing a woman could do."

She stopped, and when she went on again her face was set like one enduring pain. "So this is the decision to which I have come. If I do anything of a public nature now, I drive my husband from me; on the other hand, if I take a little time, I may be able to save the situation. I need to educate myself, and I'm hoping I may be able to educate him at the same time. If I can get him to read something--if it's only a few paragraphs everyday--I may gradually change his point of view, so that he will tolerate what I believe. At any rate, I ought to try; I am sure that is the wise and kind and fair thing to do."

"What will you do about the ball?" I asked.

"I am going to take him away, out of this rush and distraction, this dressing and undressing, hurrying about meeting people and chattering about nothing."

"He is willing?"

"Yes; in fact, he suggested it himself. He thinks my mind is turned, with all the things I've been reading, and with Mrs. Frothingham, and Mrs. Allison, and the rest. He hopes that if I go away, I may quiet down and come to my senses. We have a good excuse. I have to think of my health just now---"

She stopped, and looked away from my eyes. I saw the colour spreading in a slow wave over her cheeks; it was like those tints of early dawn that are so ravis.h.i.+ng to the souls of poets. "In four or five months from now---" And she stopped again.

I put my big hand gently over her small one. "I have three children of my own," I said.

"So," she went on, "it won't seem so unreasonable. Some people know, and the rest will guess, and there won't be any talk--I mean, such as there would be if it was rumoured that Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver had got interested in Socialism, and refused to spend her husband's money."

"I understand," I replied. "It's quite the most sensible thing, and I'm glad you've found a way out. I shall miss you, of course, but we can write each other long letters. Where are you going?"

"I'm not absolutely sure. Douglas suggests a cruise in the West Indies, but I think I should rather be settled in one place. He has a lovely house in the mountains of North Carolina, and wants me to go there; but it's a show-place, with rich homes all round, and I know I'd soon be in a social whirl. I thought of the camp in the Adirondacks. It would be glorious to see the real woods in winter; but I lose my nerve when I think of the cold--I was brought up in a warm place."

"A 'camp' sounds rather primitive for one in your condition," I suggested.

"That's because you haven't been there. In reality it's a big house, with twenty-five rooms, and steam-heat and electric lights, and half a dozen men to take care of it when it's empty--as it has been for several years."

I smiled--for I could read her thought. "Are you going to be unhappy because you can't occupy all your husband's homes?"

"There's one other I prefer," she continued, unwilling to be made to smile. "They call it a 'fis.h.i.+ng lodge,' and it's down in the Florida Keys. They're putting a railroad through there, but meantime you can only get to it by a launch. From the pictures, it's the most heavenly spot imaginable. Fancy running about those wonderful green waters in a motor-boat!"

"It sounds quite alluring," I replied. "But isn't it remote for you?"