all the melodramatic plots I conceived, the muffled
oars and the midnight visits to my Sylvia? My
sense of humour forbids it. For a while now I
shall take the hint and stay in the background of
this story. I shall tell the experiences of Sylvia
as Sylvia herself told them to me long afterwards;
saying no more about my own fate—save that
I swallowed my humiliation and took the next train
to New York, a far sadder and wiser social-reformer!
SYLVIA AS REBEL
1. Long afterwards Sylvia told me about what
happened between her husband and herself; how desperately
she tried to avoid discussing the issue with him—out
of her very sense of fairness to him. But he
came to her room, in spite of her protest, and by his
implacable persistence he made her hear what he had
to say. When he had made up his mind to a certain
course of action, he was no more to be resisted than
a glacier.
“Sylvia,” he said, “I know that
you are upset by what has happened. I make every
allowance for your condition; but there are some statements
that I must be permitted to make, and there are simply
no two ways about it—you must get yourself
together and hear me.”
“Let me see Mary Abbott!” she insisted,
again and again. “It may not be what you
want—but I demand to see her.”
So at last he said, “You cannot see Mrs. Abbott.
She has gone back to New York.” And then,
at her look of consternation: “That is one
of the things I have to talk to you about.”
“Why has she gone back?” cried Sylvia.
“Because I was unwilling to have her here.”
“You mean you sent her away?”
“I mean that she understood she was no longer
welcome.”
Sylvia drew a quick breath and turned away to the
window.
He took advantage of the opportunity to come near,
and draw up a chair for her. “Will you
not pleased to be seated,” he said. And
at last she turned, rigidly, and seated herself.
“The time has come,” he declared, “when
we have to settle this question of Mrs. Abbott, and
her influence upon your life. I have argued with
you about such matters, but now what has happened makes
further discussion impossible. You were brought
up among people of refinement, and it has been incredible
to me that you should be willing to admit to your
home such a woman as this—not merely of
the commonest birth, but without a trace of the refinement
to which you have been accustomed. And now you
see the consequences of your having brought such a
person into our life!”
He paused. She made no sound, and her gaze was
riveted upon the window-curtain.
“She happens to be here,” he went on,
“at a time when a dreadful calamity befalls
us—when we are in need of the utmost sympathy
and consideration. Here is an obscure and terrible
affliction, which has baffled the best physicians
in the country; but this ignorant farmer’s wife
considers that she knows all about it. She proceeds
to discuss it with every one—sending your
poor aunt almost into hysterics, setting the nurses
to gossiping—God knows what else she has
done, or what she will do, before she gets through.
I don’t pretend to know her ultimate purpose—blackmail,
possibly——”
