Henry, after the revelation which Sylvia had made to him, became more
puzzled than ever. He had thought that her secret anxiety would be
alleviated by the confidence she had made him, but it did not seem to
be. On the contrary, she went about with a more troubled air than
before. Even Horace and Rose, in the midst of their love-dream,
noticed it.
One day Henry, coming suddenly into the sitting-room, found Rose on
her knees beside Sylvia, weeping bitterly. Sylvia was looking over
the girl's head with a terrible, set expression, as if she were
looking at her own indomitable will. For the first time Henry lost
sight of the fact that Sylvia was a woman. He seemed to see her as a
separate human soul, sexless and free, intent upon her own ends,
which might be entirely distinct from his, and utterly unknown to him.
Rose turned her tear-wet face towards him. "Oh, Uncle Henry," she
sobbed, "Aunt Sylvia is worrying over something, and she won't tell
me."
"Nonsense," said Henry.
"Yes, she is. Horace and I both know she is. She won't tell me what
it is. She goes about all the time with such a dreadful face, and she
won't tell me. Oh, Aunt Sylvia, is it because you don't want me to
marry Horace?"
Sylvia spoke, hardly moving her thin lips. "I have nothing whatever
against your marriage," she said. "I did think at first that you were
better off as you were, but now I don't feel so."
"But you act so." Rose stumbled to her feet and ran sobbing out of
the room.
Henry turned to his wife, who sat like a statue. "Sylvia, you ought
to be ashamed of yourself," he said, in a bewildered tone. "Here you
are taking all the pleasure out of that poor child's little
love-affair, going about as you do."
"There are other things besides love-affairs," said Sylvia, in a
strange, monotonous tone, almost as if she were deaf and dumb, and
had no knowledge of inflections. "There are affairs between the soul
and its Maker that are more important than love betwixt men and
women."
Sylvia did not look at Henry. She still gazed straight ahead, with
that expression of awful self-review. The thought crossed Henry's
mind that she was more like some terrible doll with a mechanical
speech than a living woman. He went up to her and took her hands.
They were lying stiffly on her lap, in the midst of soft white
cambric and lace--some bridal lingerie which she was making for Rose.
"Look here, Sylvia," said Henry, "you don't mean that you are
fretting about--what you told me?"
"No," said Sylvia, in her strange voice.
"Then what--?"
Sylvia shook off his hands and rose to her feet. Her scissors dropped
with a thud. She kept the fluffy white mass over her arm. Henry
picked up the scissors. "Here are your scissors," said he.
Sylvia paid no attention. She was looking at him with stern, angry
eyes.
"What I have to bear I have to bear," said she. "It is nothing
whatever to you. It is nothing whatever to any of you. I want to be
let alone. If you don't like to see my face, don't look at it. None
of you have any call to look at it. I am doing what I think is right,
and I want to be let alone."
She went out of the room, leaving Henry standing with her scissors in
his hand.
After supper that night he could not bear to remain with Sylvia,
sewing steadily upon Rose's wedding finery, and still wearing that
terrible look on her face. Rose and Horace were in the parlor. Henry
went down to Sidney Meeks's for comfort.
"Something is on my wife's mind," he told Sidney, when the two men
were alone in the pleasant, untidy room.
"Do you think she feels badly about the love-affair?"
"She says that isn't it," replied Henry, gloomily, "but she goes
about with a face like grim death, and I don't know what to make of
it."
"She'll tell finally."
"I don't know whether she will or not."
"Women always do."
"I don't know whether she will or not."
"She will."
Henry remained with Meeks until quite late. Sylvia sewed and sewed by
her sitting-room lamp. Her face never relaxed. She could hear the hum
of voices across the hall.
After awhile the door of the parlor was flung violently open, and she
heard Horace's rushing step upon the stair. Then Rose came in, all
pale and tearful.
"I have told him I couldn't marry him, Aunt Sylvia," she said.
Sylvia looked at her. "Why not?" she asked, harshly.
"I can't marry him and have you feel so dreadfully about it."
"Who said I felt dreadfully about it?"
"Nobody said so; but you look so dreadfully."
"I can't help my looks. They have nothing whatever to do with your
love-affairs."
"You say that just to pacify me, I know," said Rose, pitifully.
"You don't know. Do you mean to say that you have dismissed him?"
"Yes, and he is horribly angry with me," moaned Rose.
"I should think he would be. What right have you to dismiss a man to
please another woman, who is hardly any relation to you? I should
think he would be mad. What did he do?"
"He just slammed the door and ran."
Sylvia laid her work on the table and started out of the room with an
angry stride.
"Where are you going?" asked Rose, feebly, but she got no reply.
Soon Sylvia re-entered the room, and she had Horace by the arm. He
looked stern and bewildered. Sylvia gave him a push towards Rose.
"Now look at here, both of you," she said. "Once for all, I have got
nothing to say against your getting married. I am worrying about
something, and it is nobody's business what it is. I am doing right.
I am doing what I know is right, and I ain't going to let myself be
persuaded I ain't. I have done all I could for Rose, and I am going
to do more. I have nothing against your getting married. Now I am
going into the parlor to finish this work. The lamp in there is
better. You can settle it betwixt you."
Sylvia went out, a long line of fine lace trailing in her wake.
Horace stood still where she had left him. Rose looked at him timidly.
"I didn't know she felt so," she ventured, at last, in a small voice.
Horace said nothing. Rose went to him, put her hand through his arm,
and laid her cheek against his unresponsive shoulder. "I did think it
would about kill her if it went on," she whispered. "I think I was
mistaken."
"And you didn't mind in the least how much I was hurt, as long as she
wasn't," said Horace.
"Yes, I did."
"I must say it did not have that appearance."
Rose wept softly against his rough coat-sleeve. "I wanted to do what
was right, and she looked so dreadfully; and I didn't want to be
selfish," she sobbed.
Horace looked down at her, and his face softened. "Oh Rose," he said,
"you are all alike, you women. When it comes to a question of right
or wrong, you will all lay your best-beloved on the altar of
sacrifice. Your logic is all wrong, dear. You want to do right so
much that the dust of virtue gets into your eyes of love and blinds
them. I should come first with you, before your aunt Sylvia, and your
own truth and happiness should come first; but you wanted to lay them
all at her feet--or, rather, at the feet of your conscience."
"I only wanted to do what was right," Rose sobbed again.
"I know you did, dear." Horace put his arm around Rose. He drew her
to a chair, sat down, and took her on his knee. He looked at her
almost comically, in return for her glance of piteous appeal.
"Don't laugh at me," she whispered.
Horace kissed her. "I am not laughing at you, but at the eternal
feminine, dear," he said. "There is something very funny about the
eternal feminine. It is so earnest on the wrong tack, and hurts
itself and others so cruelly, and gets no thanks for it."
"I don't know what you mean. I don't like your talking so to me,
Horace. I only meant to do what was right."
"I won't talk so any more, darling."
"I don't think I have much of the eternal feminine about me, Horace."
"Of course not, sweetheart."
"I love you, anyway," Rose whispered, and put up her face to be
kissed again, "and I didn't want to hurt you. I only wanted to do my
duty."
"Of course you did, sweetheart. But now you think your duty is to
marry me, don't you?"
Rose laughed, and there was something angelic and innocent about that
laugh of the young girl. Horace kissed her again, then both started.
"She is talking to herself in there," whispered Rose. "Horace, what
do you suppose it is about? Poor Aunt Sylvia must be worrying
horribly about something. What do you think it is?"
"I don't know, darling," replied Horace, soberly.
They both heard that lamentable murmur of a voice in the other room,
but the doors were closed and not a word could be understood.
Sylvia was sewing rapidly, setting the most delicate and dainty
stitches, and all the time she was talking carrying on a horrible
argument, as if against some invisible dissenter.
"Ain't I doing everything I can?" demanded Sylvia. "Ain't I, I'd like
to know? Ain't I bought everything I could for her? Ain't I making
her wedding-clothes by hand, when my eyes are hurting me all the
time? Ain't I set myself aside and given her up, when God knows I
love her better than if she was my own child? Ain't I doing
everything? What call have I to blame myself? Only to-day I've bought
a lot of silver for her, and I'm going to buy a lot more. After the
underclothes are done I'm going about the table linen, though she
don't need it. I ain't using a mite of her aunt Abrahama's. I'm
saving it all for her. I'm saving everything for her. I've made my
will and left all her aunt's property to her. What have I done? I'm
doing right; I tell you I'm doing right. I know I'm doing right.
Anybody that says I ain't, lies. They lie, I say. I'm doing right.
I--"
Henry opened the door. He had just returned from Sidney Meeks's.
Sylvia was sewing quietly.
Henry looked around the room. "Why, who were you talking to?" he
asked.
"Nobody," replied Sylvia, taking another stitch.
"I thought I heard you talking."
"How could I be talking when there ain't anybody here to talk to?"