When the long, hideous night was over, and Edith lay, very white and
still, her wide, frightened eyes never leaving Sylvia's face, the doctor,
gathering up his belongings, touched the latter lightly on the arm.
"She'll have to have constant care for several days, perfect quiet for
two weeks at least. But if I send for a nurse--"
"I know. I'm sure I can do everything necessary for her. I've had some
experience with sickness before."
The doctor nodded, a look of relief and satisfaction passing over his
face. "I see that you have. Get her to drink this. She must have some
sleep at once."
But when Sylvia, left alone with her, held the glass to Edith's lips, she
shrank back in terror.
"No, no, no! I don't want to go to sleep--I mustn't--I shall dream!"
"Dear child, you won't--and if you do, I shall be right here beside you,
holding your hand like this, and you can feel it, and know that, after
all, dreams are slight things."
"You promise me?"
"Indeed I do."
"Oh, Sylvia, you're so brave--you told the doctor you'd taken care of
some one that was sick before--who was it?"
It was Sylvia's turn to shudder, but she controlled it quickly, and spoke
very quietly.
"I was married for two years to a man who finally died of delirium
tremens. No paid nurse--would have stayed with him--through certain
times. I can't tell you about it, dear, and I'm trying hard to forget
it--you won't ask me about it again, will you?"
"Oh, _Sylvia_! Please forgive me! I--I didn't guess--I'll drink the
medicine--or do anything else you say!"
So Edith fell asleep, and when she woke again, the sun was setting, and
Sylvia still sat beside her, their fingers intertwined. Sylvia looked
down, smiling.
"The doctor has been here to see you, but you didn't wake, and we both
felt it was better not to disturb you. He thinks that all is going
well with you. Will you drink some milk, and let me bathe your face
and hands?"
"No--not--not yet. Have you really been here--all these hours?"
"Yes, dear."
"With no rest--nothing to eat or drink?"
"Oh, yes, Austin brought me my dinner, but I ate it sitting beside you,
and wouldn't let him stay--he's so big, he can't help making a noise."
"Does he know?"
"Not yet."
"And father and mother?"
Sylvia was silent.
"Oh, Sylvia, I'm a wicked, wicked girl, but I'm not what you must think!
I'm not a--a murderess! Peter came up behind me on the stairs in the dark
last night, and spoke to me suddenly. It startled me--everything seems to
have startled me lately--and I slipped, and fell, and hurt myself--I
didn't do it on purpose."
"You poor child--you don't need to tell me that--I never would have
believed it of you for a single instant." Then she added, in the strained
voice which she could not help using on the very rare occasions when she
forced herself to speak of something that had occurred during her
marriage, but still as if she felt that no word which might give comfort
should be left unsaid, "Perhaps your mother has told you that the little
baby who died when it was two weeks old wasn't the first that
I--expected. A fall or--or a blow--or any shock of--fear or grief--often
ends--in a disaster like this."
"Will the others believe me, too?"
"Of course they will. Don't talk, dear, it's going to be all right."
"I must talk. I've got to tell--I've got to tell _you_. And you can
explain--to the family. You always understand everything--and you never
blame anybody. I often wonder why it is--you're so good yourself--and
yet you never say a word against any living creature, or let anybody
else do it when you're around; but lots of girls, who've--done just what
I have--and didn't happen to get found out--are the ones who speak most
bitterly and cruelly--I know two or three who will be just _glad_ if
they know--"
"They're not going to know."
"Then you will listen, and--and believe me--and _help_?"
"Yes, Edith."
"I thought it happened only in books, or when girls had no one to take
care of them--not to girls with fathers and mothers and good
homes--didn't you, Sylvia?"
"No, dear. I knew it happened sometimes--oh, more often than
_sometimes_--to girls--just like you."
"And what happens afterwards?"
Sylvia shuddered, but it was too dark in the carefully shuttered room for
Edith to see her. She said quite quietly:
"That depends. In many cases--nothing dreadful."
"Ever anything good?"
"Yes, yes, _good_ things can happen. They can be _made_ to."
"Will you make good things happen to me?"
"I will, indeed I will."
"And not hate me?"
"Never that."
"May I tell you now?"
"If you believe that it will make you feel better; and if you will
promise, after you have told me, to let me give you the treatment
you need."
"I promise--Do you remember that in the spring Hugh Elliott came to spend
a couple of months with Fred?"
Sylvia's fingers twitched, but all she said was, "Yes, Edith."
"He used to be in love with Sally; but he got all over that. He said he
was in love with me. I thought he was--he certainly acted that way.
Saying--fresh things, and--and always trying to touch me--and--that's the
way men usually do when they begin to fall in love, isn't it, Sylvia?"
"No, darling, not _usually_--not--some kinds of men." And Sylvia's
thoughts flew back, for one happy instant, to the man who had knelt at
her feet on Christmas night. "But--I know what you mean--"
"And--I liked it. I mean, I thought the talk was fun to listen to, and
that the--rest was--oh, Sylvia, do you understand--"
"Yes, dear, I understand."
"And he was awfully jolly, and gave me such a good time. I felt flattered
to think he didn't treat me like a child, that he paid me more attention
than the older girls."
"Yes, Edith."
"And I thought what fun it would be to marry him, instead of some slow,
poky farmer, and have a beautiful house, and servants, and lovely
clothes. I kept thinking, every night, he would ask me to; but he didn't.
And finally, one time, just before we got home after a dance, he said--he
was going away in the morning."
"Yes, Edith."
"Oh, I was so disappointed, and sore, and--angry! That was it, just plain
angry. I had been going with Jack all along when Hugh didn't come for me,
and Jack came the very night after Hugh went away, and took me for a long
ride. He told me how terribly jealous he had been, and how thankful he
was that Hugh was out of the way at last, and that Peter was going, too.
So I laughed, and said that Peter didn't count at all, and that I hated
Hugh--of course neither of those things was true, but I was so hurt, I
felt _I'd_ like to hurt somebody, too. And finally, I blurted out how
mean Hugh had been, to make me think he cared for me, when he was
just--having a good time. Then Jack said, 'Well, _I_ care about you--I'm
just crazy over you.' 'I don't believe you,' I said; 'I'll never believe
any man again.' Just to tease him--that was all.' I'll show you whether I
love you,' he said, and began to kiss me. I think he had been
drinking--he does, you know. Of course, I ought to have stopped him, but
I--had let Hugh--it meant a lot to me, too--the first time. But after I
found it didn't mean anything to him--it didn't seem to matter--if some
one else _did_--kiss me--I was flattered--and pleased--and--comforted.
You mustn't think that what--happened afterwards--was all Jack's fault. I
think I could have stopped it even then--if he'd been sober, anyway. But
I didn't guess--I never dreamed--how far you could--get carried away--and
how quickly. Oh, Sylvia, why didn't somebody tell me? At home--in the
sunshine--with people all around you--it's like another world--you're
like another person--than when there's nothing but stillness and darkness
everywhere, and a man who loves you, pleading, with his arms around you--
"And afterwards I thought no one would ever know. Jack thought so, too.
Besides, you see, he is crazy to marry me--he'd give anything to. But I
wouldn't marry him for anything in the world--whatever happened--the
great ignorant, dirty drunkard! Only he isn't unkind--or cowardly--don't
think that--or let the others think so! He's willing to take his share
of the blame--he's _sorry_--
"Then, just a little while ago--I began to be afraid of--what had
happened. But I didn't know much about that, either. I thought, some way,
I might be mistaken--I hoped so, anyhow. I wanted to come--and tell you
all about it--but I didn't dare. I never saw you kiss Austin but
once--you're so quiet when you're with him, Sylvia, and other people are
around--and it was--it was just like--_a prayer_. After seeing that, I
_couldn't_ come to you--with my story--unless _I had_ to--I felt as if it
would be just like throwing mud on a flower.
"Then, yesterday, after the work was done, Peter asked me to go to walk
with him. It was so late, when he and Austin got home, that I had
scarcely seen him. I was going upstairs, in the dark, and I didn't know
that he was anywhere near--it frightened me when he called. So--so I
slipped--and fell--all the way down. I knew, right away, that I was
hurt; but, of course, I didn't guess how much. I went to walk with him
just the same, because it seemed as if it--would feel good to be with
Peter--he's always been so--well, I can't explain--_so square_. And
while we were out, I began to feel sick--and now, of course, he'll never
be willing--to take me to walk--to be seen anywhere with me again! I
can't bear it! I mind--not having been square to him--more than anything
else--more than half-killing mother, even! Oh, Sylvia, tell them,
please, _quickly_! and have it over with--tell them, too, that it was my
own fault--don't forget that part! And then take me away with you, where
I won't see them--or any one else I know--and teach me to be good--even
if you can't help me to forget!"
* * * * *
Two hours later, when Edith was sleeping again, Mrs. Gray came into the
room with a mute, haggard expression on her kind, homely face which
Sylvia never forgot, and put her arms around the younger woman.
"Austin's askin' for you, dearie. It's been a hard day for him, too--I
think you ought to go to him. I'll sit here until you come back."
Sylvia nodded, and stole silently out of the room. Austin was waiting for
her at the foot of the stairs, his smile of welcome changing to an
expression of stern solicitude as he looked at her.
"Have you been seeing ghosts? You're whiter than chalk--no wonder, shut
up in that hot, dark room all day, without any rest and almost without
any food! No matter if Edith does want you most, you'll have to take
turns with mother after this. Come out with me where it's cool for a
little while--and then you must have some supper, and a bath, and
Sally's room to sleep in--if you won't go home, which is really the best
place for you."
She allowed him to lead her, without saying a word, to the sheltered
slope of the river, and sat down under a great elm, while he flung
himself down beside her, laying his head in her lap.
"Sylvia--just think--less than three weeks now! It's been running through
my head all day--I've almost got it down to hours, minutes, and
seconds--What's the matter with Edith, anyway? Father and mother are as
dumb as posts."
"The matter is--oh, my darling boy--I might as well tell you at once--we
can't--I've got to go away with Edith. Austin, you must wait for
me--another year--" And her courage giving out completely, she threw
herself into his arms, and sobbed out the tragic story.