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diff --git a/78732-0.txt b/78732-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..34d238b --- /dev/null +++ b/78732-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8405 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78732 *** + + + AN + UNMARRIED FATHER + + _A Novel_ + + + By + Floyd Dell + + NEW YORK + GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY + + + COPYRIGHT, 1927, + BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY + + AN UNMARRIED FATHER + PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + + CONTENTS + + + BOOK ONE: The Discovery + + I. The Letter 9 + + II. Legal Advice 16 + + III. The Way of the World 24 + + IV. Post Mortem on a Dead Romance 32 + + V. Encounter 41 + + VI. Dr. Zerneke 46 + + VII. Flowers 58 + + VIII. Isabel 60 + + IX. The Baby 72 + + X. Art Alone Endures 77 + + XI. Common Sense 81 + + XII. Bad Dreams 87 + + XIII. En Route 91 + + XIV. Homecoming 100 + + XV. Family Breakfast 106 + + XVI. Aubade 111 + + XVII. Flight 120 + + + BOOK TWO: In Exile + + I. The Prodigal 125 + + II. A Man Has Some Rights 136 + + III. An Ambassador from Vickley 143 + + IV. Speech to the Jury 157 + + V. The Older Generation 163 + + VI. J. J. Overbeck 169 + + VII. Home 176 + + VIII. Apron Strings 185 + + IX. It Was Bound to Happen 195 + + X. Mrs. Case 202 + + XI. Paradise Lost 205 + + XII. Out of a Job 209 + + XIII. The Dreamer Wakes 215 + + + BOOK THREE: The Dominant Sex + + I. Vita Nova 225 + + II. Waste Not Your Hour 229 + + III. His Mother 235 + + IV. ’Ware Women! 239 + + V. As Usual 244 + + VI. Night Thoughts 248 + + VII. A Letter 255 + + VIII. A Sociological Interlude 260 + + IX. On Taking a Girl at Her Word 268 + + X. Which? 277 + + XI. As Luck Would Have It 281 + + XII. The Fugitive 284 + + XIII. Conversation in a Taxi 288 + + XIV. A Farewell 291 + + XV. The Inevitable 296 + + + + + BOOK ONE + + The Discovery + + + + +Chapter I: The Letter + + +THAT April morning Norman Overbeck drove his father to the station and +put him on the early train for Springfield. The elder Overbeck--J. J. +Overbeck--was going to argue a case before the supreme court. Norman, +his unworthy son, as he felt himself to be, drove on to the office. +Parking his car in front of the Overbeck building until he should want +it again that afternoon, according to the leisurely custom of Vickley +on the Mississippi, he went up the dingy, old-fashioned stairway to the +Overbeck and Overbeck offices. In the hall he glanced up for a moment +at the new sign with the name repeated, replacing the old one of “J. +J. Overbeck, Attorney-at-Law.” It was less than a year since Norman +had been admitted to the bar and been made a member of the law-firm. +When his father wasn’t with him he sometimes glanced up at that sign, +expecting to find in it some reassurance, something that would make him +feel in himself the dignity and power which were associated with his +father’s name. He never quite got it. Most of the time it seemed to +him that all he had so far done was to make costly mistakes. + +“Good morning, Miss Patterson,” he said to the stenographer. “Is my +mail ready?” + +“Yes, sir,” said the girl. “It’s on your desk.” + +She looked at him, when he turned away, with admiration: for he was +tall, handsome enough with his thoughtful brown eyes and light wavy +hair--and he was the son of J. J. Overbeck. + +He did not go to his own office immediately. He lingered in the outer +office, staring at the rows of law-reports, bound in musty calf and +newer buckram. He was pursuing a line of private psychological inquiry, +not easily to be conducted when his father was there. His father +would have asked, “What are you looking for?” and he would have had +to give some sensible answer.... Perhaps it wasn’t the books, they +were only law-books. He looked at the old leather-upholstered mahogany +furniture.... He was trying to confront something about this office +which obscurely intimidated him, made him feel foolishly young and out +of place. It was absurd to feel that way, when he had won his first +important case yesterday.... He turned to his office. + +As he passed Miss Patterson, he reflected that she obviously thought of +him as grown up.... + +He was sitting at his desk a minute or two later when the telephone +rang. He lifted the receiver. “Yes?” he said. It was Miss Patterson. + +“Your sister just called up,” she said. (Doris? he thought.) “She +didn’t want to disturb you and asked me to give you the message.” + +No, that wouldn’t be his kid sister Doris. She wouldn’t care whether +she disturbed him or not. That was Lucinda. He frowned slightly, as the +picture of that futile, pathetic, rather old-maidish sister came before +him. + +“All right, what is it?” he asked patiently. + +“She wanted me to remind you that you promised to go and look at a dog +for her. Out at Schwartz’s. It’s a Scotch terrier puppy. The one she is +thinking of taking has a black spot over the left eye. She thought you +might have forgotten.” + +It was true, he had forgotten, though she had spoken of it last night +and again at breakfast this morning. + +“Thank you, Miss Patterson. If my sister should call up again, tell her +I said I wouldn’t forget about it.” + +Why did he have to go and look at that dog? But that was just like +Lucinda.... If Doris had wanted a dog, she’d have gone and bought it, +without asking any advice. + +Whenever he thought of Lucinda, he consoled himself by thinking of +Doris. An historical epoch seemed to have intervened between them. It +was strange to think of them as being sisters. Families were queer +things. Lucinda at thirty-five belonged to a decaying world; Doris at +sixteen to another, a feverish and jazzy, but certainly a healthier +one.... But families are not always pleasant things to think about. + +His mind went back to its interrupted thoughts about himself. + +--Yes, he reflected, he was grown up in everybody else’s eyes. Why +not, then, in his own? He was twenty-five years old, and engaged to be +married. He and Madge were going to be married in June. He had won that +Harrington case. His future was secure. Why should he feel as though he +were merely pretending to be what he was--and as though the pretense +were likely to be found out at any moment, and he himself swept out +into chaos like a scrap of paper in a high wind? What was he afraid of? +There was nothing to be afraid of. He could cope with any situation +that would arise. He was building himself securely into the solid +structure of--of Vickley. He would be what his father had been. There +was no doubt of it. + +He turned to his mail. He sorted it through rapidly, and finding +nothing outwardly attractive and unbusiness-like to distract him, he +opened the letters in turn. His day’s work had begun. + +The first two letters he made notations upon and put aside. + +The third letter puzzled him. + +It was from a Martha Zerneke, in Chicago--a person quite unknown to +him, but, according to a small printed inscription in one corner of her +letterhead, “Medical Director, St. Thecla Child Adoption Society.” The +letter began pleasantly by hoping that he was coming, or could arrange +to come to Chicago to attend the Springer exhibit at the Steinbach +Galleries, April 4th to 18th, and preferably during the following week, +when--as the letter went on strangely to say--she would like to have +him call at her office concerning a matter of personal interest to him +which it would not be so convenient to take up in correspondence. “Very +truly yours.” + +After reading it, at first idly and then very carefully, he laid it +aside as incomprehensible, and went on with his other mail. But having +glanced at several letters, he took it up again, sat back in his chair, +lighted a cigarette, and considered it thoughtfully. + +The reference to the Springer exhibit suggested that the letter was +based upon some knowledge of his habits, for he made a point of running +up to Chicago to see the most interesting of the picture shows; he had, +in fact, planned to go to see this one, for he had been interested in +Springer ever since he had seen him and his pictures back in Boston a +year ago. So far the suggestion was of art matters. But the rest of the +letter didn’t go to that tune. Indeed, the casual familiarity of the +opening appeared to be a diplomatic disguise--as if for the benefit +of any one else who might happen to open his mail in his absence! “A +matter of personal interest to you which it would not be so convenient +to take up in correspondence.” There was a veiled threat in that.... +What sort of matter was there that could not “conveniently” be taken +up in correspondence? A matter of personal interest to him! And this +from a doctor--a woman doctor. The Medical Director of a Child Adoption +Society. Why, it was preposterous! Absurd! + +Perhaps he was reading into it some meaning that wasn’t there. He +studied it carefully, and shook his head. If not that, what could it +mean? + +His acquaintance with girls in Chicago was of the most casual sort. +There was no one-- He had an impulse to throw the thing into the +waste basket.... But if he ignored it, and this Dr. Zerneke did take +up the matter in correspondence, it might become embarrassing. There +was certainly some mistake; but that would be no protection if the +thing--whatever it was--got into the newspapers. After all, appearances +were against him. He had made trips to Chicago from time to time, and +people would quite readily believe that it hadn’t all been for the +sake of art. It would be a difficult position for the most innocent +of men. And there was Madge to be considered. She might think there +was something to it, and break off the engagement! And his father--oh, +his father would believe him; but he would think he had made a fool of +himself in some way, and that it was his fault that such a thing should +ever have come up. Nobody had ever written a letter like that to J. +J. Overbeck!... Doubtless because he attended strictly to the law, +and did not waste his time prowling about art-galleries and studios. +Perhaps it _was_ his own fault. Perhaps his father’s way of life was +the only correct one, if he were to build himself into the solid +structure of Vickley.... + +It occurred to him that this was the sort of thing he had been +awaiting, without knowing what it was--some accident that would crash +down his life about him, and whirl him out like a scrap of paper on +the wind.... Well, not so bad as all that! He was taking this much too +seriously. But it did need thinking about. + +Under these circumstances--he smiled to himself--the proper thing to +do was to consult a lawyer.... His father, of course, was the obvious +person to consult, but he dismissed that idea instantly. Nor would he +be likely to take up a thing like this with Medway, the chief clerk of +Overbeck and Overbeck. Nor with any other lawyer in Vickley ... except, +perhaps, old Gilbert.... + +He considered a moment longer, and then abruptly put out his cigarette +and took up the telephone. + + + + +Chapter II: Legal Advice + + +GILBERT RAND--old Gilbert--was sitting, large and ruddy and cheerful, +at a table in the corner of Henschel’s when Norman came in at +twelve-thirty. + +There are various ways in which an elderly lawyer of repute may show +consideration for a young and untried one, if he is so disposed. Old +Gilbert had been so disposed on various occasions during the past year, +for he liked the boy. He didn’t know what Norman wanted of him now +except that it was something legal and personal, which nevertheless +could be disposed of at lunch. Norman had suggested a quiet place +where they could talk without interruption, and Gilbert had said that +Henschel’s would do. + +He congratulated Norman on his victory in the Harrington case +yesterday, to which Norman replied in a preoccupied way. + +“Now,” he said to Norman, when the luncheon was under way, “what’s on +your mind?” + +Norman took the letter from his pocket and handed it over. “What do you +think of this?” he said. + +Gilbert put on his glasses and read the letter; then he read it again. + +“A very clever piece of writing,” he said thoughtfully; “evidently +intended to look as little like blackmail as possible.” + +Blackmail! + +“So you think so, too!” said Norman. “Well, what do you think I ought +to do about it? Ignore it? or--what?” + +“That depends,” said Gilbert gravely. “If I’m to advise you, I’ll +have to know something about the situation. Who the girl is--her +circumstances and character: you’d better tell me the whole story. Then +we’ll know where we’re at.” + +Norman was rather taken aback. But he saw the humor of it, and smiled. +“Aren’t you taking a good deal for granted?” he said. + +Old Gilbert smiled back at him. “Oh,” he said, “the alibi part +comes later. I realize, of course, that you are not necessarily the +responsible party in this matter. Girls are sometimes unscrupulous +about that sort of thing. The man who is in a position to pay gets +saddled with the responsibility every time. You remember that case here +in Vickley last winter, in Magistrate Cooley’s court--I saw you there, +I remember.” + +“Look here,” said Norman. “You seem to accept it as a matter of +fact--that I’m involved with some girl!” + +Gilbert glanced at the letter. “I thought,” he said, “that was what +the letter was about. If I’m on the wrong track, you’ll have to set me +right. What _is_ it about?” + +“I don’t know,” said Norman. “But when I read it, I thought the same +thing you did. It seemed like a veiled threat of blackmail. That’s +what puzzles me. You see, I’ve never heard of this Dr. Zerneke--and as +for the girl, if that’s what it hints at, as you also seem to think, +I don’t know who she’s supposed to be. The whole thing comes out of a +clear sky. I haven’t the least idea what it’s all about.” + +“That’s curious,” said Gilbert. “Let’s have another look at it.” He +took it up, readjusting his glasses. “There _is_ something queer about +this letter,” he said. + +“Damned queer!” said Norman. + +“I mean,” said Gilbert, “that it has an air of--well, of quiet +certainty.” + +“I don’t know what you mean,” said Norman, uncomfortably. Did old +Gilbert think he was lying? + +“To begin with, you are known by the writer to be interested in art. +That in itself is nothing much. But the fact is put forward in a +rather suggestive way. The reference to the Springer exhibit and the +Steinbach galleries looks as though it were intended to remind you of +something.... Does it suggest anything to you--a girl you met at the +Steinbach galleries, for example?” + +“I have not been in the habit of meeting girls at the Steinbach +galleries--or any other galleries,” said Norman, a little on his +dignity. “I know practically no girls in Chicago--and I certainly have +made love to none of them.” + +“Well,” said old Gilbert, “there are hysterical girls who make strange +accusations, upon slight or no provocation.” + +“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Norman. “It must be something like +that.” + +“There’s some explanation for this letter,” said Gilbert. “Let’s see +what we can make out of it. A girl in Chicago ... no, not necessarily +in Chicago; she may have come there from somewhere. She goes to a +doctor; we know nothing about this doctor, but presumably she knows her +business. So we have to assume for the moment that the girl is actually +in trouble. The doctor, apparently, is sympathetic. Money is evidently +needed. The doctor undertakes to write to you.” + +“Yes--but why to me?” + +“Come, Norman; you are twenty-five years old, and so far as I know you +have never taken any vows. How can you be sure that there’s no girl in +the whole United States who couldn’t accuse you of having got her into +this scrape?” + +Norman flushed. “I don’t want to pretend that I’m a saint,” he said. +“But I’m not a cad, either; I’ve been engaged to Madge for six months, +and I swear I haven’t looked at another girl in that time.... In fact,” +he added, “you’ll see how absurd it is to think that I could be mixed +up in such a thing, when I tell you that there’s been nothing of that +sort in my life since I left Cambridge. There was a waitress there--but +that was fully four years ago.” + +“Well, Norman, you ought to know. But the trouble with this matter is +that it is so vague. If it mentioned a name, you would know where you +are at. As it is, of course, you may have overlooked some trifling +incident of no consequence to you at the time.” + +Norman laughed. “I’m not such a devil of a fellow as all that. I’d not +be likely to forget such an incident.” + +“I hope you’re right. It might prove rather embarrassing to you if +you went to this doctor in Chicago, indignantly convinced of your +innocence, and then found you had made a little slip of memory.” + +“You think, then, that I ought to go and see this doctor?” Norman asked +in surprise. + +“Somebody ought to go, and find out what it’s all about. There’s +something that needs to be straightened out.... Mistaken identity, +possibly.” + +“Yes--there’s that,” said Norman. “There may be some very simple +explanation.” + +“In any case,” said Gilbert, “I don’t think it’s ordinary blackmail. +A doctor, and especially one connected with a child adoption society, +would hardly mix herself up with anything like that. And the whole +tone of her letter shows a due consideration for your position. It’s +written in such a way as not to make trouble for you if it fell into +the wrong hands. And at the same time--or so it seems to me, though +I’ve apparently stumbled into a mare’s nest--it attempts to remind you +who the girl is.... That reference to the Steinbach Galleries--” + +“I said I knew no girls in Chicago,” Norman interrupted. + +“You might take a wider range,” suggested Gilbert. + +Norman made an impatient movement. + +“I’m only trying to help you,” said Gilbert. + +“I know, and at my own request,” said Norman. “But I thought we had +cleared up the possibility of it’s being me who is involved.” + +“I suppose we have,” said Gilbert. “Well, I was going to propose this +to you. I’m going to Chicago to-night, to see some people in connection +with the Ostrander case; and I’ll go and see this doctor to-morrow +if you like. I’ll be home Sunday, and your mind will be set at rest +without undue delay.” + +“That’s damned good of you, Gilbert.” + +“Oh, it’s nothing.... Only you see, if I’m to act for you, I’d like to +be quite sure of my facts.” + +“You can be quite sure the facts are as I’ve stated them,” said Norman +comfortably. + +“Then I’ll take this letter with me,” said Gilbert. He folded it up and +put it in his pocket. “However, there’s one more angle on this thing +still to be checked up on.” + +“What angle is that?” asked Norman. + +“The Cambridge angle,” said Gilbert. “Nothing like being prepared for +the worst, you know.” + +“But that,” said Norman, “is all ancient history now.” + +“Just the same, I’d better know something about it. When did these +Cambridge incidents occur and what was the nature of them?” + +“Well, besides the waitress, there was just one incident, really,” said +Norman. “It was just before I came home.... It seems ages ago.” + +“Actually, however,” said Gilbert, “it’s been something less than a +year. Late June to early April--” + +“Ten--” said Norman, and then stopped, with a shock of dismay. + +“Ten months,” said Gilbert, “or to be exact, nine months and some +days.” He looked at the young man questioningly. “Does that letter +begin to mean anything to you now?” + +“It couldn’t be Isabel,” said Norman wonderingly. “And yet--” + +“Isabel?” said Gilbert inquiringly--suppressing a smile. + +Norman spoke with an effort. “Springer’s pictures.... It was with her +that I first saw them. At his studio in Boston. She took me there.” + +Gilbert nodded. “And now,” he said, “this Isabel seems to be in +Chicago, under the care of a doctor. It looks suspicious, doesn’t it?” + +“Oh, but that--it’s impossible!” said Norman. + +“For a girl to have an unexpected baby? I’m afraid not,” said Gilbert +dryly. “Though this is rather late in the day for her to let you know +about it.” + +“My God!” said Norman. + +The waiter appeared, and recommended the Mocha tarte. + +“I don’t think I want anything more,” said Norman faintly. + +“You’d better have some coffee. No? Then nothing for me either. Bring +the check.” + +When the waiter was gone, he said: “There’s no occasion to look so +upset. Girls have had by-blown babies before. And respectable Vickley +citizens have been the fathers of them.” + +Then he added, more kindly: “We’ll go to my office, thresh the whole +thing out, and decide what’s to be done.” + + + + +Chapter III: The Way of the World + + +GILBERT RAND, in his office, considered the boy sympathetically. “How +do you feel now?” he asked. + +“Still in a sort of a daze,” Norman confessed. + +Gilbert took from his desk drawer a bottle and glasses. “A little shot +of this will help steady your nerves.” He poured and they drank. + +“You realize,” said Gilbert, “that all this is merely a guess; there +may be nothing to it whatever.” + +Norman shook his head. “It’s only too damned true,” he said. “I’m not +going to try to fool myself about that.” + +“At any rate, we have to face it as a possible truth just now,” said +Gilbert, “and think of ways and means to handle it. And if I seemed +to take it lightly, it isn’t that I don’t understand the seriousness +of the situation for you. You have a career ahead of you; you’re your +father’s son; and you’re going to be married. This thing will have to +be fixed up very quietly. But that’s not so difficult as you might +think. I want you to know that I’m with you in this, and I’ll see you +through it.” + +“It’s awfully good of you,” said Norman. “But what is there to do? You +must forgive me if I seem stupid. I feel as though the roof of the +world had fallen in.” + +“The first thing we have to do is to go over the facts of the case. +With them in my mind, I will be able to deal with the situation, +whatever it is, in Chicago. And I’ll be back here day after +to-morrow--probably with everything all straightened out. All you have +to do in the meantime is to keep smiling, and behave as if nothing had +happened.... Now what’s the matter?” + +“I just remembered,” said Norman, “that I’ve got to see Madge to-night.” + +“Yes, that may be a little difficult,” said Gilbert. + +“I’m sorry to be such a fool,” said Norman. “But I don’t see how I can +face her.” + +“Now don’t lose your nerve, my boy,” said old Gilbert kindly. “Just sit +tight and keep mum--that’s all you have to do.” + +“That’s just the trouble,” said Norman. + +“I know how you feel,” said Gilbert. “But you won’t come wearing +your secret on your face. You can easily invent some discouragement +in your law practice to account for your jumpiness. Besides, it’s +getting very near the time of your wedding; she’ll have her mind on a +thousand other things besides your state of nerves. Women aren’t such +good thought-readers as you might imagine.” Then, when Norman remained +silent, he said sharply: “You wouldn’t be such an idiot as to tell her?” + +“I was thinking that I ought to,” said Norman. “She’ll have the right +to know--a thing like this.” + +“Nonsense!” said Gilbert, and secretly cursed these modern ideas of +frankness. Aloud he said: “There’ll be plenty of time to consider what +there is to tell--if anything. There may be nothing, you know. You +wouldn’t want to upset her needlessly.” + +“Oh, I’m sure you’ve guessed it right,” said Norman dully. “It will be +only a question of sooner or later when she’ll have to know. I simply +couldn’t get married with a thing like that hanging over us. It would +come out some time--and I’d rather know the worst at once. If things +are going to smash, it had better be before we are married.” + +“Now, now,” said Gilbert soothingly. “Nothing is going to smash. You’re +all worked up and incapable of seeing things clearly. Everything is +coming out all right, I tell you.” + +“You mean that this thing can be hushed up, I suppose.” + +“Yes, if there’s anything to hush up.” + +“That’s all very well. So far as the world at large is concerned, +perhaps it could be hushed up. But--why should two people be married, +with a secret like that between them? What kind of marriage would that +be?” + +“Why, not so unusual a kind of marriage, I should say,” replied Gilbert +coolly. “You don’t think men have to tell their wives everything, do +you? By the way, have you told your fiancée anything at all about this +Cambridge girl?” + +“No, I haven’t.” + +“You see, you’ve kept your little secret so far without any difficulty.” + +“But it didn’t really concern her--or it didn’t seem to--until now. It +was only a part of my past, then--but now it affects our whole future.” + +“It won’t affect her future, if you keep a decent silence and let me +attend to it,” said Gilbert. “Why didn’t you tell her anything about +the Cambridge girl?” + +“Because it didn’t seem of any great importance,” said Norman. “And +because she might be supposed to take something of that sort for +granted. Perhaps I should have told her. It would make it easier now. +But it would have hurt her feelings. I suppose that’s the reason why I +didn’t.” + +“And a very good reason, too,” said Gilbert. “You did as any lover +would do. And you still love her, don’t you?” + +“Madge? Of course I do!” + +“Yet now you seem to think the proper way to treat her is to inflict +pain on her. I’d hate to believe you were that kind of moral weakling.” + +“I’m doubtless all sorts of moral weakling,” said Norman, “but I don’t +know what you mean. It would take courage to tell her the truth.” + +“It will take more courage to keep your mouth shut,” said Gilbert. +“It’s only the coward, the man who can’t bear the burden of his own +sins, that has to go and blab them to his wife or sweetheart. If +they’re his sins, he ought to be the one to suffer for them--not she.” + +Their minds, Norman realized, didn’t meet in this talk. There was a +gulf of years between them. Old Gilbert was thinking of property and +respectability, and not of human rights. And now he was talking about +“sins.” No doubt if one believed that an illegitimate child was a sin, +one repented it--and forgot it. But it wasn’t a sin to him; it was a +fateful fact that had somehow to be faced. + +“Why,” old Gilbert was asking, “should a man want to drag the girl he +loves into a thing like that--unless he wishes to hurt her?” + +“I don’t wish to hurt Madge. But she has a right to know what she’s +getting into,” Norman insisted. + +“And if she decided not to marry you--as she easily might, if you came +blurting it out like that--?” + +“That would be her privilege,” said Norman, tonelessly. + +“A nice privilege,” Gilbert commented. “A choice between a humiliation +and an outrage--a marriage broken off at the last moment, or a secret +scandal.” + +“It’s something she’ll have to decide about in any case, sooner or +later,” said Norman. “And until she knows, the thing will be on my mind +every moment. I shall feel like a dog, keeping it from her. She’ll go +on making plans for our marriage--and all the while there’ll be this +secret holding us apart.” + +“Do you think it would bring you together if you told her?” Gilbert +asked ironically. + +“I don’t know. That’s what I don’t know. And I’ve got to find out.... +Perhaps not ... not unless she loved me a very great deal--more than I +deserve. More than I’ve any right to expect.” + +“You’d like to give her a chance to prove how noble she is--how much +she does love you: is that the idea? You’d throw her love for you +into the gutter, to see whether she’d stoop and pick it up. I’m no +psychologist, but I’d call that vanity.” + +Norman was silent. + +“Or else mere inexperience,” Gilbert went on. “You’ve just found out +that some secrets are hard to keep. And because it hurts to keep a +secret from the girl you love, you want to turn the world’s morality +upside down.” That stab seemed to go home to its mark and Gilbert added: + +“Misery loves company. You’d like to share your unhappiness. Natural +enough, perhaps. But heroic? No. Selfish.” + +“Oh, you’re probably right,” said Norman, suddenly weary. “I suppose it +wouldn’t do to tell her....” + +Gilbert waited. + +“Everything seems to me--smashed,” said Norman. “But maybe something +can be saved out of the wreck.” + +“If you’ll follow my advice, quite a number of things can be saved out +of the wreck,” said Gilbert. “Your marriage, your career, your father’s +pride.” + +“All right,” said Norman quietly. “I’ll do what you say. Just tell me +what to do.” + +“I’m glad that you realize that you’re in no state of mind to decide +on anything final right now,” said Gilbert. “I’ll be very glad to take +charge of your destinies for a few days. Then you’ll feel differently.” + +“I’ve no doubt I shall. And I’ll be able to thank you properly. Just +now it seems scarcely to matter....” + +“That’s all right. The thanks can wait. We’ll proceed to the other +aspects of the case--if it’s settled that you are to be guided by me, +and will say nothing about this to your fiancée till I get back from +Chicago?” + +“Yes, that’s settled,” said Norman. “You’ve made it clear to me what a +lie and sham marriage is. The trouble with me, I guess, is that I’ve +not quite grown up; I seem to have some remnants of boyish idealism +left in my mind. I had thought that this marriage was going to be +real--that we weren’t going to have to lie to one another. I can see +it’s nonsense.” + +“Men,” said Gilbert, “have lied to women since the dawn of history. The +more they love them, the more they lie to them. You’ll be surprised to +find how easy it comes. But just the same, I don’t think I had better +trust that boyish idealism of yours too far right now. If I leave you +here while I go to Chicago to straighten things out, you’ll have got +them into some frightful mess by the time I’m back. I think I’d better +take you along with me and keep an eye on you.” + +“I think that would be a good idea,” said Norman. “I’ll know the worst +sooner. And if we could take the early train, I wouldn’t have to see +Madge to-night.” In a shamefaced way he explained: + +“We were going to go over to see our new house that my father’s +building for us: it’s nearly finished. I don’t think I could stand it.” + +“Very well,” said Gilbert. “Make your apologies by telephone, and we’ll +take the six o’clock train this afternoon. Legal business in connection +with the Ostrander case. I’ll reserve a compartment, and we can talk +all the way. There’s still a lot to be gone over. And now you had +better go home and pack.” + + + + +Chapter IV: Post Mortem on a Dead Romance + + +“NOW,” said Gilbert Rand, in their compartment that evening, “do +you want to tell me about this Cambridge girl, or shall I ask you +questions?” + +“You’d better ask me questions. It’s never seemed quite real to me. I +haven’t readjusted myself to it as a reality even yet.” + +Gilbert took out a pencil and paper. + +“What was her name? I think you referred to her as Isabel.” + +“Yes, Isabel Drury.” + +Gilbert wrote it down. + +The porter opened the door and looked in. “Did you ring, sir?” + +“No, but we could do with a little more air.” + +The porter opened the upper air-vents and went away. + +Gilbert went on with the inquisition. + +“Her age?” + +“Twenty-five.” + +“And yours was twenty-four. Well,” said Gilbert with satisfaction, +“that clears up the matter of responsibility, at any rate. What was +she? Stenographer, salesgirl, or what?” + +“I suppose,” said Norman slowly, “you’d call her an art student. She +was studying art in Boston.” He was finding it difficult to put this +matter in objective terms. Isabel had been to him a romantic mystery +and a psychological puzzle and a symbol of the strangeness of life. But +that wasn’t what old Gilbert wanted to know.... + +“Art student.” Gilbert wrote it down. “Where did she come from, do you +know?” + +Something of the satisfaction of old Gilbert’s tone reached his mind. +He began to see Gilbert’s game. Isabel was to be made out as scarcely +respectable. A Bohemian encounter. And, though that had in truth been +the spirit of the affair, some perverse desire for fair play made him +block that simple interpretation with some contrary facts. + +“Her father was a professor of Latin in a boys’ school. They had a +place on the edge of Cambridge. Poor but terribly respectable.” And he +added: “I was a guest at their home, more or less, when it happened.” + +Gilbert frowned. “How did you come to know her?” + +“The Drurys were neighbors of a classmate of mine. I spent a good many +week-ends at his home. There were neighborhood parties, and Isabel was +often there. We saw a good deal of each other that last winter and +spring.” + +“What was your classmate’s name?” Gilbert asked casually. + +“Hal Sibley.” Then Norman looked suspiciously at his questioner. “See +here, you mustn’t get him mixed up in this!” + +“Why do you say that?” Gilbert inquired blandly. “Was he interested in +her too?” + +Norman flushed. “We were both romantic about her. But leave Hal out of +this.” A disgust for these vulgar necessities of self-defense rose in +him like nausea, and he said: “I couldn’t forgive myself if I thought +you were trying to do that!” + +“Trying to do what?” asked Gilbert coldly. + +“Shield me by dragging in my friend.” Old Gilbert needn’t pretend he +didn’t know what he was up to. “No, no--it won’t do. I’m not that kind +of coward.” + +“I only wanted, my boy,” said Gilbert softly, “to take into account all +the possibilities of the situation.” + +“Just the same, we’ll leave Hal out of this discussion.” A flicker of +amusement in old Gilbert’s eyes made him feel a little ridiculous, and +he added defensively: “He wouldn’t have dragged me in, if it had been +he that was in this mess.” + +“You prefer not to consider that possibility?” asked Gilbert smoothly. + +Norman had the feeling of having mismanaged this matter. He had made it +look as though he were quixotically shielding his friend. “Oh, go into +it if you insist,” he said impatiently. “Only it’s a waste of time. I +merely wanted to make it clear that I’m not going to try to--sneak out +of my responsibility.” + +“Very well,” said Gilbert, “we’ll leave it at that for the present. Now +as to the girl’s family: any brothers?” + +“No. An only child.” And Norman reflected that a girl’s brothers were +her traditional protectors. That should please old Gilbert. He smiled; +it was odd to think of Isabel as the menace against which he was being +protected. He? His respectability, rather. The thing was out of his +hands. Vickley was protecting itself. His career, his marriage, his +reputation--these things belonged to Vickley. And old Gilbert had +promised to guard them.... + +“And the girl--” Gilbert was asking, “beautiful, I suppose?” + +Her image came powerfully before him--her slight figure, her pointed +face with its grey-green eyes and shock of auburn hair. Beautiful? “In +a sullen, discontented way: yes.” That, he thought, was sufficiently +objective. + +“And you fancied yourselves hopelessly in love with one another?” + +“Not exactly.” He must try to explain it to old Gilbert. “I had been +crazy about her all year--ever since I met her. Hal had talked to me +about her. His favorite word for her was ‘elusive.’ And she was just +that. She played with us in an imaginative sort of way. But she seemed +emotionally untouched. She was scornful of the idea of love.” + +“Yes?” said Gilbert. + +“But when I was going away that summer, she seemed sorry we weren’t +going to see each other any more. I stayed over a couple of weeks, at +the Sibleys, before I came home. We saw more of each other. She told me +things about herself--her ambitions. And she took me to see Springer’s +pictures one day, just before I left. Coming back to her home that +night, we lost ourselves in the woods. That was when we became lovers.” + +“You lost yourselves in the woods?” + +“We pretended we were lost. You see, everything had to be play between +us. We always pretended all sorts of things. That night we pretended it +was a wood near Athens.” + +“A wood near Athens?” + +“Midsummer-night’s-dream stuff. Perhaps you’d understand it if you knew +her.” + +“Was there ever any question of marriage between you?” + +“There hadn’t been, up to then. I had--well, I had wanted to have a +love affair with her. That was all. But in the woods, afterward, I +was rather frightened about what we had done, and I said we must get +married. I suppose I meant it. But fortunately she didn’t take me +seriously. She laughed at me.” + +“She laughed at you?” + +“You see, love wasn’t a serious reality to her. It was just something +to play at in idle moments. The only reality, to her, was art. She +wanted to be a painter--a great painter.” + +Old Gilbert rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Sort of Rosa Bonheur, eh?” + +“I think she would have despised Rosa Bonheur. Gauguin was more in her +line.” + +“And so that was how it began?” + +“Yes--and how it ended. I saw her for the last time the next day, +before I went back to my rooms in Cambridge to pack. I didn’t get a +chance to talk with her. She seemed to avoid that deliberately. She was +more distant, more elusive, than ever.” + +“Did you tell your friend Hal what had occurred?” + +“Of course not.” + +“And then you came home to Vickley.” + +“Yes.” + +“Did you write to her?” + +“Three times. She didn’t reply.” + +“You were not under the impression that you were her first lover?” + +Norman hesitated. “I really know nothing about that. But for some +reason I assumed that she had had lovers.” + +“She seemed sophisticated?” + +“In her talk, yes.” + +“You didn’t ask her about her previous experiences?” + +“One couldn’t have asked her a thing like that. But I think she wanted +it to be taken for granted.” + +Old Gilbert looked puzzled. “She wanted to have it taken for granted +that she was not a virgin?” + +“Yes. But afterward--I wasn’t so sure. I’m not, now. Or rather--I think +I was really her first lover, in spite of the way she talked.” + +Old Gilbert considered that helplessly, shook his head, and changed the +subject. + +“As to Springer,” he asked, “was he married?” + +“Not at that time. He’s been married since then.” + +“How did Springer behave when she brought you to his studio?” + +“Springer is a great clumsy bear. He’s friendly with everybody, unless +he’s in one of his suspicious moods. He was very friendly that day.” + +“How well do you know him?” + +“I’ve seen him only that once. Isabel told me a great deal about him.” + +“Does he make much money with his painting?” + +“Not yet, I’m afraid. What are you getting at?” Norman demanded. + +“Were Isabel and Springer very great friends?” + +Norman smiled. “She admired his work very much.” + +“Do you think they had been lovers?” + +“That idea had never occurred to me.” + +“Let’s see,” said Gilbert. “The girl was elusive for a long time--and +then suddenly friendly. The day she took you to Springer’s studio was +the day she made love to you. Do you make anything out of that?” + +“Nothing at all.” + +“You thought of her as a mysterious and incalculable creature; but +let us supply the _x_ and see how the problem works out. She had +been Springer’s sweetheart. But Springer threw her over for another +girl--the one whom he afterwards married. And so she consoled herself +with you--perhaps trying to make him jealous. Doesn’t that clear up the +strangeness of her behavior?” + +Norman tried hard to be objective. “It might be true. It merely doesn’t +fit in with my conception of Isabel.” + +“I’ve described a very human sort of girl,” old Gilbert went on. “You +had your romantic ideas about her, to be sure. Why shouldn’t she be +elusive, with Springer for her lover? Until he got himself another +girl. Then she turned to you. I admit that this explanation is not +calculated to appeal to a young man’s vanity.” + +“After all, what does it matter?” said Norman. + +But Gilbert seemed to think it did matter. “You offered to marry +her,” he pursued, “but in spite of what had occurred between you, she +refused--because she was still in love with Springer. You wrote letters +to her. It wasn’t you she was thinking about; it was Springer. And when +she found she was pregnant, it wasn’t to you that she’d write, but to +him. Now, does it look,” asked Gilbert, “as though she thought it were +your child?” + +“But, Good Lord--!” said Norman in bewilderment. + +“Then Springer married the other girl; evidently refused to have +anything more to do with her. And now at last she remembers you. In +this emergency, your money would be a great convenience, no doubt.” + +Norman shook his head. “I can’t believe that she’d lie to me,” he said. + +“If you had gone to see her,” said old Gilbert with a tolerant smile, +“she wouldn’t have had to lie. She’d only have had to remind you of +that night in the woods, and your guilty conscience would have supplied +the rest.” + +“I wish to God I could believe it,” said Norman. + +“Would you rather,” asked Gilbert, “believe yourself the father of her +child?” + +“What I wish,” said Norman, “is that I could wake up and find that this +was only a bad dream.” + +“That’s the way it will seem to-morrow night,” answered Gilbert +cheerfully. + +Norman turned toward the window, and stared out at the dark, flying +landscape. Every moment was bringing him nearer to the truth. To-morrow +he would know the truth. But--he wished he could see Isabel himself. +This wasn’t something that old Gilbert could handle for him. + + + + +Chapter V: Encounter + + +IT wouldn’t, he realized fully, be sensible to see Isabel. And besides, +it would be unfair to old Gilbert. He had promised to leave his +destinies to his friend’s charge. He had better leave things as they +stood. + +When Gilbert left the hotel after breakfast to keep his appointment +with the lawyers representing the other interests in the Ostrander +case, it was with the understanding that they were to meet again at +lunch for a final conference before Gilbert’s visit to Dr. Zerneke. + +When Norman was left alone in their suite at the hotel, he wondered +what to do with himself in the meantime. + +He went out and strolled up Michigan Boulevard. + +He passed the Steinbach Galleries. + +Strolling back, he passed the Steinbach Galleries again. + +Springer might be there, getting ready for his exhibit. + +Norman turned and went in. + +The place seemed to be empty. But as he went from one of the rooms to +another, passing the little office, he heard young Steinbach’s voice, +and then Springer’s. + +He stopped, and sat down on a cushioned bench in the middle of the +room, staring unseeingly across at a painting of a Pueblo Indian dance. + +He supposed what he was doing was foolish. But he had to hear what +Springer had to say--about him and Isabel.... For Springer would know +about it all. Springer was her friend.... And if he could not go to see +this doctor, if that must be left to Gilbert, yet here was something he +could do, while he waited.... All Gilbert’s carefully-built-up edifice +of caution and secrecy melted into mist, in his mind. + +He had been there three minutes when Springer came out of the office. +Norman well remembered that dark bushy head and great lumbering frame. +Norman rose. + +Springer paused, glanced at him idly, and took out his watch and looked +at it in a bored way. + +There had been no recognition in that glance. Norman was disconcerted. +He would have to introduce himself. + +“Mr. Springer,” he said. + +Springer looked at him inquiringly. “Yes?” + +“My name is Overbeck--Norman Overbeck.” And, since that seemed to mean +nothing to Springer, he added: “I met you a year ago in Boston.” + +Springer offered his hand with the embarrassment of one who had a +bad memory in social matters. “Ah, yes,” he said, with an effort at +cordiality. “How are you?” + +It wasn’t at all what Norman had expected. It was quite obvious that +Springer didn’t know who he was at all. So Isabel hadn’t told him! +Norman readjusted his mind to that. + +“Well, how did you find Italy?” asked Springer absently, misled by some +_ignis fatuus_ gleam of false recollection. + +Norman, ignoring this mistaken reference, said firmly: “Isabel Drury +took me to your studio.” + +“Oh, yes!” said Springer. “You wrote a play. I remember now.” + +“No, I didn’t write a play,” said Norman indignantly. “I am a lawyer +down in Vickley. I was at Harvard at the time, and”--he added--“a +friend of Isabel’s.” + +“I’m sorry,” said Springer, confused and chagrined at his blunder. “I +remember your face quite well. So you are one of Isabel’s friends. Have +you heard of her good luck?” + +“Good luck?” Norman repeated, baffled. + +“Yes, she’s going to Paris. Some rich woman is subsidizing her for a +year’s study--isn’t it fine!” + +“Yes,” said Norman. “But--” + +He scarcely took in the news about Isabel’s going to Paris. + +Was it possible that Springer didn’t know about what had happened +to her? Or was he keeping that secret? Yes, naturally enough, a +secret from an outsider.... That, Norman realized, was what he was to +Springer--an outsider! Because Springer didn’t know. Isabel hadn’t told +him that part of it. Maybe he didn’t know anything about it at all! + +“How is Isabel?” Norman asked abruptly. + +“Oh,” said Springer, “she’s all right.” + +“All right?” + +Why should he say that? Did he mean anything? Did he know anything? + +“I suppose,” said Norman, as casually as possible, “that you keep in +touch with her?” + +“Well, yes,” said Springer. + +“I understand,” said Norman, “that she’s here in Chicago now.” + +“Why, yes, she is,” said Springer reluctantly. + +So it was true! + +“I’d like to see her,” said Norman. His heart was beating heavily. +“Where is she?” + +“Well, as a matter of fact, she’s--not seeing anybody. She’s just +recuperating from an operation for appendicitis.” + +The usual lie! Springer said it with an air of protecting her from +intrusive acquaintances. And Norman couldn’t say: “You mean she’s just +had a baby!” No, he had to accept what Springer told him. He was an +outsider. + +“Is that so?” he said, and his voice mechanically took on the proper +tone of sympathy and courteous interest. + +Springer, having got past that point, spoke more fluently and easily. +“She’s going to Michigan to rest up for a few weeks, and then go on to +Paris,” he said. + +Norman wanted to ask him at what hospital she was. But he felt that +Springer would evade that question. + +“I’d like to see her before she goes,” he said. + +“Are you going to be in town long?” asked Springer. + +“No--a day or two.” + +“I’m afraid there’s no chance,” said Springer. + +“I suppose not,” said Norman. + +The subject seemed closed. + +“I’m having a show here next week,” said Springer. + +“Yes, I would like to see it,” said Norman. + +Springer held out his hand. + +“Well, I may run into you here again,” he said. + +Norman was dismissed. + +He was conscious of two emotions--of annoyance with Springer, and, +strangely enough, of an enormous relief. It was all true! He hadn’t +doubted it, really, but something in his mind accepted this new +evidence with gratitude. It was as though an unendurable tension had +been relaxed. So Isabel had had a baby.... + +And then it occurred to him that he didn’t know whether her baby was +alive or dead. + +He had to go to see Dr. Zerneke. + + + + +Chapter VI: Dr. Zerneke + + +HE went to a telephone booth. He did not need to look in the book: Dr. +Zerneke’s phone number was fixed in his mind. + +A girl’s voice answered the telephone. He gave his name. + +“Yes, Mr. Overbeck,” said the girl. “Dr. Zerneke is expecting you. Can +you come right over?” + +“I’ll be there immediately,” he said. + +The taxi stopped in front of an apartment building on the North Side. +The name, Dr. Martha Zerneke, was on a plaque in one of the front +windows. He rang the bell, and a young woman admitted him. + +He gave his name. + +“Oh, yes,” she said. “Just wait in here a moment, please.” + +She opened the door of the reception room, and went back to her desk. + +He began to wonder why he had come. He ought to leave this part of it +to Gilbert! + +There were three women in the room. One by one they were called into an +inner office by the office nurse. + +Then it was his turn. + +As he walked across the room, his mind whirled. But part of his mind +didn’t care. He would know the whole truth, now. + +A small dark woman seated at a desk rose and held out her hand. + +“How do you do, Mr. Overbeck.” + +“Dr. Zerneke?” + +“Yes. You received my letter?” + +“You asked me to come to see you.” + +“It is very good of you to come. Sit down, please.” + +Norman took the chair at the corner of the desk. + +“My letter,” said Dr. Zerneke, “wasn’t very explicit, I’m afraid. But +possibly you guessed something of its meaning. If you didn’t, I can +make the situation clear to you.” + +Norman had an impulse to delay matters, by pretending ignorance. If +he had not talked with old Gilbert--if he had not met Springer--if he +had walked in here unsuspectingly--what would she have said? She had +offered just now to make the situation clear to him. + +“Please do explain,” he said. + +“I’m sorry if my letter appeared unduly mysterious, Mr. Overbeck. +You’ll understand in a moment why I felt obliged to write as I did. The +fact is that I need your assistance in a small technical matter.” + +So that, thought Norman, was how she would have begun! + +“You said, I believe,” he remarked, still keeping to his rôle of +ignorance, “that it was of personal interest to me.” + +“Yes,” she answered, “sufficiently so that I feel sure you will go to +some little trouble to oblige us in the matter.” + +“I should be glad to do anything I can,” he said. This, at least, was +a way of postponing the inevitable for a few moments. He felt like a +shipwrecked man who is holding to a plank and keeping his head above +water while in the distance a great wave is sweeping down upon him. And +at the same time he felt strangely calm. + +“I am confident that you will, when I explain,” said the doctor. “Your +name has been given me by one of my patients under circumstances which +oblige me to ask for your assistance and coöperation. The matter is +a little unusual: that is why I go at it in this somewhat elaborate +manner. And because of its character, I think I ought to begin by +assuring you that the question of money is not involved. I want to make +that plain first of all.” + +“I see,” said Norman. + +“Very well,” said the doctor. “Now as to my patient. A year ago, Mr. +Overbeck, if I am rightly informed, you were going to law school at +Harvard.” + +“Yes,” he said. The great wave hung overhead, about to fall. + +“At that time you were acquainted with a girl named Isabel Drury. +Recently she has come under my care, and--” + +Enough of this farce of ignorance! + +“I know,” said Norman, “she has had a baby.” + +“Oh--you know that?” + +“It’s true, then!” + +“Yes. And for certain reasons, Mr. Overbeck--” + +“It’s--alive?” + +“Oh, yes.” + +“A--a boy or girl?” + +“A boy. And for certain reason which I’ll explain in a moment, it is +desirable to have a record of the paternity in these cases. It is +for this purpose only, that Miss Drury has consented to allow me to +communicate with you.” + +“Tell me,” said Norman impatiently, “when did it happen?” + +“What? Oh, the baby was born eleven days ago.--The matter,” she +went on, returning to her argument, “is entirely a private one, you +understand....” + +“How did she--come through it?” Norman asked. + +“The delivery,” said the doctor, “was a somewhat difficult one, but she +stood it very well.” + +“She’s all right now?” Norman persisted. + +“Oh, quite all right. She’ll be able to leave the hospital within a +week or so.” + +“And the baby?” asked Norman. + +“The baby is a very healthy child. No physical defects. Six pounds at +birth, now about six and a half.” + +“Isn’t that rather small?” Norman asked anxiously. + +The doctor smiled. “Not at all,” she said, “especially not for a first +child. A very good weight, in fact. And now as to yourself.” + +“Yes?” said Norman anxiously. + +“Do you mind my asking you a few questions?” She drew a sheet of paper +toward her. “How old are you?” + +“Twenty-five,” said Norman in surprise. + +“Have you recently had a thorough medical examination?” + +“I took out some insurance recently,” he said, wondering what this was +all about. “I was examined then.” + +“Will you take off your coat and vest, please?” she asked firmly. + +He obeyed with some inward astonishment, and followed her into an +inner office, where he was weighed on her scales, seated on a kind of +trestle, and thumped and listened to in chest and back.... “Am I all +right?” he asked haughtily when they went back into the other office. + +The doctor smiled. “You seem to be. Don’t put on your coat yet. Have +any of your family ever had tuberculosis?” + +“No,” he said. + +“Epilepsy?” + +“No.” + +“Insanity?” + +“No!” + +“Roll up your sleeve, please.” + +He did so, obediently. + +“This will only take a moment.” She put a tourniquet around his upper +arm and tightened it. She took out a queer shaped instrument of glass, +partly wrapped with cotton, and with a needle on the end. + +“What is that?” he asked curiously. + +“A Kiedal tube,” she replied. She sterilized the needle, and dabbed +with alcohol a spot on the skin of his upper arm. “Double up your +fist--hard.” + +She skilfully thrust the needle point into a swollen vein, and pressed +upon the cotton about the tube, which immediately filled with blood. +She withdrew the needle, took off the tourniquet, and dabbed again at +his arm with alcohol. + +“What is that for?” he asked. + +“For a Kahn blood test,” she replied. “Now you may put on your coat and +vest. Can you give me a statement from your family doctor about your +family history--as to the hereditary diseases I asked you about?” + +“Why--I suppose so. Yes, I’m sure I can. But why do you want to know +these things?” + +“Oh--I thought I had explained that, Mr. Overbeck. It is always +desirable in these cases, when possible.” + +“But what is it all about?” he asked. “You see, I am engaged to another +girl. Do you think I ought to marry Isabel, in order to legitimate the +child? Is that why you sent for me?” + +The doctor looked surprised. “Apparently I have not yet made the +situation quite clear,” she said. “No, that wasn’t why I sent for you. +It is, as I told you, merely a technical matter. With a medical record +of paternity, showing that the child is free from hereditary disease, +a more desirable adoption can be effected. There was no intention of +embarrassing you further. As for these medical records, they will be +sealed and filed with the St. Thecla Child Adoption Society, of which +I am the medical director. These records are secret, and can’t even be +brought into court. Under these circumstances, I felt sure you wouldn’t +mind giving us this assistance.” + +“I--no; I mean yes,” said Norman weakly, as with that word “secret” +ringing in his mind the world righted itself from topsy-turviness and +settled down about him--familiar, solid, secure.... He could marry +Madge, his career would not be affected, everything would be just as +old Gilbert had prophesied.... + +“And I thank you very much,” said the doctor, rising and holding out +her hand. + +“Then--that’s all?” he asked. + +“Yes, that’s all--except for the family medical history that you +promised to send me. You won’t forget that?” + +“No, I won’t forget. But if you can spare the time--a moment or +two--I’d like to know something further about what’s going to be done +with the baby.” + +“Certainly,” said the doctor, resuming her seat. “I’ll be glad to +explain that to you. Just what is it you want to know?” + +“Well,” said Norman uncomfortably, “I really don’t know--but I don’t +quite like the idea of adoption!” + +“Yes,” said the doctor, “some people feel that way. It offends them +to think of the child being separated from its natural mother.” And +she went on, in an impersonal manner to speak of the different laws of +different states--something about the mother having to keep her babies +herself.... + +“This,” Dr. Zerneke commented, “is supposed to be good for the girl’s +character. In some cases, no doubt it is. And it at least makes it +rather unlikely that those girls will have any more illegitimate +babies. That, I sometimes think, is the real reason for putting that +burden on them.” + +Norman felt confused by these generalizations. This wasn’t exactly what +he wanted to know.... + +“Social workers believe, theoretically,” the doctor went on, “that +both parents should be held as strictly as possible to their +responsibilities for children born out of wedlock. But in actual +practice that means compelling the girl to take care of the baby, with +some inadequate financial aid, if any at all, from the man....” + +Norman would have felt indignant, except that she seemed to have +forgotten that he was one of those men she was talking about.... Yes, +she was ignoring his personal interest in the question altogether. She +was treating him as though he were some visitor who had inquired about +the work of her society.... It was queer.... + +“The fact is,” she was saying, “that there isn’t any right solution of +the problem of illegitimacy. If we had a decent civilization, any baby +would be legitimate. To have babies is a natural function of women. +But the penalties for having them outside of marriage are still pretty +severe; and when there are homes where these children are wanted, +there seems to be no reason for penalizing the children. That’s why we +undertake to get these children adopted.” + +“Yes, but--who is going to take Isabel’s baby?” Norman made himself ask. + +“The Society has a large waiting list,” said the doctor. “The +applicants are thoroughly investigated.” + +“Do you mean that you can’t--or won’t tell me?” + +“I shouldn’t think of telling you,” said the doctor. + +“Why not?” + +“It makes trouble in the future,” said the doctor. “The adoptive +parents want to be assured of untroubled possession of the child. The +girl sometimes changes her mind and tries to get her child back.” + +“Then Isabel isn’t to know who they are, either?” + +“No more than you. If there were any chance of a parent turning up +later to reclaim the child, they would refuse to take it. You can see +that, Mr. Overbeck.” + +“And Isabel agrees to this?” + +“She trusts us to do the best for the child.” + +“Has she--signed over the child yet?” + +“Not yet. If you have any doubts of the Society I represent, Mr. +Overbeck, its record is easily looked up. In fact, Mr. Overbeck, since +you are a lawyer, I wish you would make an investigation, and advise +Miss Drury accordingly. The one thing we are anxious to avoid is the +charge of exerting undue influence upon the mothers of these children.” + +Norman was conscious of a feeling of frustration which he could not +quite understand. + +“I shall certainly make inquiries about the Society,” he said. “But I +might remind you that there are my rights, as well as the mother’s, to +be considered.” + +“I’m sorry to have to correct you on a legal point,” said the doctor +drily, “but the fact is that you have no legal rights to or over Miss +Drury’s child.” + +“Is that true?” + +“You’ll find it to be quite true, Mr. Overbeck.” + +Norman was silent for a long moment. Then he looked up and said: + +“I must see her--Isabel. Can I?” + +“Certainly,” said the doctor, “as far as I am concerned. If she wishes +to see you.” + +“Why shouldn’t she wish to see me?” Norman demanded. + +“She may feel that the fact that you are her child’s father gives you +no special claim upon her.” + +“Why do you say that?” + +“She was quite unwilling for me to communicate with you at all. She +particularly said that she did not wish to see you.” + +“She said that?” + +“But she may feel differently about it now. I am only warning you.” + +“I’ll call her up and ask her,” said Norman grimly. + +“I’ll call up for you, if you like, right now, and find out.” + +“Do, please,” said Norman coldly. + +“Do you wish to see her this morning?” + +“The sooner the better.” + +The doctor lifted the receiver and called the number. + +“Obstetrical B, please.... Miss Higginson? This is Dr. Zerneke. Please +send word to Miss Drury in Room 37 that Mr. Norman Overbeck would like +to visit her this morning.... Yes, Over-beck.” + +Norman waited. + +“Yes.... She will? Thank you.” + +Dr. Zerneke turned to Norman. “It’s all right. You can go at eleven. +But I will have to remind you that emotional scenes are not good for +nursing mothers. And don’t stay longer than fifteen or twenty minutes.” + +“Very well,” said Norman, and rose impatiently. + + + + +Chapter VII: Flowers + + +HIS taxi passed a florist’s shop, and he leaned forward and pounded on +the window. “Stop a minute. Yes, right here.” + +It might be ridiculous-- But why should it be ridiculous? A girl who +had a baby, a girl in bed in a hospital, would like to have flowers +brought by a visitor, surely. Any girl! + +In the shop, he looked about at the banked flowers in uncertainty. + +“We have some very nice American Beauty roses,” said the salesman, +leading him toward the glass fronted refrigerator. He took out +a bunch of long stemmed buds. “Fifteen dollars a dozen.” Norman +felt uncomfortable. He was vaguely apprehensive of the emotional +inappropriateness of American Beauty roses for this occasion. + +Something yellow caught his eye. “Jonquils,” he said. “Let me see +those.” + +“A dollar a dozen,” said the salesman, without enthusiasm. + +Norman hesitated. A husband, a lover, a dear friend, might give the +yellow flowers she liked. But what was he? Isabel had always that power +of making him feel at a loss. From a moment of intimacy she could +withdraw herself until he felt infinitely remote, the most casual of +acquaintances, almost a stranger. + +He bought the roses. + +In the taxi, he had a disconcerting picture of himself, with stick and +gloves and tissue-wrapped bouquet. It seemed altogether too jaunty. +He felt like a silly-ass character in a story by P. G. Wodehouse. +Vindictively he accused himself of being really that--a superficial +person, with no capacity for dealing with the serious aspects of life. +Yes, what should a P. G. Wodehouse young man be doing in a Tolstoian +situation? But real life seemed to be like that. + +Abruptly he knocked on the glass window. “Drive back to that +florist’s,” he ordered. + +The driver turned the corner, rounded the block, and drew up at the +florist’s shop again. + +“Give me two dozen jonquils,” said Norman to the salesman. + +When they were wrapped up and paid for, he handed back the other +bouquet. “You can keep these,” he said, and walked out. + + + + +Chapter VIII: Isabel + + +THE taxi brought him to the hospital a few minutes after eleven. He +went up to Obstetrical Ward B. To a nurse who sat at a desk in the +corridor he gave his name. “I would like to see Miss Drury in room +thirty-seven.” + +“Just a minute,” said the nurse, and pressed a button on her desk. +Presently another uniformed young woman appeared. “Take this visitor to +room thirty-seven, Miss Paget.” + +He accompanied the young woman down the corridor. + +She tapped at a door, opened it slightly, and glanced in. “A visitor +for you,” she said, and ushered Norman in. + +On a small high bed lay Isabel, her pointed face framed in loosely +strewn locks of short auburn hair against her pillow. She raised her +head a little as the door closed behind him. + +“Oh,” she said, and smiled, “it’s you.” A thin arm was withdrawn +languidly from under the coverlet, and a hand was offered to him. It +seemed strangely frail for her hand. She seemed queerly thin and white. +He put his hat, stick and bouquet upon the little table by the bed, and +bent over her hand. A sudden emotion flooded him so that he could not +speak for a moment. He held her thin hand to his lips. He would have +dropped on his knees beside the bed--but that would have been awkward, +the bed was so high. His sense of the ridiculous helped him to recover +his self-possession. + +“Isabel!” he said. + +“Yes, here I am,” she said. “Who would have thought it would come to +this?” Her face was lit up by one of her amused ironic perceptions. How +well he knew that look! + +“The wood near Athens,” he said. + +“Yes--the wood near Athens! But do sit down, Norman.” + +He drew the chair up close to her bed. + +“I hope you understand,” she went on, “that it really isn’t my fault +you’ve been dragged into all this. Dr. Zerneke explained everything to +you, didn’t she?” + +He nodded, not quite able to trust himself to speak. + +“I didn’t think I’d see you at all,” she said. “I thought it would be +simpler not to. But when you called up, that seemed to me rather silly.” + +“Why didn’t you want to see me?” he asked. + +“Well--everything was settled, and I didn’t want things upset. +I haven’t got my strength back yet, and I didn’t feel equal to +arguing with you. I remembered you as being rather controversially +conventional, you know.” + +“I suppose I am rather conventional,” he said humbly. “But what did +you think my attitude would be, about this?” + +“Oh, I thought you might be shocked at the idea of my deserting my +child. I thought you might preach the duties of motherhood to me--that +sort of thing. You remember, we once had an argument about it. You +thought woman’s destiny after all was the home. I suppose it is, for +most of them. But I’ve got to paint, Norman. I can’t give up my life to +a baby. Please don’t think I’m heartless. But I’m not going to let a +biological accident change my whole life.” + +“Why didn’t you tell me about it?” Norman asked abruptly. + +“Well, I didn’t know for a long time.” + +“You didn’t know!” + +“At least I wouldn’t believe it. I was an awful fool, Norman. You +see, I’d always thought of myself as an artist--not a woman. I simply +couldn’t admit the possibility of such a thing as my having a baby. You +remember, when you were afraid this might happen, and I laughed and +said oh, it would be all right? That was just my sublime egotism!” She +laughed. “I thought it _couldn’t_ happen to me.” + +“But you found out you were a woman after all,” he said solemnly. + +She stirred restlessly beneath the coverlet. “I found out that my body +is a woman’s body,” she said. “And that still seems queer to me. Yes, +apparently it’s true that this body of mine is a baby-factory, just +like other girls’ bodies. And what a strange and cumbersome process +it is, Norman! I’ve a good chance to observe it, you see. I was under +ether during the final crisis, so I can’t speak of that. But I saw and +felt enough to make me wonder at women--why they stand for it, being +made use of this way as baby-producers. I suppose Nature traps them +into it--and then they accept their fate. But I’m not going to! My body +has been used nine months for a purpose that I never consented to--used +and occupied and then torn and mangled--but I’m free now at last, and +I’m going to stay free. My body may be a woman’s body, but my thoughts +are not a woman’s thoughts. I have something else to do than take care +of a baby! And even my silly body seems to know that at last.--I’m +supposed to be a milk-producing animal now, a kind of contented cow +with bloated udders. But my milk is drying up. Dr. Zerneke says it is +because of my mental conflict. My mind, you see, is resuming possession +of my body. Soon it will be all mine again. And then I shall be a +painter once more, and never a woman again, Norman. + +“And yet,” she continued, “there has been one good thing about it. It +has set me free from my family. They’ve repudiated me, thank God!--let +me go my own way at last. I suppose that was why I could be so calm +about it, and practically think nothing about it for so many months. I +had nothing to lose when the truth came out--except my respectability. +Nothing to lose but my chains, and a world to gain, as the soap-box +orators say. And it was worth it. I comforted myself with that thought, +Norman, when the pain came--that I was giving birth to a bastard child, +and my shocked family would never lay loving hands on me again to drag +me back into the fold. I was buying my freedom at last by going through +that torture.” + +“Don’t!” said Norman involuntarily. + +“I’m sorry!” she laughed and reached out a white hand and patted his +bent head as though he were a child. “I shouldn’t have talked that way. +Poor boy, I’ve shocked you again. I suppose you came here to see a +Madonna. I never could live up to your romantic expectations, Norman. +You’d better stop trying to understand me. There’s no reason why you +should be bothered. It’s no concern of yours.” + +“It seems to me,” said Norman, choking a little as he tried to speak, +“that it--is--a concern of mine.” + +“I didn’t intend that it should be. Did it upset you when you heard +about it?” + +“Naturally it upset me. But Dr. Zerneke’s letter was so diplomatic that +at first I didn’t know what it was all about.” + +“That’s my fault. I made her promise to write very diplomatically. I +thought of you in the bosom of your family there in Vickley--you might +have forgotten the girl who led you astray back in Cambridge. I told +her to say that I was the girl who took you to Springer’s studio.” + +“She mentioned Springer,” said Norman, and he thought of all +the trouble that mention had caused--old Gilbert’s surmises of +double-dealing. How far away that coil of respectability seemed now! + +“I saw him at Steinbach’s this morning,” he said. + +“Springer? Yes, he has a show on at Steinbach’s next week. He’s done +some very fine things. You ought to see them.” + +“He spoke of you.” + +“He and Roberta have been very good to me. I don’t know what I’d have +done without them. It’s nice, too, his being in Chicago now. I have +somebody to talk to. And he’s got me a place to stay, in Michigan, +until I’m able to stand the trip across. You’ve heard of my luck, I +suppose? I’m going to study in Paris! I owe that to them, too. They’ve +found me the sort of patron every young artist dreams about. A rich +woman in Boston is giving me my traveling expenses and fifteen dollars +a week for a year. With three hundred francs a week in Paris, I shall +feel that I own the world!” + +“Does Springer approve of--your plans?” + +She frowned. “Springer is a dear,” she said, “but he can’t forget that +I am a woman, and he doesn’t believe that women _can_ be artists in a +serious way. See what he’s done to Roberta--” + +“Roberta is his wife, I take it?” + +She nodded. “Roberta had a great deal of promise as a painter. But +she’s settled down to just being a painter’s wife. I think that’s why +she has done all these things for me--to give me my chance.” + +“Then _he_ doesn’t think you ought to go to Paris?” + +“He doesn’t say anything about it. But he’s not very enthusiastic.” + +“What does he want you to do?” + +“I don’t know. Secretly, I suppose, he thinks I ought to give up my +career and live for my child. Something of that sort.” + +“And you consider that--quite out of the question, I suppose.” + +“Yes, Norman. I’ve tried to tell you why. And I don’t think any sort +of compromise would do--such as keeping the baby and going on with +my career. I’d not be a good mother. It just wouldn’t work out. It +wouldn’t be good for the child to have a mother like that. The only +sensible thing is to have the baby adopted by people who do want one.” + +“Even if you know nothing of these people, Isabel?” + +“Dr. Zerneke knows them. And I’m sure they couldn’t be worse parents +than I should be!” + +“Suppose,” said Norman, “they should be conventional people--and the +boy should inherit your talent. They wouldn’t understand him. They’d +try to discourage him.” + +“If he were an artist, that wouldn’t keep him from being one.” Then +Isabel smiled. “But why not suppose that he will inherit your traits, +Norman? That’s quite as likely. And then he’d get along perfectly well +in his bourgeois environment.” + +“So that’s what you think of me--as a perfectly bourgeois person,” said +Norman. + +“You’ve managed to make terms with the world you live in,” she said, “I +thought you got along with it very comfortably.” + +“So I did,” he said, “until yesterday--when this thing came up. This +has knocked the foundations of my old life to pieces.” + +“I’m sorry,” said Isabel. “I hope it’s not as bad as that. This needn’t +affect your life.” + +“It does,” said Norman. “There’s no use pretending. Isabel, won’t you +marry me?” + +She took his hand between both of hers for a moment. “It’s terribly +sweet of you to want to, Norman. But we’ve already discussed that, back +at Cambridge. You remember.” + +“I remember that you didn’t want to marry a bourgeois young lawyer and +settle down to a life of teas and bridge in Vickley,” he said. “But +now--I’m afraid you’d not be marrying a prosperous lawyer in Vickley, +Isabel. You’d be marrying”--he smiled--“a ruined man and an outcast.” + +“You make it very attractive, Norman,” she said. “It’s a temptation to +marry you, just to ruin you. But the trouble is, the marriage which +would be your ruin would make me a respectable woman again. I can’t +venture that. I’ve too recently escaped from prison to give up my +freedom. I won’t marry you, Norman.” + +“Is that your real reason?” he asked. + +“Marriage is marriage, Norman. I’m going to Paris to paint. You want to +keep me here, looking after your baby. No, thank you.” + +“Is that the real reason?” he repeated. + +“What else? Oh, I suppose you mean, do I love you?” + +“Perhaps that’s what I do mean. But I suppose I know the answer +already.” + +“If I weren’t going to be a painter, I could love you, Norman. If I +were a real girl, I’d be proud to have your babies. I’m sorry, for your +sake--and perhaps for my own--that I’m such a queer monster as I am, +and--and not a nice girl for you, Norman.” + +She turned her head away from him and flung her arm up to cover her +face. She was crying. + +“Go away,” she said, after a moment. + +He thought with a thrill that this wild girl might yet be conquered.... +And then he remembered that he mustn’t upset Dr. Zerneke’s patient. + +He rose, contritely. + +She found a handkerchief under her pillow, and wiped her eyes, and +turned toward him. He was fumbling with the tissue wrappings of the +bouquet. + +“Oh, flowers!” she cried. And then, as he unwrapped them: “Jonquils! I +love them! How nice of you to remember!” + +She is a girl, after all! thought Norman. + +“Put them in the water pitcher,” she told him. + +He did so. + +“And now come here and kiss me.” + +He bent over her, and their lips touched. What did that kiss mean? +Gratitude, to be sure. A lonely girl in a hospital.... He wished he +could believe it was more. + +“Norman, dear,” she said softly, “will you forgive me for being--what I +am?” + +“But are you that, really?” he asked. “I wish I knew!” + +“Yes--yes--yes!” she cried, raising herself up from her pillow. “Don’t +be fooled by a few silly tears, Norman. The real me is in Paris now, +sitting before an easel in a paint-smeared smock. You’ve found me weak +and helpless, but I’ve that hope. And if I didn’t have it, as God knows +I mightn’t have--if I didn’t have Paris to look forward to and three +hundred francs a week for a year and no questions asked--if I had been +penniless and scared, I might have married you, Norman. But you’d only +have had my woman’s body--my thoughts would never have stayed with you. +That’s the truth, and we’re both lucky to have escaped such a trap. +Think! if you’d given up everything for me, and then found you could +never really have me--and if I had given up my dreams for food and +shelter--we’d have hated each other, Norman.” + +“It isn’t just us,” he said. “Isabel, it’s our son. Couldn’t we--” + +She bit her lip and shook her head. + +“Besides,” she said, “you’re engaged to another girl. Hal told me so.” + +“What does that matter, now?” + +“She’ll give you another son.” + +“Doesn’t,” he asked desperately, “doesn’t it mean anything to you?” + +“Why,” she asked wonderingly, “should our child mean so much to you? +You’ve never even seen him.” + +“I want to see him.” + +“You can. But don’t you understand--” + +“I understand that he would interfere with your career, yes,” said +Norman harshly. + +“Hate me if you want to. But I am what I am. And if I’ve nursed this +baby at my breast, and still think of myself as an artist and not as +a mother--” She paused.... “Norman--I fought out this wife and mother +business once before--when I was eighteen. I was engaged. And I was +really in love ... more than I ever will be again. But I saw what +marriage would do to me, and I wouldn’t go through with it. My mother +tried to make me. But I wouldn’t--I couldn’t. I settled it for myself +then that I was going to be an artist, and not a wife and mother. I +don’t suppose you’ll ever understand. But there’s no use arguing with +me. I’ve my own road to go.” + +“But to give your child away to strangers--!” he protested bitterly. + +She sank back on her pillow. “I can’t talk to you any more,” she said +wearily. “You’d better go.” + +“I want to see my son,” he said stubbornly. + +“The nurse will show you.” + +“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. And--I’ll try to +understand your point of view....” + +“Good-by,” she said. “And thank you for the flowers.” + +There was a tap at the door. + +“Yes?” said Isabel. “I think,” she said to Norman, “that’s the baby +now.” + + + + +Chapter IX: The Baby + + +THE door opened, and an angular, old-maidish-looking nurse entered with +a baby in her arms. “Feeding time,” she said. + +She went to the bed and laid the baby down beside Isabel. “I’ll bring +the bottle,” she said, and went out. + +“It’s a good thing,” said Isabel, “that this is a bottle feeding. I’m +not supposed to go through scenes like this--it’s not good for my milk.” + +Norman looked down at the baby in a kind of terrified curiosity. It was +a very tiny thing, with a round face, and some blond hair like his own +on the queer-shaped skull. The blue eyes blinked up at him sleepily. + +“Yes,” said Isabel, “this is what we have been rowing about.” She +turned to the baby. “This man thinks I ought to take care of you,” +she said. “But you know better, don’t you? I’m a very poor mother, I +haven’t even enough milk for you, and the little I have is not up to +standard. You won’t be sorry to see the last of me.” She smiled at +Norman. “Well,” she said, “he’s a healthy little bastard, isn’t he?” + +Norman flinched at the word. + +“Well, he is, you know,” said Isabel. “And he’s too young to have his +feelings hurt by mentioning it. You and I ought to be able to face the +fact. After all, Norman, it’s the sort of thing that happens quite +regularly and inevitably in every civilized country on the globe. Do +you happen to know the statistics for illegitimacy? I made Dr. Zerneke +give me something to read about it. It’s very interesting. It seems +that in the United States about one in every forty-two births is +illegitimate. I’ve been figuring it out. Sixty thousand illegitimate +births a year comes to about a hundred and sixty-four a day, or seven +an hour, or one every eight minutes and twenty seconds. Statistics are +very consoling. They take away the uniqueness of one’s discomforts.” + +He was looking at the baby. Gradually it had become thoroughly awake. +It stretched its arms, and yawned magnificently. Its lips began to make +sucking movements. Its face grew red, and broke into a wrinkled grimace +of anger. + +Isabel went on talking. “Every year--you see, I’ve had nothing to +do for days except to study statistics--out of every hundred and +fifty-nine unmarried females of childbearing age, one gives birth to an +illegitimate child. This year it so happened that the lot fell to me.” + +A loud wail came from the little bundle. + +“I’ve nothing for you,” said Isabel. “You’ll have to wait for your +bottle.” + +“Why is his head such a queer shape?” asked Norman. + +“You ought to have seen it at first. It was pulled out of shape getting +into the world. It’s getting to look all right now.” + +The baby’s wails grew more insistent. + +“Just a minute, young man,” said Isabel. + +“Have you--named him?” asked Norman. + +“Well,” said Isabel, a little embarrassed, “it really makes no +difference--the people who are going to have him will never know, and +they’ll name him all over again. But when I first saw him, he did look +so much like you! Do you mind?” + +“You named him Norman?” + +“When the doctor was making out the birth certificate, she told me +I’d have to give him some sort of first name--the first one that came +into my head would do, she said. And that was the first one that came +into my head. I know I shouldn’t have done it. But it doesn’t really +implicate you, Norman.” + +“Why the devil,” asked Norman, “should you be so considerate of _me_?” + +“Because it wasn’t your fault, Norman. You didn’t know you were going +to be let in for anything like this. You’ve your own life to live. It +wouldn’t be fair.” + +“If--for any reason--” he said, “you had decided to keep the baby, what +would you have done then--about me?” + +“I’d never have told you anything about it at all. It would have been +my baby. I don’t see why you should be asked to support it, in any +case.” + +“But I think that’s silly,” said Norman. “Because I could support +it--and you couldn’t.” + +“Oh, yes, I could. Girls do, you know. And I’ll tell you this. I didn’t +intend to, but I will.... You see, when a girl is going to give up +her baby for adoption, she doesn’t nurse it at all, and never sees +it--except just once, before she signs the papers. They manage it that +way for fear of arousing the maternal instinct. Because usually, after +a girl has nursed a baby, she wants to keep it. But that seemed to me +a cowardly thing to do. I told Dr. Zerneke I’d nurse my baby, and take +my chances of my maternal instinct being aroused. I didn’t explain to +her, but I can tell _you_--it was a kind of test of myself: whether +I was destined to be a mother or a painter. I decided that if I felt +like keeping the baby, I would--I’d get a job of some kind and give +up my year in Paris and everything--stop painting, and be a regular +female.... Well, you see, my milk is drying up! And I don’t feel at all +like a mother--I still want to paint! So that’s why--” + +“I see,” said Norman. + +Yes, he thought bitterly, if she were a real mother, she’d be +interested in comforting that crying baby, instead of explaining her +psychology! + +The spinsterish-looking nurse came in efficiently with the bottle. + +“I think your visitor has been here long enough,” she said firmly. + +“I’m going,” said Norman. + +He gathered up his hat and stick. “I’ll see you again, if I may.” + +“Yes, do,” said Isabel. + +“Here, precious!” said the nurse, cooingly, “here’s your itsie +bottsie-wottsie.” + +Norman heard her crooning over his child as he went out the door. + + + + +Chapter X: Art Alone Endures + + +OUTSIDE of the hospital he hailed a taxi, and gave the name of his +hotel. + +Coming out of some reverie too deep to remember, he looked out of the +window and saw that he was on Michigan Boulevard, passing the Art +Institute. On an impulse, he stopped the taxi, and went in. + +He climbed the wide stair to the large room in which the treasures of +the place were on view--a miscellaneous lot of treasures: some of them, +like Bougereau’s bather, cheapened by time’s changes in the realm of +taste; none but the ignorant now stopped to admire the high lights on +those perfect and polished toe-nails. And poor Gilbert Stuart--what +an irony for a painter to be cherished because of the historical +importance of one of his subjects! But here was, at least, a Van Dyck. +Norman paused in front of it.... And from somewhere out of a memory +whose leisure hours for some years had been given to connoisseurship +in the art of painting, there leaped out the irrelevant fact that Van +Dyck had had an illegitimate child in the Netherlands; the mother being +unknown to history.... He passed on. + +He did not know what he was looking for.... Possibly for some proof +that art was as important as he had always taken for granted that +it was. These artists starved and painted, attained--if they were +lucky--the heights of fame, and left pictures that eventually found +their way to some American gallery. That seemed to be the final, ironic +goal of all their striving. It was, no doubt, very improbable that +this willful girl would ever achieve any sort of fame. But if she did, +beyond her wildest dreams--then, some day, a troubled young man would +stand in front of some picture of hers, and remember that she was said +to have had an illegitimate child in America. + +“The father,” he murmured half aloud, “being unknown to history.” + +Yes, times were changing. Women were taking the privileges of men. And +that careless masculine privilege of leaving behind an illegitimate +child or so in the course of one’s career--that, too. Van Dyck hadn’t +been stopped in his painter’s progress by a mere illegitimate child: +why should Isabel Drury be? + +Oh, no doubt there was something to be said for her attitude. And it +was important, doubtless, that she have her chance to paint a picture +that would be bought after her death for a fabulous sum by an American +millionaire. Just why it was important he could not at the moment +seem to be able to tell himself. But he had always known that it was +important.... + +A fragment of a poem of Gautier’s flickered into his mind. “_Tout +passe. La vers souveraine demeurent._” That had impressed him greatly +when he read it at college. All passes; sovereign verse--or, as in this +case, painting--lasts.... + +To be sure. Children grow up; become old; die. Paint on canvas stays +young. More or less. Less rather than more, to tell the truth. Paint +ages, too. The gloom into which Whistler’s paintings are already +fading.... An accident, perhaps. Isabel didn’t use that kind of a +palette. She was a post-Impressionist.... But styles decay, too. +_Pointillisme_--how quaint it looks already! Picasso--will he and all +his manners seem to another generation as futile as Meissonier?... This +whole age: was it perhaps afflicted, as some said, with a spiritual +sickness? Was it because of something morbid in his own mind that he +had ever been drawn to it?... A bourgeois thing to think! + +But then, he was a bourgeois: no doubt of that. What did he know about +art? He had enjoyed the belief that he knew a great deal. And that did +no harm--it would encourage him to buy some poor devil’s pictures; and +if he guessed right, he could present them to a museum. That was his +function--to buy pictures.... Some day he might have the privilege of +buying some of Isabel’s. + +When he was dead, his widow would call in an expert and ask, “Are these +worth anything?” If they weren’t, she would burn them up as trash--the +mere record of a girl’s vain dreams. If the expert said, “Oh, yes, +indeed, madam, those are very fine early Drurys!”--then they would +pass into the possession of some millionaire. They would fetch a good +price.... But the man who bought them wouldn’t know how cheap they were +at any price.... He would be getting, not just paint and canvas and a +name, but the milk that had dried up in Isabel’s breasts, the love that +she had kept from her baby, the hope that she had refused to squander +on a mere living child--all that she had saved up and put into her +masterpieces rather than waste in motherhood: that’s what he would be +getting for his money. And when after dinner he took his guests for a +stroll through his gallery, and-- But this was mere sentimentality.... + +Norman awoke from his reverie, in front of Millet’s picture of the +new-born calf being brought home by two peasants on a straw-covered +litter, the mother cow following along and licking her baby.... Silly +sentimentalists, cows. Didn’t they know their real business was to +produce cream for the tables of the bourgeoisie? And Millet--a damned +sentimentalist, himself. Any post-impressionist would say so.... + +Norman remembered suddenly his luncheon engagement with old Gilbert. +They were to meet at the hotel. + +He hurried out. + + + + +Chapter XI: Common Sense + + +“WELL,” said old Gilbert, at the table in the corner of the hotel +dining room, “how have _you_ been spending your morning?” + +“I went to see Dr. Zerneke,” said Norman. “I couldn’t wait.” + +Old Gilbert stopped wiping his mouth and threw his napkin violently on +the table. + +“I’ll be damned!” he said. “I suppose I ought to have known it.” + +“I couldn’t stay away,” said Norman. “I had to know.” + +“Well, and what did you find out?” + +“Your guess was true, of course. It’s Isabel Drury. She had her baby +eleven days ago.” + +“I’ve had time to find out that much myself,” said Gilbert. “I had some +one call up all the hospitals in town for me. What I want to know is +what kind of mess you’ve got yourself into.” + +“If I haven’t got myself into a mess,” said Norman, “it’s not my fault, +I’m afraid. I didn’t try to deny anything. But all that this doctor +wanted--” + +“Yes, what did she want?” + +“She wanted to find out whether the baby has a healthy father. The +people who are planning to adopt the child wished to be sure of that, +it seems.” + +“Yes--and what else?” + +“That appears to be all. She was at great pains to assure me that I had +no further responsibility in the matter. When I’ve furnished her with +some more medical data, I can dismiss the matter from my mind entirely, +I gather.” + +“The girl makes no claim on you?” + +“None at all.” + +Old Gilbert looked immensely relieved. + +“Tell me,” said Norman, “have you ever heard of the Thecla Child +Adoption Society?” + +“Yes,” said Gilbert. “I’ve looked that up too.” + +“Is it a reputable organization?” + +“Perfectly. And I had Dr. Zerneke looked up, too.” + +“You found her to be all right?” asked Norman. + +“Professional reputation unimpeachable, it seems. Why?” + +“Well--about the adoption matter.” + +“That’s all right. They’ll handle it in the right way. I found out +something about their work. And if you’ve been assured that your secret +will be kept, you’ve nothing to fear from them.” + +“I didn’t mean that, precisely.” + +“What, then?” + +“I was thinking--of the child.” + +“They know their business. The child will be put in good hands. You +needn’t worry about that.” + +Old Gilbert once more gave to his lunch the attention it deserved. “You +see,” he said comfortably between mouthfuls, “things have turned out +all right after all--just as I said they would. And now that you’ve had +your mind put at ease, I think you’d better go right home. There’s no +point in your hanging around Chicago.” + +“Why do you want me to go home?” asked Norman. + +“Because I think well enough is best left alone,” said Gilbert. +“Everything is all right now, and that’s a good way to leave it.” + +“You mean that you’re afraid I might go to see Isabel?” + +“You’re safer, I think, back in Vickley.” + +“Well--I might as well tell you that I saw her, too. And the baby.” + +“You _have_ taken this case into your own hands, with a vengeance,” +said old Gilbert in discouragement. “I was a damned fool ever to bring +you here. Well, tell me the worst at once. Did you offer to marry her?” + +“I asked her to, and she refused.” + +“You asked her to!--and she refused? You certainly have fool’s luck. +But why did she refuse you?” + +“For the same reasons as before. It would interfere with her career.” + +“That’s beyond me. But I suppose she has her reasons. Lord, what a +tight squeak! You don’t know how lucky you are! But I suppose you +thought that was the noble thing to do--offer to marry her! You didn’t +happen to remember, I suppose, that you were engaged to another girl.” + +“It didn’t seem to make any difference.” + +“Boy, she might have taken you up. You were putting your head into the +lion’s mouth!” + +“Oh, I knew what I was doing. And it wasn’t just a noble gesture. I was +quite ready to let everything else go to hell.” + +“Good Lord, you’re as much infatuated with her as all that?” + +“No. I’m not even sure that I love her at all.” + +“Do you mean to say that you offered to marry her just to make an +honest woman of her?” + +Norman laughed. “Nothing like that.” + +“Then why in the name of God did you offer to marry her? Can you tell +me that?” + +“That seemed the simplest thing to do,” said Norman. + +“I think you’re a little mad,” said old Gilbert. + +“I don’t know,” said Norman. “I suppose it was foolish. Any way, she +wouldn’t.” + +“Fortunately,” said Gilbert, “she seems to be just as crazy as you are! +What would your father think of me if I took you here to Chicago and +let you get into a mess like that, right under my nose!” + +“Well, you needn’t worry about it,” said Norman. + +“I shan’t ask her again.” + +“I should hope not!” said old Gilbert. + +“I saw Springer this morning.” And then Norman was sorry he had +mentioned it. Gilbert would commence again on his suspicions. + +“What is _he_ doing here?” asked Gilbert. + +“Getting ready for his exhibit.” + +“Oh, you went to see him?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, what did _he_ say?” + +“He didn’t know me. He said Isabel had appendicitis. His wife has found +her a rich patron, and she’s going to Paris to study.” + +“I’ve been wondering who was paying her expenses,” said Gilbert. + +“I suppose you still wish to think that Springer is mixed up in this +affair,” said Norman, “and that something is being put over on me. But +I am convinced that you are wrong. And I have acknowledged the child as +my own.” + +“I’ve only been trying to act as your friend in this matter, Norman. Of +course, if you are convinced that the child is yours, there’s nothing +more to say on that score. The only question is, what do you propose +to do about it? Publish the fact from the housetops? I appreciate +your honorable scruples. They seem to me excessive, I must admit. But +you have acted upon them--you have offered to marry the girl; and she +has declined your offer. The question of money does not seem to be +involved. If it were a matter of paying the girl’s expenses--or if +she wanted to keep the child herself--I’m sure you would wish to be +generous. As it is, there seems to be nothing more that you can do. Dr. +Zerneke will find a good home for the child. The girl will go ahead and +paint pictures. And you will go back to Vickley and resume the practice +of law. That is the situation as I see it. The matter is closed. It has +been very exciting, and no doubt instructive. But it’s all over.” + +“Yes,” said Norman, and sighed. “I suppose it is all over.” All except +remembering, and thinking, and wondering--and he’d have the rest of his +life for that. + +A picture flashed into his mind. An absurd picture--a melodramatic +picture. He was older, and driving a car slowly through a Chicago +street at night. A young man, with a revolver in his hand, stepped in +front of the car and called, “Stop!” But he bent his head and stepped +hard on the gas. A bullet grazed his cheek like a knife, and then +he became aware that the car was dragging a dead, mangled body. And +somehow he knew that it was his son’s.... + +He pulled himself back to reality, and smiled wanly at the absurdity of +his fancies. + +“Well,” old Gilbert was saying, “this business has turned out +remarkably well, considering everything. We can go back to the status +quo ante without a qualm. We take the eleven o’clock train to-night. +You’ll be here at ten ready to go?” + +“Yes,” said Norman, “I’ll be ready.” + + + + +Chapter XII: Bad Dreams + + +BUT what could he do that afternoon?... + +Two o’clock found him back in Dr. Zerneke’s waiting room. + +“Have you looked us up?” asked Dr. Zerneke cheerfully, when he was +admitted to her office. + +“If I were a poor devil of a soda-fountain clerk,” said Norman, “and +Isabel a stenographer I had got into trouble--what would you do?” + +“Just what I have done in this case,” said Dr. Zerneke. “The rest, so +far as I am concerned, would be up to you and her. Did you ask her to +marry you?” + +“Yes,” said Norman. “And she refused.” + +“I thought that was what would happen,” said the doctor. “She’s a very +determined young woman. And all women are not to be forced into a +single mold. She wants her career. So we must find the child a proper +home.” + +“Yes, I understand that,” said Norman. “But what I object to is this +business of turning the baby over to strangers!” + +“They are not strangers to the Society,” said Dr. Zerneke. “We have +more applicants than we have babies, and as I told you, they are very +thoroughly investigated. We know all about them.” + +“But I don’t,” said Norman stubbornly. + +“I’m afraid that can’t be helped,” said Dr. Zerneke. And then she +repeated her question: “Have you made inquiries about the work of our +Society?” + +“Oh,” said Norman, “I’ve no doubt your Society is all right. But--” He +paused helplessly. + +“I was sure you would come to that conclusion,” said Dr. Zerneke. And +then, as he sat there, silent and troubled, she added: “I don’t wish to +take advantage of your situation, Mr. Overbeck, but if it would help to +ease your feelings the Society would be glad to accept a check to help +carry on its work.” + +“Yes,” he said, “I’ll be glad to do that.” + +He took out his check-book and his fountain-pen, and started to write. +But suddenly he laid down his pen. + +“No,” he said, “I can’t buy them off that way.” + +He spoke softly, as if to himself, but Dr. Zerneke asked sharply: + +“Buy who off?” + +“The bad dreams--the pictures,” he said. “The things that come into my +mind.”... A frightful vision had visited him as he held the pen poised +over the check. It was like the one that had come to him at lunch, with +Gilbert--only worse, this time. Its misty fringes still clung to his +mind and afflicted him with horror. + +The doctor seemed to understand. She reached out and put her hand for +a moment on one of his stooped, miserable shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she +said. “What do you want to do?” + +“I--I don’t know,” he said. + +That vision-- No, of course nothing like that would ever really happen. +But was he to be tormented with such pictures all his life? In every +handcuffed youth being taken to prison--in every poster offering a +reward for a young murderer--was he to seek for the features of his +unknown son? + +“If you have any practical alternative to offer--” the doctor was +saying. + +His mind was still grappling with the thought of a life haunted by such +visions.... His wife would say, “Dearest, you’re positively morbid +about crime-news!” He would have legitimate sons. “Dad, don’t you think +I’m old enough to have a car of my own?” And then he would have to +think about his other son, the one nobody knew about--a tramp, perhaps, +freezing on the rods of a freight-train. He would be like a man haunted. + +“Do you think your own family would care to adopt the child?” Dr. +Zerneke asked. “Is that what you would like to do?” + +“I hadn’t thought of that!” he said. “Of course--that’s what I’ll do!” + +“Well,” said the doctor thoughtfully, “you can consult them about it, +and let me know.” + +Some dim apprehension of the actualities of that proposal came to +him, clouding his relief. “Yes,” he said, “I’ll have to put it up to +them....” + +“Of course,” said the doctor, “they may not take kindly to the idea.” + +“They’ll--_have_ to do it!” said Norman. + +“We’ll see,” said the doctor. “But I hope there will not be too much +delay in settling the matter, one way or another.” + +“I’ll go back home to-night,” said Norman. + +“And do you think you’ll be able to give me the decision within, say, +two weeks?” + +“Oh, yes,” he said. + +She rose. “I’ll expect to see or hear from you in a fortnight, then.” + +“In two weeks from to-day,” he said, “I shall come here to get my son,” +and he walked out like some one in a dream. + + + + +Chapter XIII: En Route + + +THERE was no use in waiting for old Gilbert. He would take the next +train to Vickley. + +He packed, and left a message, and caught a train which would get him +home at midnight. + +The train had barely left the environs of Chicago when he realized +abruptly the folly of his errand. What! Propose to his father and +mother that they should adopt and bring up his illegitimate child! It +was too preposterous. + +He felt an impulse to get up and jump from the slowly moving train. He +would go to Dr. Zerneke and ... And what? Give her a check? + +He sank back in his chair. The train slid more swiftly out past the +little towns, gathered momentum, hurled itself on toward Vickley. The +song of the wheels on the rails was a mocking one. It seemed to say, +over and over, “You’re in for it now! You’re in for it now!” + +He could get off at Aurora, of course. + +No, he’d have to see it through, somehow. + +Was it so preposterous? He wished he had asked Dr. Zerneke for some +statistics about this situation! Was it often done? He smiled, after a +fashion, at the thought of saying to his father: “Every year, in the +United States, six hundred respectable families (or sixty, or whatever +it might be) take a son’s illegitimate child to raise. You see, this +has plenty of precedent.” Yes, doubtless it did sometimes happen in the +United States: but not in Vickley. Not with people like the Overbecks. + +He simply couldn’t involve his family in a thing like that. + +(Well, nobody asked him to! Why didn’t he get off at Aurora--go back +and sign the check which let him off scot-free?) + +The train stopped presently at Aurora. Here was his chance. He’d better +take it. + +But he was still in his chair when the train pulled out of Aurora. + +He simply couldn’t decide this thing by himself. It was too +overwhelming--too full of lifelong consequences. It needed a wiser head +than his own. And his father was the wisest man he knew. + +He would tell his father. His father might know what to do. + +He envisaged in imagination that interview with his father. + +“Did you seduce this girl under promise of marriage?” + +And “Was she a virgin?” Yes, that would be terribly important to his +father. If she had been a virgin, if he had seduced her, if he had +promised marriage, his father’s stern sense of justice might prevail +though the heavens fell.... But it wasn’t a question of marrying +Isabel. It was a question of what should become of her child. + +There had been a time, many years ago, when Norman not merely admired +and feared his father, but loved and trusted him. When he was in +trouble he could come to his father, though in fear and trembling, and +tell the truth. He wished he could be that little boy again. + +“What is it, Son? Tell your father.” + +“I--I had a sweetheart at college, Father, and now she has a baby, and +doesn’t want to keep it, and I don’t want it given away to strangers, +and I don’t know what to do!” + +“Was she a good girl?” + +“Yes, Father.” + +“Then you’d better marry her, Son. It will hurt us all, but you must do +what is right.” + +“But she won’t marry me, Father.” + +“Send her to me. I’ll talk with her about it. She’ll _have_ to marry +you, Son.” + +Norman smiled. It would be wonderful to believe again in his father’s +omnipotence. + +Well, what would his father say to Isabel? He imagined that, in the +same boyish mood. + +“How old are you, Isabel?” + +“Twenty-six, sir.” + +“You were a year older than Norman when this happened. You can have no +cause for resentment against him such as would justify you in refusing +to marry him.” + +“But I want to be a painter!” + +“We cannot always have what we want. My son wanted to be a lawyer. Now +he can’t be--and you must take your punishment along with him. I will +buy a pants-pressing establishment for the two of you, down on Commerce +Street. By faithfully pressing creases in the trousers of our best +citizens for the rest of your life, you will expiate your sin. And now +off to the preacher with you!” + +“Yes, sir!” (Exit Isabel, crying.) + +He frowned, and imagined it again, in a slightly more realistic vein. + +“You seem to be a well-brought-up young woman. I really can’t +understand this at all.” + +“I’m afraid nothing I could say would make it any clearer to you, Mr. +Overbeck.” + +“Well, we won’t go into that. The fact is that you and Norman have +brought a child into the world. I have told him that he must marry you.” + +“And I have told him that I won’t marry him.” + +“Nonsense! Why not?” + +“Because I am going to Paris to paint.” + +“You can paint just as well in Vickley. The landscapes here along the +Mississippi are as beautiful as any in the world. I have traveled, +and I know. I’m sure Norman would have no objection to your doing +water-color sketches in your spare time.” + +“I’m afraid that wouldn’t do, Mr. Overbeck. I’ve already explained to +your son how I feel about it. It’s very good of you to trouble yourself +in the matter, but quite unnecessary. My mind is fully made up.” Very +cool Isabel was, in this interview. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I +have another engagement.” + +No, it wouldn’t be like that _at all_. His father had emotions--and +so had Isabel. There would be a battle. He would almost crush, almost +overwhelm her--but not quite. She would be defiant, stubborn to the +last. It would be rather a magnificent spectacle, that struggle between +them--between the world as it always had been and the world as it was +perhaps coming to be--between the old dispensation and the new. + +(Why was he so sure his father would want them to marry? He might take +old Gilbert’s practical and cynical view of the situation.... No, he +wouldn’t do that. He was a good man, in his stern way. And in that +thought there was some obscure comfort for Norman.) + +He rose restlessly and went into the smoking compartment. + +In all his experience of smoking cars and smoking compartments, he had +never heard there what was known as a “typical smoking-car story.” But +this time, as it chanced, one was being told. It was just finished as +he entered, and there was a burst of laughter. He recognized the story +from the final lines. It was the one about the young couple who had +been caught in the storm while driving in the country, and had stayed +overnight at a farmhouse. His entrance put a damper on the others, and +they shifted self-consciously to the subject of automobiles. Norman +sat down in a corner, lighted a cigarette, and picked up a discarded +magazine that lay on the leather seat beside him. It was an obscure +magazine devoted to the more humorous aspects of sex. Norman reflected +that the aspects of sex with which he was now becoming personally +acquainted rather took the humor out of stories about casual sexual +encounters. He had once thought they were funny, too; but just now it +seemed to him that these things were too serious to laugh about. Some +time he might recover his sense of sexual humor, but just now it was at +a low ebb. + +The world, however, had not changed because of an incident in the life +of Norman Overbeck. Sex continued to seem funny to other people. The +three other men in the smoking-compartment, encouraged by his apparent +absorption in his reading, verged closer to that delectable topic, and +presently one of them began to tell another story. “If I had secretly +committed a murder,” thought Norman, “I suppose I would find them +talking about murders!” For by a painful coincidence this story was the +one about the eight girls in Scotland who had illegitimate children +and all named the same boy as the father. The doctor’s curiosity was +aroused, and he went to see the boy to find out how it could happen.... + +Norman, feeling a little sick, threw down his cigarette, dropped his +magazine and went out. As he went, he heard, in bad Scotch dialect, +the tag line, “Wull, ye see, doctor, Oi’ve a bicycle!” And the robust +laughter of the three followed him into the corridor.... Was he never +going to be able to listen to a dirty story again with normal masculine +gusto? + +The porter came through the car. “First call for dinner!” + +The man sitting across from him at the little table in the dining-car +was a salesman. Norman roused himself and they talked about +automobiles. If it had been anything else, he might have lost himself +in the conversation for a few minutes at least. But one can talk about +automobiles without having to think of what one is saying.... + +He stopped in the smoking-compartment for a cigarette. The magazine +devoted to funny stories about sex was gone. In its place was a copy +of the New Republic. He turned the pages. At another time he would not +have noticed it, but there staring him in the face was an article on +“Unmarried Mothers.” The illegitimacy rate for Scotland, he noted, was +66 per thousand births, for England and Wales 42, for France (before +the war) 88, the United States 23.8.... He studied the tables guiltily. +Isabel had found these statistics comforting, so she said. He did not +find them so. “A considerable proportion of the mothers are girls +in their teens, while what data is available indicates that a large +majority of them are working in unskilled or semi-skilled occupations, +with an undue proportion in factory work and domestic service.” + +But there wasn’t anything about girls who wanted to go to Paris and +paint, and wouldn’t marry the fathers of their children.... + +“Contrary, however, to prevalent ideas on the subject, European +statistics show that illegitimacy rates tend to increase rather than +decrease with the spread of education; they are lower in cities than +in rural districts; and comparisons of the poorest parts of London +with certain well-to-do parts show the richer districts as having an +illegitimacy rate of nearly six times the poorest districts.” + +Well, there was a grain of comfort in that.... + +But why must he, now, find the subject of illegitimacy everywhere he +turned? + +Damn these coincidences! + +He took one more glance at the article, and read: “In Austria, about a +quarter of all births are illegitimate; in some rural districts nearly +a half.” + +Yes--but why had _Isabel_ had a baby? Perhaps simply because, after +all, she was a girl. It seemed to be the sort of thing that quite +generally happened to girls, in or out of marriage. Mere ignorance +couldn’t account for all those illegitimate babies! Girls must _want_ +to have babies, in spite of the frightful penalties that are attached +to having them except in accordance with the rules. Nature laughs at +the solemn rules of marriage, and the babies come at her bidding. Not +accident, not carelessness, but some profound wish, deeper than their +conscious fears, for this fulfillment of their natural destiny! In +Isabel, too? He had to believe that. The woman in her had wanted--not +merely that hour of delirium in the woods--but motherhood. Yet her +nature was divided against itself. Something else in her was in revolt +against being a woman. She was running away from her fate. That was the +truth.... And he, in this internal battle between woman and artist, +was the victim, along with her child. The woman that was in Isabel had +chosen him to be her child’s father. The artist that was in Isabel +was deserting them both with a brutal indifference. But here they +were, father and child, made so at her deep wish, the wish she now +repudiated. Nothing she might do could destroy the bond she had created +between him and her child. She had given him a son. Let her run away +to Paris, and forget. He couldn’t forget. He was caught in a trap of +Nature’s. It was real. It was damnable. But it was true. He had a son. +And what was he going to do about it? + +He looked at his watch. Still an hour and a half from Vickley. + +Would his father understand? + + + + +Chapter XIV: Homecoming + + +HE decided to walk home from the station. A soft breeze tossed him its +faint, acrid, earthy scents. The stars were hidden and revealed by +the fleecy scud of clouds. The moon, dwindling to its last quarter, +had just lifted itself above the hills. Back in those hills, among +the trees, was his home. All was peaceful there. They didn’t know the +trouble he was bringing them.... + +The moon had been large and low when he and Isabel had gone together +into the wood, last year. What was there about the moon that made +people think they had to make love? And afterward the moon sailed +on serenely, not giving a damn, leaving them to worry about the +consequences. Usually, though, it was the girl who did the worrying.... + +If he were a girl--would his folks understand? Better, perhaps, than as +it was now. They’d have to take the baby.... + +He had passed the old brick building where he used to go to school as +a boy. And here was the house where the Snyders had lived. He had not +noticed the house for years. He had forgotten the mystery that it once +contained for him. But now he remembered. The little boy playing about +the Snyder yard was really (it was whispered on the way home from +school) not Sally Snyder’s little brother but her own bastard child. +Norman had occasionally caught a glimpse of Sally Snyder--a tall, pale, +quiet girl. She never went anywhere, it was said.... + +That secret hadn’t been very well kept. And now Norman wondered how the +little Snyder boy had got along in school. He himself had gone on to +high school, ceasing to pass the house, and had forgotten the story. +But had the other boys referred to Sally’s son, behind his back, as +a bastard? (Or to his face?...) Norman counted up the years. Sally’s +boy would be about eighteen now. Did he still live here? Did this dark +house still shelter him and his tall, pale, silent sister-mother? Or +had the family moved to some other town, where the story wasn’t known? + +That was one good thing about being poor. Poverty gave you, in a +new town, a kindly obscurity.... But it wouldn’t be any use for the +Overbecks to move away. (Or so it seemed to Norman, accustomed as he +was to being a member of one of the chief families of Vickley.) They +would have to stay and face what they would call their shame.... + +He turned the corner. There was a light in his father’s study. Was his +father waiting up for him? That would not be unlikely, if his father +had known he was coming to-night. Anyway, it would be a good chance to +tell his father everything. The sooner the better. + +He ran up the steps and went in. His father’s voice from the study +asked in surprise and disapproval: “Who’s that?” + +So he wasn’t expected. But who of the family could be out at this +hour? “Early to bed” was a rule strictly enforced in the Overbeck +household. “It’s me,” he answered, and went into the study, where his +father was sitting at a table, somewhat ostentatiously waiting. He sat +stiffly in his chair, with an upright, severe bearing. People spoke +with admiration of the old man’s soldierly carriage. Well, he had been +a soldier, back in the years before Norman was born, in the Spanish +war. But anybody else would have forgotten that. Not that that had +anything to do with it. He must always have been a martinet--born with +discipline in his blood. Here he was, the General, seeing that the +little Overbeck army got safely to bed. + +“Oh,” said his father, “it’s you. I am waiting up for Doris.” + +Doris? Oh, yes, of course. This was the night of the spring “hop” of +her high-school sorority. She had a new frock for the occasion. She had +brought it in to show him the other day while he was packing to go to +Chicago.... + +“There she is now,” said his father, as a car stopped noisily at the +curb. + +Doris! He hadn’t taken her into his calculations at all.... No, he had +simply not thought of her--and his baby here in the house. Would they +talk at school about her being the aunt of a ----? Or (Good God!) +would they think it was really _hers_? His fists clenched, and his +forehead was suddenly wet with perspiration.... + +Out on the porch Doris and her boy friend were giggling.... + +No--that was absurd. But just the same she would be involved in the +scandal. It would poison her friendships, humiliate and hurt her. It +might spoil her whole life. Oh, it was altogether out of the question. +He couldn’t inflict that on her.... + +“Good night, Peter!” + +“Good night, Doris!” + +Young voices.... + +The front door opened and shut, and Doris came straight to the lighted +room, saying in exasperated protest: “I _do_ wish, Father, you wouldn’t +wait up for me! I can--” + +She paused in the doorway, seeing her brother. “Oh, _you’re_ home!” she +cried. Then she walked in, with a little self-conscious swagger. She +was showing herself off in her new frock to her big brother. + +“You look,” he said, “like a million dollars! How was the dance?” + +“I had a swell time,” she answered. + +There was a time when Mr. Overbeck would have reproved any child of his +for using such vulgar expressions. But not even J. J. Overbeck could +sweep back the rising tide. All he said was: “Doris, go up to bed. It’s +nearly one o’clock.” + +“Oh, all rightie!” she replied, and swaggered out. + +“How did you come out with the supreme court?” asked Norman. + +“I think my arguments may have impressed them,” his father admitted. +And then he asked: “How did you come to go to Chicago so suddenly?” + +Now, if ever, was the time to confess. But what was the use? + +And so Norman repeated what he had already told Medway to tell his +father: “Old Gilbert got it into his head that I could help him--seeing +some people in a will case. I didn’t think I’d really be of much use, +but he insisted on my going along.” + +His father nodded. “That’s all right,” he said. “It won’t do you any +harm to work with Gilbert Rand. There’s a good deal you can learn from +him.” + +Norman’s chance had passed.... + +“I’ll lock up,” said his father. + +“Good night,” said Norman. + +“Good night.” + +Upstairs, a door opened as he passed, and a whisper called him. +“Norman!” + +It was his sister Lucinda, in wrapper and archaic curl-papers. He +paused. + +“I just wanted to ask you--did you look at my puppy for me?” + +“Your puppy?” said Norman, wrenching his mind loose from his own +thoughts. + +“Yes--you know you promised to go and look at him yesterday--the one +with the black spot over his left eye. And I wasn’t here when you came +home to pack, so I didn’t know whether you had or not.” + +“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was so rushed I couldn’t get around to +Schwartz’s. I’ll go to-morrow if you want me to.” + +“Oh, I wish you would, Norman! I just can’t decide by myself!” + +How, he asked himself, as he went into his room, could he bring the +truth into such a world as this? It couldn’t be done! + +But what was he going to do? + +He felt suddenly very tired--too tired to think.... He would decide +to-morrow. + + + + +Chapter XV: Family Breakfast + + +AT eight o’clock a bell sounded through the Overbeck house, to tell +everybody to get up. At eight-thirty it would sound again, telling them +to come to breakfast. + +It had been so as long as Norman could remember--except that on +week-days the bell sounded an hour earlier. And that bell, like the +voice of J. J. Overbeck himself, had always been obeyed. But this +morning, though the bell struck into his sleeping consciousness, he +did not want to wake up. He wanted to hold fast to the dream he was +dreaming.... Something about being off on a ship, alone.... + +Ten minutes later his mother shook him gently by the shoulder, saying: +“Norman, you’d better get up. It’s eight-forty. And you know how Father +feels about having us all at the breakfast table.” + +“All--right!” he said reluctantly, opening his eyes. + +He watched her go out of the room--the little, sensible, practical wife +of the great J. J. Overbeck.... + +What was that dream? It had vanished completely. + +He sprang out of bed. And then he remembered yesterday--Isabel--the +baby--Dr. Zerneke--his errand here. It seemed unreal. + +He shaved hurriedly, so as not to be late to breakfast. + +Doris came down a little late, sleepy and petulant. “I don’t see why +I can’t be allowed to have my sleep out when I’m at a party the night +before,” she said, as she dug her spoon into her grapefruit. “Everybody +else sleeps on Sunday morning!” + +“You should have thought of that last night,” said Lucinda vindictively. + +“You know,” said her mother placatingly, “that Father likes us all to +be at the breakfast table with him.” + +“Yes, I know,” said Doris, “but I don’t see the sense of it. It’s a +darn silly rule, if you ask me.” + +They all waited for J. J. Overbeck’s quiet thunders and lightnings to +descend upon the rebel. + +“If that’s the effect that late hours have on your temper,” said her +father gravely, “I think perhaps this had better be the last of them, +until you are old enough to have learned some self-control.” + +Doris struggled with her tears for a moment, and then jumped up and ran +crying from the room. + +Norman looked down at his plate, ashamed. What a home!... + +It was always like this--meaningless tyrannies, with which they all +made such terms as they could. Their mother didn’t seem to notice it. +Lucinda had been crushed by it into what she was. He himself had +learned how to get along with his father. Doris was stubborn, but she +would have to learn.... And he had taken it all for granted. + +He had known that other homes were not like this. But as a boy he +had accepted it as one accepts the climate. Away at college, he had +preferred to forget it. But coming back to Vickley again, he had begun +to take it for granted once more. + +His way of getting along with his father was to acquiesce publicly +in his authority, but to retain a secret independence of opinion. +It occurred to him now that this was rather cowardly. Even Doris’s +undignified outbreaks were more honest. He had always sympathized with +her in silence. Now he wanted to break that pattern and speak up in +her defense. And so he said abruptly in the silence that followed his +sister’s departure from the room: + +“I think Isabel is quite right.” + +He realized the slip of his tongue as they stared at him. + +“Who’s Isabel?” asked Lucinda. + +He flushed. “I meant Doris. She should be allowed to sleep after a late +party. Especially on Sunday.” + +“Who is Isabel?” Lucinda repeated. + +His defiance, such as it was, had been completely spoiled by that silly +slip of the tongue. They would all be wondering who Isabel was.... + +He ignored Lucinda’s question and spoke sharply, forgetting his +accustomed dignity: + +“Father has no right to punish her that way--for a mere trifle!” + +His father was surprised, and for a moment or two said nothing at all. +At last he remarked quietly: + +“Late hours don’t seem to agree with you, either, Norman.” + +Lucinda’s lips were framing the question: “Who--?” + +“Well,” Norman demanded of his father belligerently, “are you going to +send _me_ to bed at ten o’clock?” + +“Norman!” said his mother in sensible, practical disapproval of such +nonsense. + +“If you are going to behave like a child,” said his father, “I ought to +send you from the table like one.” + +“I’d prefer to go,” said Norman. He rose and marched out of the +room--feeling as though he were ten years old. + +In the hall he saw Doris coming downstairs. He waited for her. + +“What are you going to do?” he asked. + +“Oh, I’m going back and apologize,” she said lightly. “It’s the only +thing to do.” + +Their mother’s practical voice floated out from the breakfast room. + +“Norman, if you’re going out, take your overcoat.” + +“Where are you running off to?” asked Doris. + +She was helping him on with his overcoat. “To see Madge, I suppose!” + +“Madge? Oh--why--yes.” + +He had managed to forget Madge.... + +“Wait a moment,” said Doris. “I’ll bring you a fresh handkerchief.” She +snatched the old one out of his breast pocket, ran up the stairs, came +back and tucked the clean one in. “There!” she said. + +Outside, he glanced over next door at the new frame building--the home +his father was building for him and Madge--almost finished.... That was +just like his father--to put them next door, where he could run their +affairs for them, as if they were children. + + + + +Chapter XVI: Aubade + + +MADGE! Yes, he had to go to see her. But--could he tell her? What was +the use! He couldn’t bring his son to Vickley. He realized that now.... +Perhaps he ought to be sensible about the thing. + +He wished Hal were here. Hal, at Cambridge, was the first real friend +he had ever had since childhood. Hal wouldn’t argue with him, wouldn’t +tell him what he ought to do. Hal would listen to him. That was what +he needed. Maybe if he could talk to somebody--somebody who didn’t +represent Vickley--he would feel better. + +At any rate, there was no sense in telling Madge. Old Gilbert had been +quite right about that.... He would have to act a part. + +He would just behave as if nothing had happened. + +As Gilbert had said, she would be thinking about other things.... She +would never need to know.... + +His life stretched out in front of him--a long vista of bridge-parties, +as it seemed at this moment, with Madge as a handsome young matron +presiding over them. He would live all his life with that pretty +stranger--for so now she seemed. She would be called his wife. Perhaps +people would speak approvingly of their happy marriage.... + +Here he was, already, at the Ferris house. + +He hadn’t thought what he was going to say. + +Just behave naturally--that was it. + +He gave the bell his customary long ring followed abruptly by two short +ones--the signal that Madge said sounded like “_O_-ver-beck!” + +No one came immediately, and he had to fight an impulse to go away. He +rang again, and waited. + +A sound of feet running down the stairs quickly. Madge! He felt a +sick qualm in his stomach. Madge calling to the maid who came tardily +hurrying from the back: “I’ll answer the bell, Katie!” + +She opened the door. “Hello, Toodles!” she said. In the hall she flung +herself into his arms.... It seemed queer to be so passionately kissing +a stranger.... + +“Let little me help him off with his overcoat,” she said. + +She led him into the “den” off the hall. It was a place of memories of +their courtship. But these memories seemed curiously alien to him now. +Was it he that had read poetry to her, sitting on that sofa? Was it he +who had asked her, one winter night, to be his wife? + +“She’s not dressed,” she said, drawing her flowery negligée about her, +and bending her bobbed golden head toward him. “Her hair’s not dry! +When your imperious ring came, she was just finishing her bath!” + +These childish mannerisms of speech had once enchanted him. + +“When did the old bum get home?” she demanded, drawing him down on the +couch beside her. + +“Last night--late,” he said. + +“How late?” + +“My train got in at midnight.” + +“That’s not late. She was waiting for you--hoping you’d be back. She +couldn’t get to sleep, thinking of you. And she had a queer dream....” + +He asked, with a pang of superstitious dread: “A dream--about me?” + +“Never mind,” she said. “She never tells her dreams before breakfast.” +And then: “Why doesn’t he act as if he were glad to see me?” + +He kissed her again. + +“What’s the matter, Norman?” she asked abruptly, drawing away from him. +“Has anything happened?” + +“Yes,” he said. (Why did he say that?) + +“What is it, dear?” she asked anxiously. + +He must not tell her.... And he spoke at random, saying the first thing +that came into his mind--just to be saying something: “I looked at our +house....” + +“Yes, Norman?” + +“It’s much too close to my father’s....” + +“I’ve known that all along,” she said quietly. + +“Did you?” That little remark of hers astonished him infinitely. He +realized that he had never known this girl at all. “I didn’t,” he said, +“until this morning.” + +“What happened this morning? Have you been quarreling with your family?” + +“Yes,” he said. “How did you know?” + +“What were you quarreling about?” she asked. + +“Why--nothing, really. About getting up on Sunday.” He laughed +nervously. “You’d have to get up at eight on Sunday--if you lived +there!” + +“You think I’d let your family run _me_?” + +“I don’t know how you’d help yourself.” (But why were they talking +about that house?) + +“Trust me!” she answered. “Norman--we haven’t talked about it: but you +and I are going to live our own lives, when we are married. We can live +anywhere we like.” + +He didn’t say anything. + +“Have they been criticizing me?” she demanded. + +“Who?” + +“Well--your sister Lucinda.” + +“Oh, no--of course not!” he said. But the stream of memory began to +flow back into its old channels. And he could remember that there had +been a time, months ago, when Lucinda had been spiteful about Madge. +She had called her “frivolous” and “giddy.” Nor, what was somewhat more +important, had Madge’s Aunt Julia approved at all of him. She had +thought of him, for some reason, as irresponsible. He and Madge had +enjoyed all the sensations of being misunderstood, of defying their +families, of being leagued together in love and faith against a hostile +world.... And then the criticisms had changed to blessings. Within a +few months, all their world was anxious to get them married and settled +down. But to Madge, it would seem, their romantic defiance of the world +was still real. That was the only thing she could imagine as shadowing +their happiness--the opinion of his family. + +“Then what’s the matter?” she was asking. + +He couldn’t bring realities into that doll-world of hers.... “Nothing,” +he answered--too evasively. + +“I know there is,” she insisted. + +It would be like hurting a child.... But he ought to give her some +warning.... + +“Madge,” he said, “I may have to give up my position in my father’s +office--and go away--” He stopped. He hadn’t intended to say that.... + +“Norman!” + +The trouble was that he kept forgetting his purpose. A purpose implies +a conviction, and a stable sense of realities. His world fluctuated and +changed about him from moment to moment.... + +This puzzled, incredulous girl at his side--she wasn’t a child, but a +woman. It was he who felt like a child. + +“I’m in trouble, Madge,” he said. + +Her arms were around him. “What is it, Norman?” she asked quietly. + +He wanted terribly to tell her. There was some reason why he +shouldn’t--but he couldn’t remember exactly what it was. + +“I never told you,” he said, “about a girl I knew at Cambridge. We +were--sweethearts. And--I didn’t know until the other day--when she +sent for me--in Chicago--there’s a baby.” + +“You mean--yours?” Her voice was very cool, remote, far away. He didn’t +look at her. But he was aware that her arms had slipped away from him, +that her body no longer touched his. + +“Yes, mine,” he said. + +She rose, slowly. “I’m glad you told me,” she said. + +He didn’t look at her face, but he saw her body convulsed by a shiver, +and her hands were fumbling together. Then a ring dropped to the floor. + +He stooped to pick it up, and rose. Now he remembered the reason why he +must not tell her. She wouldn’t want to marry him--of course. + +“You’re free now,” she said, “to go to her.” + +They were struck silent in their tableau by a sense of people coming. +The maid. And footsteps descending the stair. That would be Aunt Julia. + +But the maid came first. + +“Mr. Overbeck is wanted on the telephone.” + +“Me?” + +“It’s your sister, Miss Lucinda, Mr. Overbeck. It’s something about a +dog.” + +It was too absurd.... “Yes--please ask her to wait one moment.” He +would have to greet Madge’s aunt. + +The maid went away.... + +Then Aunt Julia. + +“Good morning, Norman.” She offered her cheek to be kissed. “You’d +better go and put some clothes on, Madge. I’ll entertain Norman while +you dress. You’ll stay to breakfast, Norman.” + +Madge went out, and slowly up the stairs.... He hadn’t had a chance to +explain anything to her. Why did Aunt Julia have to interrupt them just +now? He smouldered with helpless anger. + +“When did you get back from Chicago?” Aunt Julia asked affably, seating +herself on the sofa. + +“Last night.” Damn this silly woman! + +“Don’t walk up and down the room, Norman. Sit down. And tell me what’s +the matter.” + +Oh, he’d have to tell her something. + +“Madge,” he said, “has just broken our engagement.” And as he spoke he +seemed to realize for the first time what he had done. Of course she +wouldn’t marry him. He had smashed everything.... + +“What!” said Aunt Julia, in amused incredulity. “No, not really? You +mustn’t take these lovers’ quarrels too seriously, Norman.” + +“Lovers’ quarrels! I wish that were all!” he said bitterly. + +“Oh, is it so bad as all that, really?” + +“Yes, Mrs. Ferris.” + +Her face took on an expression of sympathy, and after a moment’s +thought she said reassuringly: + +“I know, Madge is a very high-spirited girl. But it’s a little late in +the day to change her mind. If you’ll only tell me what the trouble is, +I’ll be glad to talk with her. An older woman, you know, Norman, has a +more reasonable point of view. If it’s really so serious, it must be a +question of--well, another girl. Have you been philandering, Norman?” + +He saw what she was thinking, and reluctantly answered: + +“No--not exactly.” + +“Not exactly? But she thinks so! I see. Has it anything to do with your +Chicago trip?” + +“Yes--in a way,” he said evasively. + +“Don’t you want to tell me about it, Norman? I’m sure it’s nothing that +can’t be smoothed out. I know Madge will be reasonable when she’s had a +chance to think things over.” + +Norman felt a sudden unreasonable anger. She was so comfortable--so +sure that nothing could go seriously wrong in her little world. He +wanted to shatter that complacency of hers.... + +But it was not necessary for him to speak. At that moment they both +heard a sound of sobbing upstairs. It was like no woman’s crying that +he had ever heard. It had a strange note of animal pain in it.... Then +silence.... Norman felt himself transfixed by pity as by a spear thrust +through his body. He realized what he had done to Madge.... Aunt Julia +rose, startled. + +The maid returned to say: “Miss Lucinda is still on the wire, Mr. +Overbeck.” + +“Oh, yes. Excuse me.” What a nightmare! + +Lucinda’s voice. “Oh, Norman, Mr. Schwartz called up, and said that +somebody else wants to buy that puppy. He wants to know whether I want +it. Won’t you go and look at it right away, and tell me what you think? +It’s the one with the black spot over his left eye!” + +“All right. I’ll go.” + +When he came back, the room was empty. Aunt Julia had gone upstairs to +comfort Madge. He listened, and he heard the sound of voices.... + +_Why_ had he done it? But it was too late to ask that.... + +Anyway, he _had_ done it.... + +It was all over.... + +He stood there irresolutely for a moment, then took his things from the +hall, and went quietly out of the house. + +Madge had been a good sport about it. But it was a little too much like +committing murder. + +And _now_ to face the folks at home.... + + + + +Chapter XVII: Flight + + +BUT he did not go home. He walked down town. + +He had keys to the Overbeck building. He would go there and think. + +Why had he told Madge? There wasn’t any sense to it. Yes, why?... + +But that wasn’t the question, either. The question was what to do +now--now that he had told Madge.... + +He walked up and down in the outer office, trying to think. It was no +use. His mind wouldn’t work. + +He lay down on one of the leather-upholstered benches, exhausted, and +fell asleep. + +When he woke up it was dark. He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. Had +he slept all day? + +He had certainly made a frightful mess of things.... He reached for a +cigarette. + +When he had smoked all his cigarettes, he went out for more. He had not +been able to make any decisions at all. + +On an impulse, he stepped into the telephone booth at the cigar store, +and called up Madge’s house. He was going to ask how she was. But when +he heard her voice answering him, he lost his nerve. What could he say +to her? + +“Sorry,” he muttered, and hung up the receiver. + +After a moment’s thought, he reached for his pocketbook. It wasn’t +there, and he remembered that he had left it in the bureau in his room. + +He came out of the booth, and went up to the counter, taking out his +check-book. “Jack,” he said, “how’s your cash to-night? Can you let me +have twenty-five dollars?” + +“Fifty, if you like, Mr. Overbeck,” said Jack. + +“All right--I could use fifty. Or a hundred. Could you let me have a +hundred?” + +“I’ll see, Mr. Overbeck.” + +He looked in the cash-register, and took some bills from his pocket. +“I’m afraid I haven’t got a hundred here. I could let you have seventy. +Or, if you don’t mind taking some silver, I could give you--let’s +see--eighty. Eighty-five. Would that do?” + +“That will be fine.” + +Norman wrote out a check, pushed it across the counter, and stuffed the +money in his pocket. “Do you happen to know what time the St. Louis +train leaves?” + +Jack thought there was just about time to make it. + + + + + BOOK TWO + + In Exile + + + + +Chapter I: The Prodigal + + +ON a certain Saturday afternoon, Norman Overbeck called up Dr. +Zerneke’s office, asking if he might see her. The girl answered without +hesitation, “Come right over, please!” + +When he arrived, the girl gazed at him curiously. He looked quite the +same as she remembered him, with his little stick, his soft hat, his +light wavy hair, his polite manner--and his courteous voice, by now +familiar to her from hearing it daily over the telephone. It had been +her duty during the last two weeks to send a telegram to Gilbert Rand +in Vickley, saying, “Telephoned to-day as usual.” For this young man +had called up every day, refusing to give any name, and imperiously +demanding news of the health of Isabel Drury’s baby. At first she had +argued with him about it; but when she had referred the matter to Dr. +Zerneke, the doctor had smiled and said: “It’s all right. Tell him. He +happens to be the baby’s father.” This week he had shown some anxiety +when he heard that the baby had been sent to a “boarding home.” She had +assured him that there was nothing to worry about.... + +The waiting-room to-day was full of women patients, but Norman was +ushered immediately into the doctor’s office. + +Norman felt rather like a fool--and at the same time quite pleased +with himself. Dr. Zerneke, he felt, if anybody, would understand. At +any rate, he hoped she would!... + +“Well!” said Dr. Zerneke, shaking hands with him. “What have you been +doing, these last two weeks?” + +“I--why--I’ve been here in Chicago, as a matter of fact,” he said. “Has +anybody been looking for me?” + +“Everybody has been looking for you,” said Dr. Zerneke. “Your friend +Gilbert Rand is here in town looking for you right now. And I’ve been +bombarded with telegrams about you. The police would have been looking +for you, if you hadn’t turned up pretty quick. What do you mean by +disappearing from the world like that?” + +“I’m sorry,” said Norman. “Were my family worried?” + +“Of course they were worried. They didn’t know whether you were alive +or dead.” + +“But I sent a letter--” + +“So I heard. And it seems to have sounded to your family as if you were +intending to commit suicide.” + +“Good Lord!” He had left Vickley out of his calculations. In fact, he +had managed to keep from thinking very much of the folks at home during +these two weeks. It was just like them to act as though he were a +runaway child! Why couldn’t they let him alone for once? + +“But what have you been up to, all this time?” + +“Why, I’ve been getting a job.” He masked his secret pride with an air +of casualness. + +“A job here in Chicago?” + +“Yes.” + +“Really!” + +“Yes. In an advertising office. Wilkins and Freeman.” + +“So that’s what you’ve been doing!” She looked at him curiously. + +“Well--as a matter of fact that only took me a week. But I wanted to +see whether I could hold the job before I said anything to any one +about it. And you gave me two weeks, you know.” + +That was by way of reminding her of her promise. He had told her he +would be back in two weeks. He hadn’t known, then, what it would mean +to come back--over what débris of a wrecked career he would have to +clamber.... But here he was. + +“The two weeks are up to-day,” he added. + +Dr. Zerneke said reflectively: “As I remember, I gave you two weeks to +find out if your family would take the baby.” + +“Well, you see--I made rather a mess of that,” he confessed. + +“I was afraid you might find it difficult to persuade them.” + +“To tell you the truth, I didn’t really try. I saw it would be no use. +I decided that I’d have to take care of the baby myself.” + +“You?” + +“Certainly. That’s why I came here and got a job.” + +He took out a cigarette, tapped it, and put it back in the case.... + +“But you must realize,” said Dr. Zerneke, “that this is an entirely new +proposal. Last week, it was a question of having the child adopted by +a responsible family. Now you make it a question of turning the child +over to an irresponsible young man of very uncertain prospects.” + +“I don’t think my prospects are so bad, really, Dr. Zerneke,” he +protested. + +“Would you mind telling me--it’s a question you oblige me to ask--what +you are now making, Mr. Overbeck, at your new job?” + +“I’m starting in at thirty dollars a week. I know that’s not very much. +But it’s merely while I’m on trial. As soon as I show that I can do the +work, I’ll get a raise to fifty or sixty. And so on. If I’m any good at +all, I’ll be getting eighty-five or ninety in the course of the year. +And the rest is up to me.--I’m repeating what my boss told me when I +got the job. And, if you can take my word for it, I have some real +ability at this kind of work. I ought to be getting my raise within a +month or so.” + +“It’s not entirely a question of money,” said Dr. Zerneke. “It’s partly +a matter of character.” + +He hadn’t expected to have to argue about it like this. But he would +defend himself if he had to.... + +“Yes--I know you called me irresponsible. Because I changed my job, +I suppose. But you make it sound as if I were a drunkard or a thief. +Haven’t I a right to stop being a lawyer if I want to?” + +“Look at the thing impersonally for a moment, Mr. Overbeck. Do you +really think it is a recommendation of a young man’s character and +stability, that he disappears from home for two weeks, allows his +family to think him dead--” + +“But I didn’t know they were going to think any such idiotic thing.” + +“Well, why did you do it? That’s what I don’t understand.” + +“Because it was the only way I could be free to--to go ahead with this. +I _had_ to cut loose from my family.” + +“You wish to acknowledge the child as your son?” + +“I do, certainly.” + +“And make him your heir?” + +“Yes, of course.” + +“I should think you could do that without so much melodrama, Mr. +Overbeck. You do not need to have left home for that, surely. Your +family would have had to reconcile themselves to the fact. If they +refused to do so, that would be another matter.” + +“But--that isn’t all. I want to have my son with me.” + +“You are hardly in a position to take care of him, are you? You have +no home at present--I take it that on thirty dollars a week you are +living in a furnished room. And you have no one to look after the +baby--you’re not married,--and you can scarcely afford to set up an +establishment with a housekeeper and nurse. We don’t turn babies over +to bachelors, Mr. Overbeck.” + +“Is that a rule, Dr. Zerneke? Even when the bachelor happens to be the +baby’s father?” + +“I admit that precisely such a situation has never come up before in my +experience. But there’s another thing--it wouldn’t be fair to the child +to pitch him into the middle of a family row. A baby is a baby, Mr. +Overbeck. He needs regular meals and sleep, in an atmosphere of peace +and affection. He is getting that now. We’ve put him in a boarding +home, as it’s called--a private family.” + +“Yes, so I heard. What’s--become of Isabel?” + +“She has left town.” + +“Oh!” + +He wouldn’t let himself think about Isabel.... That was all over.... + +With an effort he put his attention on what Dr. Zerneke was saying: + +“If you want to act for the best interests of your child, Mr. Overbeck, +you will go back home and straighten things out with your family. And +then you will make a will acknowledging the child as your son and +naming him as your heir. There is no reason why he should not inherit +your share of your father’s estate some day. That is why I suggest +that you make up with your family--so that you, and consequently your +child, will not be disinherited. Now that you have a child, you must +think of such things, and behave sensibly. This is not a matter for +histrionics--defiance of your family, and all that.” She paused. + +“Yes, I can see your point of view,” said Norman doubtfully. + +“In the meantime--I assure you that the Society is glad enough to turn +over its financial responsibilities--you can pay for the child’s care. +You will be able to see him whenever you like. And later, when you +marry, your wife will be prepared to take the child into your home. I +believe that I have heard something about your being engaged?” + +“Yes, but that’s off. I told her about the baby, and she broke the +engagement.” + +“No doubt it would be a shock to a girl, coming without warning. Well, +if she won’t marry you, some other girl will. Then you can have your +child to bring up.” + +“Not until then?” + +“Certainly not now. What would you do with a four-weeks-old baby, Mr. +Overbeck?” + +Norman realized with a shock of surprise that the part of his mind +which had been taking some satisfaction in the thought of having a son +at his side, was picturing this son sometimes as a boy of eighteen +and sometimes as a boy of five. His fantasies had all concerned the +future, not the present.... + +“I--I hadn’t worked all that out,” he said. + +“I thought not. Tell me, Mr. Overbeck--if you saw a roomful of babies, +could you pick out your own child?” + +Norman reflected. “I think so,” he said. “He has light hair, like mine, +and a queer-shaped head.” + +Dr. Zerneke smiled. “Would you like to see him again?” + +“Yes. I would.” + +“If I can feel safe that you’re not going to do something idiotic, I’ll +let you see him.” + +“What do you mean, idiotic?” + +“Such as trying to kidnap him....” + +“Oh, but really--you don’t think I’m as crazy as all that!” + +“No, I don’t. That’s why I’m going to let you see him. And as soon as +the situation clears up satisfactorily, as I trust it will, we can take +the next step.” + +“I ought to tell you, Dr. Zerneke, that I have no intention of trying +to make up with my family,” said Norman firmly. + +“Well, perhaps they will do the making up,” said Dr. Zerneke easily. +“And in the meantime the child can stay with Mrs. Czermak. I’ll give +you a note to her.” + +She took pen and paper, and wrote. Looking up, she said: “You’ll find +her a very capable foster-mother. She has an interesting story that +I’ll tell you some time. This is the third baby she’s taken care of for +me.” + +“What,” asked Norman, “happened to the others?” His tone was anxious. +He had heard of “baby-farms.”... + +Dr. Zerneke smiled. “They came back to their mothers fat and rosy. You +needn’t worry about what happens to babies in Mrs. Czermak’s care.” + +She handed him the note. + +“And by the way,” she said, “we must make up a story for you.” + +“A story for me?” + +“To account for the baby. You don’t want everybody in Chicago to know +the peculiar state of your affairs, do you?” + +“No. I’ve had enough of trying to explain it in Vickley.” + +“Now when a girl has a fatherless baby, we always advise a wedding ring +and a dead husband to simplify matters. But I don’t think you ought to +be a widower, Mr. Overbeck.” She paused thoughtfully. “A widower with +a baby is the natural prey of womankind. You’ll have a hard enough +time as it is. You ought to have a wife, even though an absent one, to +scare them off. Now how should we account for her absence? She might be +ill--but then people would be sympathetic and inquiring. Can you think +of a good story--simple, convincing, and not too interesting?” + +“It does seem a rather difficult problem, doesn’t it?” said Norman, +trying hard to think. + +“T.B. is the only thing I can think of.” + +“T.B.?” + +“Yes. Your wife has been ordered to Colorado for the sake of her +health. She’s in a sanitarium--you can be vague about that: or you can +say Dr. Rublee’s sanitarium--there isn’t any such place, but there +might be. She’ll have to stay there six months or a year. Yes, I think +that will do. You understand just why I advise this story, don’t you? +It’s simply to keep you from being married off to the first unattached +woman you come across.” + +“Do you really think there’s any great likelihood of any one being +willing to marry me?” + +“My dear man, you don’t know what you’re up against. Well, you can +start in practicing your story on Mrs. Czermak, if you like. I told her +the mother was ill. You can elaborate it. She’ll be glad enough of the +prospect of keeping the baby longer.” + +The telephone rang, and Dr. Zerneke turned to answer. + +“Yes, connect him, please.... Mr. Rand?... Yes, indeed--your young +friend is right here. I’ll let you speak to him.” + +She handed the telephone to Norman. + +“Hello, Gilbert.” + +“Good God, is it really you, Norman?” + +“It’s all right, Gilbert. Where are you?” + +“At the Annex. What the devil have you been doing?” + +“I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll be with you in about an hour.... Keep +your shirt on. Good-by!” + +He turned to Dr. Zerneke. “You don’t quite realize what I’m in for,” he +said. + +Dr. Zerneke smiled. “I don’t know your family,” she said, “but I’ve +been in communication with your friend Mr. Rand, and you’ll find him +quite reasonable, I think.” + +“Just the same, I want to make my first visit to--my son. Before I see +any one from Vickley.” + +“If that will make you feel better, go ahead,” said Dr. Zerneke. + +She dismissed him with a warm hand-shake. + + + + +Chapter II: A Man Has Some Rights + + +MRS. CZERMAK’S address was on the North side, not far away.... He +really couldn’t afford a taxi. But this was a special occasion--and +Gilbert was waiting. He hailed one. + +One in a row of dingy three-story brick houses. He rang the bell. A +young woman came to the door. + +“I want to see Mrs. Czermak.” + +“I’m Mrs. Czermak. Did you want a room?” + +She was younger than he had expected Mrs. Czermak to be--not a +responsible-looking middle-aged matron, but a girl in her middle +twenties--not at all what he had pictured as a child’s nurse.... And +her speech did not have the foreign accent that her name suggested. + +“No--I--here’s a letter from Dr. Zerneke,” he said. + +She stood there, leaving him waiting on the doorstep, while she opened +and read it. Then she looked up quickly. + +“Oh--so you’re my baby’s father?” and she opened the door wider to +admit him. “Do you want to see him now? He’s asleep. You can look at +him, though.” + +“I’d like to,” said Norman. + +She led him upstairs, through a bedroom, very clean and orderly, into +a small room which was the nursery. There was the crib. They went up to +it, and she drew back a coverlet. + +Norman felt no particular emotion at the sight of the sleeping child. +He wondered why. He was moving heaven and earth to have that child for +his own. He had broken Madge’s heart. It would make his family terribly +unhappy. He had thrown away a career. And here was what it was all +about--a baby with soft fair hair, and a queer-shaped head. No--the +head wasn’t so queer-shaped to-day. And the face was pinker.... He was +a little disappointed at his lack of any deep feeling.... + +The baby stirred in its sleep, and flung up a tiny fist. + +Mrs. Czermak put back the coverlet, and Norman turned away. As they +went back into the larger room, the picture of that small fist lingered +in his mind. + +He realized that Mrs. Czermak was expecting him to say something. He +felt embarrassed--as if it were somebody else’s baby he were being +called upon to praise. + +“It’s awfully little, isn’t it!” he said awkwardly. + +“He’s a fine baby!” said Mrs. Czermak defensively. + +Norman was conscious of having said “it” instead of “he.” Was she +offended by that? Did she think he didn’t appreciate the baby? + +“If you come just before six, you can see him awake,” she said. +“That’s his feeding time. Or on Sundays you could come at a little +before two.” + +Well, that was all. What had he expected? He had come to see his son. +And he had seen him. Now he would go. + +Gilbert was waiting for him.... + +Somehow, he had expected something more--something to fortify him +against Gilbert’s reproaches--Gilbert’s news of the havoc he had +left behind him in Vickley. He had run away from Vickley. He hadn’t +permitted himself to think about what he had done to Madge--to his +family. He’d hear about it all. And Gilbert would have some new, slick, +plausible scheme. + +“Sundays at two, you say?” he asked. + +“Yes. That’s when he gets his bottle. You might come a little before +then--fifteen minutes before.” + +He’d never get acquainted with his son, at that rate.... It was more +of a job than he had realized. First he had to get reconciled to his +family--and then, apparently, get married! Good Lord! And meanwhile the +baby would stay here.... + +As he started to leave, an idea came brilliantly. Yes, why not? He +turned to Mrs. Czermak. + +“You say you have rooms for rent here?” + +She hesitated, and then answered reluctantly: + +“Sometimes.” + +He vaguely sensed some opposition to his plan. But he asked in a +determined way: + +“Have you any vacant now?” + +Again she hesitated. “Not any suitable for two.” + +“I don’t want a room for two. I want a room for one.” He had the +feeling of putting something over on Dr. Zerneke. Wait until he was +married, to be with the baby? He would show her! + +“Oh!” said Mrs. Czermak. “Well, I have a hall bedroom on the next +floor.” + +“May I see it?” + +“Is it for yourself or your wife?” asked Mrs. Czermak. + +He remembered abruptly what Dr. Zerneke had told him to say. + +“My wife has been ordered to Colorado for her health. She started +to-day.” + +“Oh--and without the baby!” + +“It will be quite out of the question for her to have the baby with her +for another six months--possibly more,” said Norman solemnly. “She’s +going to Dr. Rublee’s sanitarium.” + +“Where is that--in Denver?” + +“Yes,” he said. He was anxious to get off a subject on which further +questions would be embarrassing. “May I see the room?” + +Her manner, which had become hostile for a minute or two, had changed +to friendliness again. “Now that I come to think of it,” she said, +“there’s the large front room downstairs. It was promised, but the +people haven’t come. I’ll show it to you.” She took him there. + +He looked around. It was much larger, lighter, cleaner, than the one he +had been living in. + +“How much is it?” he asked. + +She thought a moment. “We could let you have it for eight dollars, I +guess.” + +Remarkably cheap! He had been paying eight for the hole he had been +living in. + +“I’ll take it,” he said. + +Yes, if a baby couldn’t live with a bachelor father, there was nothing +to keep a bachelor father from coming to live with his baby! Norman +smiled, with a sense of triumphing over a hostile universe. + +Then he looked about the room again, with a practical glance. He went +to the center-table. It was rickety under his touch, like the one +upon which during his evenings for two weeks he had been computing +and recomputing the statistics of illegitimate parenthood--a peculiar +consolation which he had learned from Isabel. With the figures he +had found at the Crerar library, and the further assistance of the +population tables in the World Almanac, all sorts of interesting things +could be worked out.... + +“Could I have a small, solid table to write on? An unpainted kitchen +table would do.” + +“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Czermak. “When do you want to move in?” + +“I’ll move to-night.” There wasn’t, as a matter of fact, anything to +move, except his overcoat and his alarm clock. And the two weeks for +which he had paid in advance were about up. He might as well make the +change without delay, and get settled. He took out some bills. + +“By the way,” he said, “how much has Dr. Zerneke been paying you for +taking care of the baby?” + +“Ten dollars a week. With Grade A milk, and clothes, it comes to about +twelve dollars, not counting extras.” + +Norman calculated silently. Twelve dollars for the baby; eight for his +room; nine, say, for his meals; a dollar for laundry; that was exactly +thirty dollars, and left him nothing for carfare or cigarettes. But he +would manage somehow--and it would be only a few weeks until he got a +raise. + +“I’ll take care of that from now on,” he said. + +“Suppose I pay a week in advance for the room, and a week for the +baby,” he said. “Will that be all right?” + +He handed her the money. + +She looked at it. “There’s supposed to be a deposit for the keys,” she +said, “but we won’t bother about that.” + +“Why not?” he said, and offered her another dollar. + +“No,” she shook her head. “You’ll need every dollar you can save. With +a sick wife in Colorado.” + +He somewhat guiltily put the dollar back in his pocket. + +“I’ll get you your keys,” she said, turning to go. + +“Never mind,” he said, “give them to me to-night. I’m in a hurry now.” +He looked at his watch. + +“I’m afraid I can’t promise the table till Monday,” she said. + +“That’s all right.” + +“We’ll try to make you comfortable.” + +Well, that was settled! And now for old Gilbert.... + + + + +Chapter III: An Ambassador from Vickley + + +GILBERT was standing in the door of his room. “You crazy loon,” he +cried. “My God, I’m glad to see you.” He threw his arms around Norman, +and pulled him inside the door. “You’ve aged me ten years in the last +two weeks, you son-of-a-gun.” + +“I’m sorry I’ve given you so much trouble, Gilbert,” said Norman +stiffly. + +“Oh, it’s all right,” said Gilbert. “Now that it’s turned out this way, +it’s perfectly all right. Couldn’t be better. But tell me just one +thing--what have you been doing these last two weeks?” + +“Looking for work.” And he told Gilbert briefly of his new job. + +Gilbert slapped him on the shoulder. “I thought so. That’s exactly what +I’ve been telling them. Sit tight, I said, and trust me.--But I tell +you, if you hadn’t shown up to-day or to-morrow, my hair would have +gone white. Two weeks is a long time to wait.” + +“But I wrote in my letter to my mother, from the station, not to +worry--” + +“I know what you wrote. And that there’d be news of you in two weeks. +That’s what I counted on. That’s been my job--getting them to wait, +instead of notifying the police.” + +“But really--why all this nonsense about suicide? Perhaps my letter +wasn’t as tactful as I thought it was--but after all--” + +“Oh, that’s all right,” said Gilbert. “The suicide part and everything. +It fitted in fine. You did everything just right.” + +“Well, I’m glad to hear that. I thought I had done everything just +wrong. I’ve realized that my behavior must have seemed very queer to +the folks at home. But even so--suicide!” + +“That’s just the point, my boy. People can forgive anything to a +man who’s probably committed suicide. And when it turns out that +you haven’t, they’re so glad, that nothing else matters. You framed +the thing just right--that quarrel with your father, the mysterious +references to the unknown girl, everything down to cashing that check +at the cigar store and asking about the St. Louis train. Couldn’t have +been better.” + +These remarks were evidently intended to be reassuring; but they +reminded Norman uncomfortably of what a fool he had behaved like in +Vickley. + +“I suppose you think I did it on purpose?” he said. “Well, I didn’t. I +was in a state of mind. I hardly knew what I was doing, Gilbert. But I +still don’t understand why you’re so happy about it all.” + +“I’m happy, you son-of-a-gun, because you’re alive. Here, have a drink.” + +Gilbert opened his suitcase and took out a bottle. “No? Well, I will. +My nerves have gone to pieces over this.” He poured some whiskey into +a tumbler, and drank. + +“You know, Norman, you let me down something awful. That’s no way to +treat your lawyer. You ought to have told me what you were going to do. +Here I arrived in Vickley with the thing all settled--and when I called +up your house Sunday afternoon, hell was popping. I had to think fast.” + +“Gilbert--I know. I should have told you. I suppose I was afraid to. +The truth is, I wasn’t capable of reasonable thought.” + +“I gathered that something had gone wrong, so I went over to your +house. And there I was, sweating blood while the thing came out bit by +bit that evening.” + +Norman felt uncomfortable. He had expected Gilbert to scold him. He had +been prepared for that.... But he wasn’t prepared to hear all about +just what had been happening in Vickley.... He really didn’t want to +know.... But Gilbert would want to tell him. He would have to listen. +There was no way of getting out of it.... + +“I didn’t know exactly what you’d done, Norman, but I knew you were +running amuck somehow,” Gilbert went on, with a smile. + +“You knew I had told Madge, at least,” said Norman unhappily. + +“Not at first. In fact, when I arrived, all that was known was that +you hadn’t come home to dinner, and that you had quarreled with your +father at the breakfast table. If I hadn’t been on the inside of your +affairs, I should have thought they were damned fools to be making so +much fuss about nothing. And then they asked me if I had ever heard you +mention a girl named Isabel!” + +“But didn’t Madge--or her aunt--tell them anything about--about the +engagement being broken?” + +“I’ve no doubt they supposed your family knew. And a silly thing +happened there. It seems that your sister Lucinda had called up the +Ferris house three or four times that morning, asking for you--” + +“I know--about a dog.” + +“Yes. About a dog. I imagine that Madge made some reference to what had +happened, but Lucinda didn’t take it in. She kept talking about the +dog. And at last Madge said, ‘Oh, damn your dog!’ So Lucinda cried, and +wouldn’t let your mother call up the Ferrises any more, even to ask +about you. The first any of us in the house heard about the engagement +being broken was when some kind neighbors came in to inquire if it +were true. Your sister Lucinda seemed to rather hope it was, but she +wouldn’t let your mother call up and ask. I was the only one who had +any notion of what had happened. All they were worried about was that +their darling boy hadn’t come home to dinner. Even when the neighbors +said that Madge’s aunt had taken to bed with nervous prostration, they +didn’t begin to suspect anything serious might be the matter--anything +that would affect them. And there was I, knowing the dynamite you were +carrying around, and surer every minute that you had set it off.” + +Norman sighed. Must Gilbert go into all these painful details? Why not +let the dead past be forgotten? + +“I tell you,” said Gilbert, “I was sweating blood!” + +“It didn’t occur to you, I suppose, to tell them the truth?” Norman +asked with some asperity. + +“There’s where you do me an injustice, my boy. I’m more versatile than +you think. I figured it all out--and this seemed to be one of those +rare situations in which the truth might be better than the best lie +that the mind of man could invent. Of course, I didn’t want to do +anything rash. If I gave the show away, and then you walked in with +some other story--that _would_ be a pretty mess! But I had a hunch that +you weren’t going to walk in. My hunches were mostly right, that day. I +didn’t understand what you were up to, all at once--not, in fact, till +next day, when I got an answer to my wire to Dr. Zerneke. But I wasn’t +far wrong in my first guess.” + +“What _was_ your first guess?” Norman asked, as patiently as he could. +Of course, all this was interesting to Gilbert. The least he could do +was to listen.... + +“I thought you had come back in good faith, intending to keep your +mouth shut and preserve the status quo--but that your damned honesty +had got the best of you, and you had told Madge about the baby, and +then lit out for Chicago when she threw you over. Not a bad guess, +either. And for my purposes it was as good as the whole story. The +point was that you had probably spilled the beans. They say a good +lawyer is one that can take advantage of a defeat. Well, I was +defeated, all right. My plans were all smashed to hell--and there +wasn’t any use trying to patch them up. So I made new plans then and +there. This has been one of the most interesting cases I ever handled, +Norman--and if it had been tried in court I’d have made a great +reputation on it. I figured that the whole town was my jury, or would +be in twenty-four hours. There was no use trying to frame up any more +alibis for you. I had to get the truth before the jury, and get you +off that way. That’s what I was thinking when the clock commenced to +strike midnight. We all knew what time it was, but we sat still and +listened--your mother and father, Lucinda and I. It finished striking. +You hadn’t come. And then there was a ring at the bell. We knew you +wouldn’t have rung, you’d have walked in. It might be anything--your +dead body. Waiting under an emotional strain for somebody for a few +hours will do that to people’s minds! Well, it was your special +delivery letter. Your mother was afraid to open it. Your father opened +it. In that atmosphere, you see, your words weren’t as cheerful as you +intended them to be. News of you in two weeks!--Not news _from_ you, +but news _of_ you. It sounded like grim death itself.” + +Norman twisted uncomfortably in his chair. + +“I never thought of that, Gilbert. But _you_ knew--” + +“What did I know? Nothing. I didn’t guess until next day, when I heard +from Dr. Zerneke about what you came home for. All I could think of +then was that you were going to Chicago and make that girl marry you.” + +“Of course--you didn’t know,” Norman murmured. + +“But you were out of town--I knew that. And then we heard more about +that. Somebody told the clerk at the cigar-store that your girl +had jilted you. And he got worried, and confided to a policeman +what he knew--the check, and the St. Louis train. And then some one +recalled seeing a light in the Overbeck building. The police and the +nightwatchman had gone to your office, and found cigarette stubs all +over the floor. So along towards one o’clock we heard from the police. +Then your father called up the Ferrises. Madge answered the telephone. +Yes, she said, it was true that she’d broken the engagement that +morning. No, she hadn’t seen you since. But she’d had a telephone call +from you at about eleven o’clock. You’d said something about being +sorry, and hung up. No, she’d prefer not to say why she had broken the +engagement. She was cool enough about it.” + +“Cool?” Norman asked in surprise. + +“Your sister Lucinda called it heartless. She kept on talking about how +heartless Madge Ferris was. Finally she came out with something about +poor Norman possibly lying dead at this very moment. Your mother ssh’d +her, and told her not to be silly. But the thing had been said--the +thing that was in everybody’s mind. After all, when a man disappears +like that, one of the possibilities _is_ suicide.” + +“You keep harping on that, Gilbert. It’s not a pleasant thought.” + +“I’m telling you just what happened.” + +“Of course. Go on.” + +“As a matter of fact, I was glad it had come to that. It put your +family where I wanted them. It made the possibility of your being alive +the only thing of any importance. And my mind was made up. You had told +Madge about the baby, I was sure of that. The whole thing would come +out. And now was the time to spring the truth. At the time, you see, +I thought you were going to try to pull off a marriage with the other +girl. It would be a sort of happy ending. But I looked at your sister +Lucinda, and I thought again. I didn’t want my effect spoiled by any +discordant notes. And I didn’t think she’d take so kindly to a happy +ending that involved the mysterious Isabel. Your mother--it wouldn’t +hurt her to do a little worrying. Your father--he was the one that had +to be told. Only not in that house. There was something else, if it +came to that, I was going to remind him of. So I suggested that he and +I go down to the office where you had been camping all day. You might +have left something there that the police hadn’t found--a letter, or +something of the sort. He was glad to go. Norman, if you ever had any +doubt whether your father loves you-- He was nearly crazy with anxiety. +He had been trying to keep up a front with his women-folk, but alone +with me in the office he was beginning to break down. He commenced to +blame himself for a thousand things--including the way he had persuaded +you against your wishes to go into the law.... Well, I told him the +whole story.” + +“So he knows....” + +“Yes.” Gilbert looked into his empty glass, and poured himself another +drink. “Everybody knows. That’s what I’m coming to. The whole damn +town. And I’m the one that told them. Oh, I had good reasons. In the +first place--you know what a lot of nonsense gets around--there was +talk of your having embezzled some of the firm’s money. I wanted to put +a stop to that. But that’s getting too far ahead. The next person I +told the truth to was your fiancée.” + +“Madge? But she knew!” + +“She knew what you told her, which wasn’t much, I gather. Enough to +give her the wrong slant on the whole thing. Well, somebody had to talk +to her--and your sister Lucinda had taken to bed over what I had told +your father the night before. Your mother was busy looking after her. +And your father was pretty much shot to pieces. So that left me, to +attend to all these little things. The impression your sister Lucinda +got of what I had told your father was that you were eloping with an +artist’s model. And, of course, with my connivance. The baby she simply +didn’t believe in. She would have it that you had been victimized by +some designing female. Well, I didn’t argue with her. I went to see +Madge.” + +He would rather not hear that part of it. But he felt obliged to ask: + +“What did Madge say?” + +“At first she practically told me it was none of my business why +she had broken the engagement. I said I could guess why it was, and +reminded her that I had been with you in Chicago. She said, if I knew, +there was no use discussing it. I admit I was pretty much stumped by +her coolness. I wondered if she were really heartless, as your sister +Lucinda said. But that wasn’t it. She was really trying to be a good +sport, as I found out afterward. She was trying not to hate the girl +who had taken you away from her. She wasn’t thinking about a baby at +all. In fact, she didn’t know about it.” + +“But I told her about the baby!” he protested. + +“You didn’t get it straight, Norman--or she didn’t hear it. Or maybe +her aunt mixed her up about it. You seem to have talked to her, too.” + +“Not about the baby, I think,” said Norman, making an effort to +remember these things that seemed to have happened so many thousands of +years ago. + +“So Madge said. But between what you told the girl and what her aunt +imagined, she got it wrong.” + +“What in the world did she think I had told her?” + +“She didn’t say in so many words. But I realized that I knew more about +it than she did, so I started in to tell her the whole thing. And she +was surprised from beginning to end. She was under the impression that +you had been carrying on an affair with the other girl while being +engaged to _her_.” + +“I didn’t have a chance to go into details. But I’m sure I told her +about the baby!” + +“Not that the baby was already born. You neglected that detail. And so +naturally she thought of a pregnant girl that you had to marry.” + +“So--that’s what she meant.... She told me I was free--to go to her!” + +“Exactly. I tell you, Norman, she’s a good sport!” + +“I see that I blundered the thing frightfully.” + +“You made it seem even worse than it was. But that’s a good way of +breaking bad news. She’d already suffered the worst. And what I told +her--it took the poison out of the wound, so to speak.” + +“She’ll think a little more kindly of me, perhaps,” said Norman +wistfully. + +“She’s sorry for you. And she’s interested in your wanting the baby. +I told her why you had come home--to see if your people would take +it. I had learned that from Dr. Zerneke over the long-distance. ‘Well, +Madge,’ I asked, ‘can you hate him for a thing like that?’ And she +said: ‘How could I hate him? I feel very humble.’” + +“Humble!” + +“To tell the truth, Norman, she thinks of you as a kind of saint.” + +“Gilbert, don’t razz me.” + +“Women are queer, Norman. Of course, there’s some credit due me as +your advocate. I didn’t neglect my opportunities. And it _is_ rather +dramatic, you know--your throwing up a career and respectability, for +the sake of your son. It’s the sort of thing women can understand.” + +(Perhaps--but how did old Gilbert understand?) + +“The only trouble is,” Gilbert went on, “it leaves her out. She’d +rather be the other girl, I think. She can’t understand Isabel--why she +won’t marry you. But then, as I told her, I don’t either.” + +“You told her I had offered to marry Isabel?” + +“Yes--and that you didn’t love her. That’s correct, I think?” + +“Yes. How did Madge take that?” + +“She seemed to understand it perfectly. It made you all the more +saintlike.” + +“Please lay off that, Gilbert.” + +“If you depart from the beaten track, Norman, you have to take the +consequences. You can’t do what you’ve done without being regarded +either as a scoundrel or a saint.” + +“I was prepared to be regarded as a scoundrel.” + +“Well, I’ve fixed that up for you, too. A saint to the women.... All +except your mother and sister, Norman. They both, in their different +ways, regard you as a child.” + +“You haven’t mentioned my kid sister--Doris. I was really trying to +protect her.” + +“So did we all. She was sent away to the neighbors or up to bed during +all the family conferences, and told some sort of transparent fib about +your being called out of town on business. But she strolled into our +conference Monday night--I had just got through telling them my revised +story about you--and announced with a bored air that we needn’t trouble +to keep the secret from her any longer. She knew all about Norman’s +baby, she said. As a matter of fact, she heard this new story before +the family did. It appears that the news, coming from some girl friend +of Madge’s, had spread like wildfire among the younger generation. They +all knew it by evening.” + +“Do you think it will--hurt her much?” Norman asked anxiously. + +“Doris? On the contrary, she’s quite a heroine on account of it. Times +are changing, Norman!” + +“In Vickley!” said Norman incredulously. + +Gilbert looked at him gravely. + +“I haven’t intended to deceive you, Norman. You know perfectly well +that you’ve cooked your goose, as far as the law business goes. If you +wanted to set up as a romantic poet, it might be all right for you to +come back. But not as a lawyer. You knew that, didn’t you?” + +“Thank God for that!” + +“Well, be that as it may, Norman, your career in Vickley is gone +completely and absolutely to smash. There’s not a moment’s doubt about +that. And there’s not a thing I or anybody else can do about that. You +had me beaten there. The only thing I could gain was what is called a +moral victory. And since that’s all I have to boast of, Norman, I’m +boasting of that. Let me go ahead and tell you about my speech to the +jury!” + +“All right.” + +“But first I’ll help myself to another drink.” + + + + +Chapter IV: Speech to the Jury + + +“AND now,” said Norman, “what about this alleged moral victory? You +didn’t by any chance tell people the real truth about me?” + +Gilbert put his feet up on a chair. He, at any rate, was enjoying these +reminiscences. + +“Yes. This business of telling the truth is like any other drug habit. +It grows on you. That same Monday night, after I left your house, I +dropped in at Sam’s place for a drink. There were half a dozen men +there--and Sam, behind the bar. One of the men was Davis of the Herald +and another was Quinn of the Whig. I won’t name the others, but they +are pillars of Vickley society. Well, Quinn came up to me and asked +if I had heard the rumor that you were in financial difficulties when +you left town--not that they would print anything about it, unless +something came up so that they would be obliged to. Well, I had an +inspiration. ‘Boys,’ I said, ‘I’m going to tell you the truth about the +disappearance of Norman Overbeck. You can decide for yourself whether +it can be printed.’--And not a word has been in the papers since. They +couldn’t have printed the story anyway--not in Vickley. But it was a +magnificent gesture. ‘This is for all of you to hear,’ I said. And so +I made my speech to the jury right there at Sam’s bar. The doors were +locked--Sam saw to that--so there wouldn’t be any interruptions. I’d +had two or three rehearsals of my speech already, between your family +and Madge, but this time it was for a different audience. These men +were hard-boiled guys, and not in love with you....” + +“You--you didn’t--I mean--all that stuff about it’s being somebody +else--some other man--you didn’t suggest that?” Norman asked painfully. + +“I cast no doubts on the paternity of your son, Norman, if that’s +what you mean. I wasn’t out to make a fool of you. On the contrary. A +scoundrel. It came to me in a flash. A saint--that was all very well +for the women. But men don’t like saints. I had to make you out a +villain--but a magnificent villain, such as men secretly envy. And I +had learned something, Norman. I had learned that the paternal passion +is repressed in our polite species--repressed, I believe, is the +word--but not extinct. I was depending on that. I looked at my jury, +and I said: ‘It isn’t embezzlement, gentlemen. It’s a baby.’ One fellow +snickered. I thought: ‘All right--I’ll have _you_ crying before I’ve +finished!’ And I did, too....” + +“What in God’s name did you tell them, Gilbert?” + +“The story of a respectable man and his illegitimate son. I must admit +that I embroidered it a little. You know you dropped that hint about +St. Louis--and several people saw you get on that train. Which shows +the value of evidence. Well, I followed up that hint--saying that it +was only a guess of mine. I said you had been talking to me about +South America. I said I thought you had gone there. And why South +America? Because it’s a Man’s Country. I’d been reading a story about +it in Mencken’s Mercury, and I laid in on thick. There a man begets +his children by all the girls he takes a fancy to. And he doesn’t have +to sneak out of his responsibilities--the country isn’t run by a lot +of old-maid Sunday-school teachers. When he gets tired of a girl he +gives her a present and tells her to get out. But she leaves her baby +behind. A South American gentleman, I gave them to understand, has a +dozen bright and happy illegitimate children, and a big house in the +country where he raises them, and visits them, and plays with them--and +everybody, including the lawful wife, knows all about it. I pictured +you, Norman, as a fellow that wasn’t going to be bluffed out of his +natural feelings by our hypocritical civilization. If you couldn’t +have your son with you in Vickley, you were going to South America, +where such things are understood. Mind you, I said, I’m not defending +the young man, I’m only trying to explain him. But I could see that +the idea appealed to the crowd. There’s something of the Turk and the +Mormon in us all. The truth is, we’d like not only to go to bed with +all the pretty girls we take a fancy to, but we’d like to have them +go right ahead and have their babies. And you needn’t tell me the +girls don’t feel the same way about it. If polygamy wasn’t so damned +expensive, that’s the way we’d do it, too. The aristocracy has always +had its bastards without shame and apparently to the satisfaction of +all concerned. It’s only our middle-class economy that has made us a +race of hypocrites.” + +Norman looked at old Gilbert in astonishment. “I hope you don’t expect +me to live up to your romantic stories!” + +“But, Norman--don’t go back on me now. You’re planning to adopt the +boy, aren’t you? I made sure of that when Dr. Zerneke said you were +calling up every day about him.” + +Norman flushed. “Of course I’m going to adopt him. But I don’t feel in +the least like a Mormon or a Turk. Or a saint either.” + +“Well, you’ve made a good start in both directions. Norman, my boy”-- +Gilbert emptied the bottle into his tumbler--“you’ve done what every +man at some time in his life wishes he dared to do--and what every +woman feels instinctively that a real man ought to do.” + +“Gilbert--all this excitement has gone to your head. You’re talking +bosh. Every man in America doesn’t beget a child out of wedlock. You +see, I happen to know the statistics. It comes to only about--I’ve +figured it out for Vickley: let me think. If Vickley runs true to +statistical averages, there are only about twenty new illegitimate +fathers there per year. And there are nearly twelve thousand males in +Vickley between the ages of fifteen and sixty-five. So you see it’s +really quite the exception, Gilbert.” + +“Your statistics, my boy, apply only to the illegitimate children +that are actually born. I’m talking of the others. There may be men +in Vickley who have never in all their lives sent a girl to the +abortionist--but I’d not bet on any of them being there at Sam’s bar +that night. And that’s what they were all thinking of--the girls who +had cried because they couldn’t go ahead and have their babies--the +girls whose abortions they had paid for--the girls who, as they +damn well knew, despised them for being the dirty cowards that we +respectable men have to be!” + +Norman looked at him curiously--wonderingly.... What did old Gilbert +know about such things? + +The telephone rang. Gilbert took up the receiver. + +“A telegram? Yes, send it up.” + +He turned to Norman. “That will be from your father. I wired him that +the lost was found and in good shape.” + +They waited. There was a knock at the door, and the boy with the +telegram. Gilbert read it and handed it to Norman. + +In the stiff, reticent phrases that were so like his father, it read: + + PLEASED AND GRATEFUL WILL ARRIVE CHICAGO SUNDAY MORNING AS PLANNED + + OVERBECK + +Ten words. + + + + +Chapter V: The Older Generation + + +LATE that evening they were talking in Norman’s new room.... They had +dined together, going over the whole situation. Gilbert wasted no time +in vain regrets. He accepted the new state of Norman’s affairs, and +was anxious to help him make the best of his Chicago career. He took +Norman’s job seriously, and discussed its future possibilities. And +Gilbert had readily come with him to see the baby. He remarked upon its +resemblance to Norman. They met Mrs. Czermak’s mother, whose name was +Mrs. Case, and another daughter named Monica, a young stenographer. +Also Mr. Victor, an elderly violinist, one of the boarders, just then +out of a job.... Everybody, it seemed, was interested in the baby.... + +“You know,” said Norman awkwardly, “he was named for me--by his mother.” + +Gilbert nodded. “Queer girl!” he said. + +They talked of Isabel. She had left town, said Norman; had probably +gone to Michigan, he thought. It was just as well, he said coldly. He +hadn’t wanted to see her again.... + +Then they talked of Norman’s father--of whom Norman had been secretly +and painfully thinking all the while.... + +It was all very well to have gained what old Gilbert called a moral +victory over the hard-boiled reprobates at Sam’s bar; over romantic +Vickley matrons who wished to believe in a remarkable young male +saint engaged in expiating his youthful sin by self-sacrifice; over a +sensation-loving younger generation: over even that girl whose love and +pride his destiny had driven him to trample upon so cruelly: but there +remained J. J. Overbeck. No moral victory was possible over him! + +His father simply would not be able to understand what had happened. +How could he? A man like that! No, this sort of thing might be +comprehensible to a cynical philosopher like old Gilbert. But it would +be outside the range of his father’s imaginative sympathy. That was +what was going to make this meeting so hard. He couldn’t help wanting +to make his father understand. And that would be impossible. + +“Still afraid of the old man?” asked Gilbert, smiling, as he read +Norman’s thoughts, so plain to see in his troubled face. + +“I can’t help it,” said Norman. “No, it’s not exactly that I’m afraid +of him. But I know that he won’t be able to understand this at all.” + +“No?” said Gilbert. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about that, if I were you.” + +“His whole life,” said Norman, “has gone to building up his family. +He thinks in terms of the family. You say he loves me--but it’s just +because I’m part of the family. I was to take his place in Vickley. +I’ve hurt him in a way he never can forgive.” + +“Norman,” said Gilbert, “maybe I know your father better than you do. +We were in Cuba together, you know. Before you were born.” + +“Are you hinting at something, Gilbert?” Norman asked in astonishment. + +“I never hint, Norman. I’m going to tell you a story. Because I think +you ought to know it before your father comes. He won’t say a word to +you about it. But he’ll know I’ve told you. He couldn’t do it. Just as +I couldn’t tell my own son. But I know he’d like you to know.” + +“My--father!” Norman whispered incredulously. + +“Listen, Norman. That Sunday night, after midnight, when your father +and I sat in his office--after I’d told him about your baby--he broke +down. And ... well, you see I’ve known something about your father for +a long time. He didn’t know I knew it. I’d never have told you, but +it’s all right now. So I’ll begin with that.--You think of your father +as an old man, don’t you? Just as you think of me as ‘old Gilbert.’ +Yes, it’s true he’s fifty-five and wears side-whiskers.... It’s hard to +go on, Norman, with you looking at me like that. I know how you feel. +But he’s not _my_ father--so it didn’t so much shock me to learn, as +I did a good many years ago by accident, that he had--well, a secret +life. Don’t look so God-damn’ solemn. It all happened before you were +born. A rather plain woman in her thirties. A widow. I knew her name, +but that meant nothing to me at the time. She is dead, now. This is +all ancient history. She left Vickley about the time you were born, +went out West to visit some relatives; and, as I learned the other +night, came back to Vickley some years later--but it was all over +then--and died.... Well, are you wishing I wouldn’t tell you?” + +“I--it does upset me, rather,” Norman confessed. “I’ve no right to feel +like that, I know. But--” + +“Of course. One’s own father. And that’s the true origin of our +conventional morality, my boy. I hear stuff about the hypocrisy of the +older generation. It’s true enough--but whose fault is it? Who puts us +up on a pedestal? Who refuses to believe that we are merely human? You +wait! You’ve a son now. He’ll have an ideal of you--and you won’t dare +shatter it. You’ll lie, like all the rest of us. You’ll be a hypocrite, +too. Oh, it’s a joke!... + +“Well, I knew this thing about your father. And I smiled a little. +But I didn’t know the real story till that night.... It goes back to +the time we were in Cuba together, in the Spanish war. I don’t know +why your father enlisted. He was married, and had a child. I guess +your mother was all taken up with the child--your sister Lucinda. I +know that I went for fun. I was married, too. Anyway, we were both old +enough to know better, but there we were. + +“Well, there was another Vickley boy in our company, named Tom. Tom +had never been any good at making money. Some new scheme he had put +his hopes in went to smash--I guess he couldn’t bear to face his wife. +He thought he was a failure, so he enlisted. And Tom and Jim--your +father--got to be great friends in the army. Chums was the word in +those days. I knew about their friendship. But I hadn’t thought of poor +Tom in all these years.... + +“Your father, that night, began to talk about Tom. And he began to cry. +Then I remembered about their being chums. But all the rest was new to +me, as your father told it. I never had known about Tom’s wife.... + +“Jim and Tom were both wounded at El Caney--Tom badly. He was going +to die, and he knew it. And there on the battlefield where they lay +together he talked to Jim about Sally. Would Jim look after Sally when +he got back? And Jim promised his chum that he would. And Tom died in +the hospital, and Jim came home to Vickley. + +“That was twenty-eight years ago, Norman. Sally must have been about +thirty, then. Tom had written her a lot about Jim, and she was prepared +to like him. And of course she must have been terribly grateful for the +help he gave her. But Jim didn’t tell his wife about it. And he went +to see Sally in the evenings when he was supposed to be working at the +office. He would bring something for a late supper. She was a jolly +little woman, and her house was comfortable. He got to be more at ease +there than at home. And so it began. + +“And so it went on. As such things do. Till you were born, and then he +sent Sally out West, and that was the end of it. She came back later, +and died. + +“That’s all. Except ... You belong to a hard, unsentimental generation, +Norman. It will seem silly to you.... But there’s her grave, in a +Vickley cemetery. He sometimes visits it alone. He goes at night. Do +you--do you get the picture, Norman?” + +Norman saw, in the moonlight, a cemetery with its marble memorials of +Vickley’s respectable dead. And over in an unkempt corner, a place that +meant nothing except to the one who kept its secret tight-locked in +his breast. And thither he saw that old man come, stealthily, with a +posy--an old man, looking down at his lost youth, buried there in that +secret grave. And Norman saw him slink away furtively in the moonlight, +back to his home, his family, his career, his respectability, home from +that secret, ridiculous, pitiful tryst. Symbol of an age that passes.... + +“Yes--I get the picture,” said Norman. + +“He’ll know I’ve told you,” said Gilbert. “He wants you to know. But +he’ll not want anything said about it--not a word.” + +“Of course not,” said Norman. + + + + +Chapter VI: J. J. Overbeck + + +HIS father was due to arrive on an early train Sunday morning, and +Norman, having forgotten his alarm clock, had asked Mrs. Case that +night if there was one about the house he could borrow. He explained +that he had to meet his father at seven. “Rose will be up at six to +give the baby his bottle,” she told him. “She’ll knock on your door +at half-past six, and leave you a cup of coffee, if you like.” Norman +protested that he couldn’t think of putting her to that trouble. But +Mrs. Case said it would be no trouble; she made it for herself anyway. + +When the knock came, he sleepily answered “Yes.” And not Mrs. Czermak’s +but her younger sister’s voice answered cheerfully: “Here’s your +coffee, Mr. Overbeck. And would you like to have me call you a taxi?” + +“Yes, please do!” he said. + +“All right. It’ll be here when you’re ready.” + +He opened the door when she had gone, and brought in the tray she had +left on the floor. + +There was toast, too! + +“What a nice family!” he thought gratefully. + +He was at the station in plenty of time. Gilbert, it was agreed, would +stay at his hotel until called for, or they would all meet for lunch. +Norman watched the gate, and the stream of passengers. There was his +father.... Gilbert’s story seemed perfectly incredible. + +“Well, Father,” he said. + +“Well, Norman.” + +“Let me take your grip. Did you manage to get any sleep?” + +“I slept pretty well. Where are you taking me?” + +“We’ll have breakfast, and then I’ll take you to my room.” + +“It’s not breakfast time for me yet. This is Sunday, you know. You’d +better take me to your room first.” + +“Certainly.” + +In the taxi he said: “Does your job permit of your taking taxis like +this?” + +It was his kind of humor. + +“Only for very distinguished visitors,” said Norman. + +“I don’t know why Chicago is supposed to be such an ugly city,” said +Norman’s father, presently. “I think it can hold up its head.” + +“Michigan Avenue isn’t bad-looking,” said Norman. + +They passed the Art Institute. + +“Been buying any more pictures?” asked J. J. Overbeck. + +That was probably humor, too. + +“Not on my present salary. I get thirty a week at present,” said Norman. + +“Thirty a week is not bad to start with,” said J. J. Overbeck. “I know +young lawyers in Vickley who make less.” + +There was a silence. + +“What are you working at? If you don’t mind my knowing.” + +“Not at all. Advertising. Wilkins and Freeman.” + +“I’ve heard of them.” + +Silence again. + +“You neglected to pack a trunk when you left home. Your mother attended +to it last night. It ought to be here to-morrow.” He took a stub out of +his vest pocket and gave it to his son. + +“Thanks.” + +He would have liked to have his father say something more about his +mother, and how she felt about all this. But he would not ask. And his +father made no further reference to the family. + +“All right,” thought Norman, “who cares?” + +The taxi drew up presently at the curb. + +“Here’s where I live.” + +He took his father to his room. The bed had been made, and there was +a vase of flowers on the table. To be sure, a visit from the baby’s +grandfather was an important occasion. They were being damn’ nice to +him, these people.... Tears came into his eyes. + +Father and son sat down. + +“Comfortable place,” said Norman’s father. + +“Yes. Very.” + +“And--where do you keep the baby?” + +So his father assumed--for Gilbert hadn’t told him--that the baby would +be here! Of course--since that was what Norman had left home for.... +Well, he was right.... + +“Upstairs,” said Norman. “I’ll find out if we can see him now.” + +He went out in search of Mrs. Czermak. The younger sister was in the +hall, apparently waiting. + +“Is he ready to see the baby now?” she asked eagerly. + +“Yes, if he may.” + +“He’s in our room--the big room. You can go on up, any time.” + +“Thank you.” + +He went back. “We can go right up,” he told his father. + +He led the way to the upstairs room. Outside the door he started to say +something, in an ordinary tone of voice, but his father silenced him +with an abrupt, authoritative gesture. “You’ll wake him up,” he said in +a low tone. + +J. J. Overbeck opened the door quietly, and went in. Mrs. Czermak was +there, with a white cap and apron on. She came forward pleasantly, but +J. J. Overbeck ignored her. He went past her straight to the crib, +stooped over and looked at the sleeping baby. The morning sunlight, +pouring in, lighted up his pink face with its grey side-whiskers, bent +over the crib. Norman came closer. His father remained stooped in that +way for a full minute. Then he uncovered the baby’s plump hand, and +felt of it. Then the feet, in their tiny socks. Norman looked up to see +whether Mrs. Czermak approved of these liberties. Apparently she did. +She was looking on with quiet satisfaction. Her mother, and the younger +sister, who had slipped into the room, were beaming. + +Then, deliberately and with assurance, J. J. Overbeck lifted the baby +from the crib and held it in his arms. It slept on. J. J. Overbeck, not +paying any attention to the others, marched slowly around the room, +twice. Then he went back to the crib, and laid the baby down gently, +and covered it up. Then he turned and walked quietly out of the room. + +Norman followed him. + +In Norman’s room, his father took out a cigar, and offered one, saying: +“Not that it’s good for any one’s digestion, to smoke before breakfast.” + +“I’d rather have a cigarette, if you don’t mind,” said Norman. + +They sat down. + +“Have you made a new will?” his father asked. + +“Why, no,” said Norman,--remembering what Dr. Zerneke had told him as +to the sensible way of proceeding in this affair. + +“You’d better, right away. That’s the thing to do. We can get Gilbert +Rand to help us draw it up to-day.” + +Yes, Dr. Zerneke had said that he was to make up with his father, and +then make the child his heir.... + +“I suppose I’d better,” he said. + +“Have you named him?” + +“His mother--named him Norman.” + +Doubtless it would be politic to suggest calling him James Norman.... +But he wasn’t going to. + +“Norman.” His father nodded thoughtfully. + +There was a long silence, while J. J. Overbeck smoked. + +“I’m not going to change the firm name,” he said, with an air of +finality. + +Norman frowned in a puzzled way. + +“I’m not expecting to come back,” he said. + +“I wasn’t suggesting that precisely,” said his father. “I hope you will +find the advertising business agreeable. But I still think I shall let +the firm name stand as it is. To do otherwise would seem a concession +to vulgar prejudice.” + +As he spoke, he glanced thoughtfully over Norman’s head. At the +ceiling, one would have said. But Norman’s mind followed that glance +through plaster and flooring to the upstairs room and the cradle. Was +that what his father was thinking of? A day in the future when, if he +lived that long, he should see another Overbeck in the firm? + +(“Not if I know it!” thought Norman.) + +“Now, as to financial arrangements,” said his father. “Of course, I +expect you to take care of yourself. But for the child--and for any +emergencies--there’ll be a thousand dollars in the bank that you can +draw on this year if you should need it. It will be put in a savings +account, in your son’s name, you understand.” + +Norman resolved never to touch it.... But he must not offend his father. + +“It’s very good of you,” he said stiffly. + +J. J. Overbeck rose. “It’s time for breakfast,” he said. “We’ll go to +the hotel and rout out Gilbert Rand.” + + + + +Chapter VII: Home + + +HIS father had gone, taking the night train for Vickley. Gilbert Rand +had gone with him. Norman went back to his room on the elevated. + +Now that it was all over, he could permit himself to realize what +a frightful strain his father’s visit had been.... Old Gilbert’s +romantic yarn about him still seemed incredible. Oh, no doubt it was +true enough--but it hadn’t changed his feelings about his father. +Nothing, it seemed, could change those feelings--not even his father’s +extraordinary generosity about the baby.... Gilbert had thought that +his story of that lonely grave in the moonlight was a touch of nature +which would make him feel that his father was made of the same human +stuff as himself. It should have done so, but it didn’t. The gulf of +generation was between them. His father was still--his father. And he +was tremendously glad that it was all over. + +Things had gone to the satisfaction of everybody concerned--except, +perhaps, of Norman himself. A will had been drawn up; even a codicil to +J. J. Overbeck’s will, leaving Norman’s share of his father’s property, +in case of Norman’s death, to “my grandson, Norman Overbeck, the +natural son of my son Norman.” They visited Dr. Zerneke at her office; +she said that of course the Society would be glad to have the child +adopted by its father; it would be formally arranged within a few days, +she promised. And J. J. Overbeck made out a check to the Society which +far more than covered the expenses to which it had been put in this +matter. He also offered casually to pay any outstanding surgical or +hospital bills.... + +This was the only reference to Isabel’s part in the matter. And for +some reason that fact gave Norman an inward satisfaction. He had been +treated that way on his first visit to Dr. Zerneke’s office--as a mere +biological instrumentality connected with the production of a child! +Now it was her turn. And she deserved it, he thought vindictively. Yet +it did not escape him that he was still being treated, himself, in +something of the same impersonal fashion. The interests of the child +alone were being considered--which was quite all right. Yet he vaguely +felt it as a conspiracy to fasten upon this child the network of +Vickley.... True, they were only doing, with a generosity which he had +not expected, and a practical care exceeding his own impulsive efforts, +what he himself had sought to do by marrying the child’s mother. They +were undertaking merely to secure to his son, in so far as that could +be done by legal means, all those rights which would otherwise be +lost by the accident of birth outside of marriage. It was damned fine +of them! Why, then, must he feel all the while as though there were +something sinister in these proceedings? He remembered that glance +of his father’s at the ceiling.... Oh, doubtless he was being unduly +sensitive! His feelings as a parent were not being taken sufficient +account of. It was too abrupt a change from the heroic and rebellious +rôle he had been playing for two weeks! It was as if Vickley said: + +“A child is the tribe’s concern. Either a child does not officially +exist for us, or it does. It would have been simpler for you to have +let this child remain, so far as we are concerned, non-existent. But if +you force the matter upon our attention, we shall take your child into +the tribe. But it is we who give sanction to its existence--not you.” + +Well, it was over, for the time being. It now remained only for the +Adoption Society to take formal action. The child would be his.... He +wondered if Isabel knew.... But there was no reason why she should +know. It was a matter of indifference to her what happened to the +child.... So long as she didn’t have to bother with it herself.... + +Norman abruptly realized that he was at his station. + +He would try to put these legalistic matters out of his mind. After +all, he was living in the same house with his son.... Dr. Zerneke had +been rather surprised when he told her that. But they couldn’t take +that privilege away from him. + +He had just entered his room when there was a knock at the door. It was +the elderly musician, Mr. Victor. + +“Pardon me,” he said with a smile, “but I’d like to hear the news, if I +may.” + +“The news?” + +“You see, we can’t help all being interested in the little drama. We’d +like to see it turn out right--for the sake of the little fellow.” + +“Oh--come in.” + +Of course--it would be a drama to them. They had seen his father--quite +evidently somebody of consequence in his own world--they couldn’t help +seeing that. And a son in evident poverty and disgrace. The family +hadn’t approved of the marriage, they would think. But the sight of +the baby conquers the grandfather’s stony heart--Abie’s Irish Rose, in +fact. Well, they ought to be satisfied with the dénouement. That glance +of his father’s at the ceiling had been a promise (or a threat, if one +were so unreasonable as to take it so!) that this child should be one +of the lords of Vickley! He might tell this romantic old bird that. +It was what he wanted to hear--what every one, including Dr. Zerneke, +seemed to be hoping for.... + +“Won’t you sit down,” said Norman. “And as to the little drama, I think +I can say that I have received assurances that my own follies will not +be held against the child.” That was sufficiently nineteenth-century to +suit the occasion, he thought. + +“The girls will be pleased,” said the old man. “They are very fond of +the baby.” + +There was another knock at the door. + +“I think it’s them,” said Mr. Victor, with a smile. “Wanting to hear.” + +Norman opened the door. It was the younger sister, Monica. + +“Excuse me, Mr. Overbeck,” she said eagerly. “But what did he think of +the baby?” + +Norman was touched at her interest, but he replied casually: + +“Well--he seemed favorably impressed. Didn’t you think so?” + +“Yes! we both thought so. Did he say anything?” + +Norman smiled. “My father doesn’t say much,” he told her. “I mean, when +he’s pleased. One has to judge by the way he acts.” + +“He certainly acted pleased.” + +“Won’t you sit down?” + +“No--I just came in to ask. You don’t mind my asking? We couldn’t help +being anxious.” + +“Well, it’s all right,” he said reassuringly. + +“I’m so glad!” she said, and was about to go when he remembered: + +“I haven’t thanked you for the flowers--and the coffee. It was terribly +nice of you.” + +“Oh--the coffee,” she said. “We’d be very glad to bring you your coffee +every morning, if you’d like it. You get to work at eight, don’t you? +We’re having our own at seven, and it would be no trouble at all!” + +“Then you must let me pay you for it,” he said. + +“Oh, I don’t think my sister would want that,” she said. + +“We’ll discuss that later, then,” he said. + +“Good-night, then.” + +“Good-night.” + +“A nice family,” he remarked to Mr. Victor. + +“Yes,” said Mr. Victor. “A very nice family. Not the usual type of +people who keep rooming-houses. I know.” + +“They’ve been so friendly,” said Norman. “I don’t feel as though I were +among strangers at all.” + +“We tried to make it homelike,” said Mr. Victor ingenuously. “I may say +that the idea of Mrs. Czermak wearing her nurse’s costume was my own +contribution, or suggestion. I thought it would help to impress your +father favorably.” + +“Has Mrs. Czermak been a nurse-maid?” asked Norman. + +“Yes. Babies of her own--that’s what she needs,” said Mr. Victor wisely. + +“She’s not a widow, is she?” asked Norman. + +“No. But she isn’t living with her husband, you know.” + +“I didn’t know.” + +“Well, it’s not exactly a secret. He ran away.” + +“Oh!” + +“I might as well tell you,” said Mr. Victor. “He was a very young man, +and a poet. Vladimir Czermak was his name. He also tried to write +music. Very modern music.” Mr. Victor shook his head. “As to his +poetry, I am perhaps not so well qualified to judge. But I have read +some of it....” + +“He wrote in English?” + +“Yes. If it could be called English. He used to show me his things. He +had a room here. That was how it began. But he looked like a genius. +She has his picture--you must get her to show it to you some time. +The Irish, if you have noticed, have a tenderness for genius. Mrs. +Case allowed him to get behind in his rent. And then he married her +daughter. She was a nurse-maid then. To tell you the truth, I think +what she wanted was a baby of her own. But that wasn’t his idea at all. +He was afraid of the responsibility. As a matter of fact he couldn’t +very well afford to have a family. A young genius who is an unskilled +worker and odd-job man is a poor stick as a husband and father. He +wanted her not to have the baby, and when she went ahead having it he +cleared out.” + +“And what happened to her baby?” + +“It was prematurely born, and it died very soon afterward.” + +“Hard luck,” said Norman. + +“I don’t think she or the baby had the right kind of care,” said Mr. +Victor. “Poor people go to poor doctors. But Dr. Zerneke has been very +good to her. She performed some kind of operation that was needed, and +she gave her a baby to nurse. Your child is the third she has taken +care of for Dr. Zerneke. She gets very much attached to them, and feels +very bad at having to give them up. I understand,” he added, “that you +may leave your baby here for some time.” + +“I probably shall,” said Norman. + +“She’s hoping so,” said Mr. Victor. “She’s devoted to it.” + +“And she hasn’t heard from her husband since he went away?” + +“No. She’s going to get a divorce shortly.” + +“The family isn’t Catholic, then?” + +“Their father was Protestant Irish, and the girls have broken away from +the Church. And Dr. Zerneke seems to have persuaded the mother that it +wasn’t a real marriage in the Catholic sense, on account of his not +wanting to have a baby--something like that. At any rate, her scruples +have been more or less overcome. She isn’t sure it’s quite right, but +she’s making no protest. She realizes that Rose ought to be married +again and having her own babies.” + +“How old is she--Mrs. Czermak?” + +“Twenty-seven. That was one of the difficulties about her marriage. The +boy was three or four years younger.” + +“And her sister--how old is she?” + +“Monica is twenty.” + +“A nice kid,” said Norman, thinking of his sister Doris, and +remembering Monica’s offer to bring him coffee every morning. He +couldn’t help being moved by the sisterly kindnesses he was finding in +his new home. + +“It’s a very pleasant place here,” he said. + +“Your wife is in Colorado for her health, I understand?” said Mr. +Victor. + +They discussed the state of health of Norman’s alleged wife. + +“You mustn’t be discouraged,” said Mr. Victor encouragingly. +“Everything will come out all right.” He rose to go. + +“Thank you,” said Norman, “I’m sure it will.” + +“That’s the right spirit!” said Mr. Victor. + +It was a little embarrassing to be sympathized with on such fictitious +grounds. Nevertheless, after old Mr. Victor had taken his friendly +leave, Norman found himself wondering why all homes couldn’t be as +pleasant and comfortable as this one. + +He said to himself that his new life had really begun. + + + + +Chapter VIII: Apron Strings + + +DURING that protracted Sunday conference Dr. Zerneke had suggested +to Norman that he come to her home some evening that week, to clear +up the situation in a talk of a less formal and legalistic sort. The +engagement had been made for Monday evening. + +But on Monday morning, when Monica brought his coffee, he was up, and +they conversed for a moment at the door; and she reminded him that this +was the baby’s birthday. At that age, it appeared, birthdays came every +month, and this was his first. It was to be a sort of special occasion; +and it would be the first time (not counting that time at the hospital) +that he had seen his son awake. + +He called up the doctor that afternoon and, explaining his reasons, +postponed the engagement. It was arranged that he should call Wednesday +evening instead. + +Junior’s birthday party--for now the girls called the baby by that +name--was the pleasantest sort of contrast to Isabel’s impersonal +indifference that day in the hospital. It was infinitely agreeable to +Norman, the sight of these girls bending over his child--cooing to him, +and triumphantly eliciting his smile. They knew every dimple by heart. +And unquestionably the baby was rosier, plumper, happier, than he had +been with that unnatural mother of his. It ministered to some deep need +in Norman’s heart, the picture of maternal solicitude which these girls +presented--Rose with her grave motherly preoccupation, and Monica with +her joyous young excitement over every detail of this budding life. +It made him very happy. He sat in the room on those evenings with his +child and its young nurses, enchanted. Their mother, Mrs. Case, was +there, too, sometimes--and occasionally he felt a little embarrassed by +her Rabelaisian comments on babies and some of their natural functions; +but the girls paid no attention, and he soon learned not to mind +her way of talking.... Mr. Victor would drop in, too, to enjoy the +spectacle. + +“You can see him bathed Sunday morning,” said Monica enthusiastically. + +And on Tuesday evening, after the ceremony of the bottle was over, +and Mr. Victor was chatting with him in his room, Monica came in. +“My sister doesn’t like to ask,” she said, “but you see--she and Ma +have to be out to-morrow evening. It’s about Rose’s divorce. There’s +some witnesses we have to see. Of course, I could stay and look after +the baby, but I’m the one who has been talking to the lawyers, and I +really know more about it than they do. I ought to go along. And we +wondered--I wondered--if you were going to be in that evening. Because +if you were, I thought you wouldn’t mind staying up in our room, next +to the nursery. Of course, if you’re going to be out, I can stay at +home just as well. It’s only for a couple of hours. We’ll be home in +time to give him his ten o’clock bottle. I thought maybe you’d like to!” + +This was an occasion much too important to be sacrificed to a mere +conference with Dr. Zerneke. + +“I’d be very glad to,” he said. + +He called up Dr. Zerneke the next day, and the engagement was postponed +until Friday. + +On Friday evening, then, a little before ten, not without regrets at +having to miss the important occasion of the day, he walked over to Dr. +Zerneke’s home. + +It was an apartment some blocks away from her office, in a less +imposing building. He had been told to ring the janitor’s bell, and “if +I’m not there, the key’s on the lintel above the door.” Having passed +the inspection of the janitress, he climbed the stairs, to the top +floor. There was no answer to his knock, so he let himself in according +to instructions. + +The ceilings at the front were low, with a garret-like slant. There +were easy chairs, a large couch heaped with cushions, a little table +with a coffee-bulb and cups set out, large bookcases filled with books. +The rest of the wall space was occupied with etchings, lithographs, +and oils. Here was one of Nordfeldt’s New Mexico etchings--he had +several of that series himself. A lithograph by Picasso. And here was +a Springer.... He hadn’t gone to Springer’s exhibit. Well, he was a +workingman now. Not an art patron any more.... + +Dr. Zerneke entered, carrying her medicine case. + +“You let yourself in--good. I’ll make some coffee in a moment.” + +Norman asked: “Can I do anything?” + +“No. Sit down.” + +Dr. Zerneke went into another room, put away her things, and came back. +She carried the coffee-bulb into the kitchen, returned with it filled +with water, and lighted the alcohol lamp. + +“Why,” she asked, “didn’t you consult me before going to live at Mrs. +Czermak’s?” + +“It didn’t occur to me that it was a matter to consult anybody about,” +Norman answered, a little defiantly. After all, he had not left home to +take orders on every little thing from Dr. Zerneke. + +“Is there,” he asked, “any reason why I should not live there?” + +“It’s merely,” said Dr. Zerneke, “that it will make it more difficult +for her to give up the baby.” + +“That won’t be necessary for some time, I presume,” said Norman. + +“I had not planned to leave the baby there more than a few weeks,” said +Dr. Zerneke. + +“But why?” asked Norman in surprise. “I thought it was a fine place.” + +“It has its merits. But I should prefer to put your baby in another +boarding-home, where there are other children, so that he won’t be +spoiled by too much devotion. And you can see that your being there +makes it unnecessarily embarrassing.” + +“Yes, I can see that. But what I can’t see is why the baby should be +taken away.” It really seemed to him as though Dr. Zerneke were saying +that to annoy him. + +“I think,” he added, “I might be allowed to be the judge of that. I was +going to ask you if the Adoption Society hadn’t passed on the matter of +the adoption, by the way.” + +“And I was going to tell you that the Society has decided that the +proper procedure in this case would be for the mother to turn over the +child to you herself.” + +“But she’s already given it up to the Society!” said Norman. + +“That would be cancelled. It may be a legal quibble, but for some +reason this procedure is preferable. I’ve written to your father about +it.” + +“Where is Isabel--in Paris?” + +“No--she doesn’t sail till the eleventh of May, according to her plans. +She’s still in Michigan, resting. There won’t be much of a delay. As +soon as she signs the papers we’ve sent her, the child will be your +own. And for that reason, I think I ought to explain to you why you +should not leave him at Mrs. Czermak’s indefinitely. The atmosphere of +the place is all wrong. That kind of neurotic devotion is all right for +a few weeks, but you don’t want the child to get too accustomed to it.” + +“Would you call them neurotic?” Norman asked defensively. “I should +have said they were a very healthy lot.” + +“It’s the situation that is unhealthy. I’m thinking particularly of +Mrs. Czermak herself. The obvious thing to say is that she needs babies +of her own--and it’s quite true. She let her maternal instincts be +exploited for a long time in a nurse-maid’s job. Then, when she did get +married, it was to a no-account young genius who wanted to be the baby +of the family himself. And since her baby died, I’ve been exploiting +her for the benefit of other women’s babies. No, I don’t call it +healthy to break her heart over children that don’t belong to her. +Just because it’s your child that she’s in love with doesn’t mean that +everything’s all right. And when she does have to give him up, you can +thank yourself for making it worse for her.” + +“But how have I made it any the worse?” + +“A man around the house--her baby’s father--why, it’s almost like +being married! I’m not suggesting that she’s necessarily in love with +you, Mr. Overbeck--and if she were, it would not be so much a tribute +to your own charms as to the fact that you are the baby’s father. Her +baby’s, as she wishes to feel.” + +“Am I to take this as a warning?” Norman asked coldly. + +“Stranger things have happened. Of course, if you wish to settle down +there permanently”--Dr. Zerneke smiled--“you’d find her an excellent +wife in many respects.” + +“Good heavens!” said Norman, horrified. “I never realized that these +things were so frightfully complicated. I only wanted to get acquainted +with my son. I’ve only seen him five times--awake, that is.” + +“And to-night it was my fault that you were dragged away from the happy +scene, wasn’t it?” said Dr. Zerneke. “Thoughtless of me!” + +The boiling water plunged upward through the glass tube furiously, and +Dr. Zerneke put out the flame beneath. + +“Things came off very well Sunday, didn’t they?” she said. + +“My father,” he replied uncomfortably, “was more than kind.” + +“Yes--he was sensible, which is more to the point. When is your mother +coming?” + +He hesitated. “No definite date has been set,” he told her. + +“Have you asked her?” + +“She knows where I am. She can come if she wants to.” + +“Have you written to her at all?” + +“No,” he said reluctantly. + +“Nor to any of your family?” + +“No. Why should I?” + +“You must remember that you repudiated them, when you left home without +telling them about the baby. Don’t you suppose families have feelings? +They won’t come to see the baby till you invite them.” + +“Oh, I suppose I should.” + +“Yes, I think you’d better. And I also think it might be just as well +if you were living somewhere else when your mother and sisters come to +see you, if you don’t mind my saying so.” + +He realized what she meant--they wouldn’t like his being so much at +home there. And his sister Lucinda would be suspicious of Mrs. Czermak. +It was perfectly absurd, but she would. She thought every woman had +designs on him.... He sighed.... + +“It’s been a very comfortable place,” he said. “I should be sorry to +have to leave.” + +“Yes,” said Dr. Zerneke tartly, as she poured the coffee, “a man with +a fond mother and sisters does get in the habit of letting women-folk +wait on him. Sugar?” + +“Black, please,” he said, flushing. Had she heard of Monica’s bringing +him his morning coffee? But that wasn’t his fault! They had all +insisted on it. He couldn’t have refused without being rude.... + +“I’ll stop scolding you,” she said, handing him the cup. “How is your +work going?” + +“Not brilliantly, I’m afraid.” + +“Well, the adoption matter ought to be settled soon, and then you can +settle down to a normal life.” + +Something in her tone made him ask: “What, exactly, is your idea of a +normal life for me, Dr. Zerneke?” + +“Well, I don’t mind saying that it isn’t hanging over a cradle in your +spare evenings. You ought to be having some kind of ordinary social +life. You ought to be making friends. Men friends and girl friends. +If I heard that you were caught drinking and dancing, I wouldn’t be +shocked. Even if you were seen kissing a pretty girl. I know, this may +seem precipitate to you. You’ve only been mooning over your baby for a +week. Just the same, it’s time you began to form other habits.--Your +habits would be admirable enough, if you were a husband, and one of +those girls your wife. That’s how a home is built up. But you are a +bachelor. And you ought to behave as such. It would be bad enough, the +way you’re acting, if they were your own mother and sisters. I want you +to snap out of it.... The truth is that something fell on you three +weeks ago, and hit you like a ton of brick. Nevertheless, you’ve got to +get over it. You can’t let time stop still for you at the moment when +you found you had a baby. After all, staying in the cave and cooing +to babies is a maternal occupation. Going out and killing bears is +the paternal job. How long, if I may ask, are you going to work for +thirty dollars a week? Or is your son going to be supported by his +grandfather?” + +Norman set down his coffee cup and rose haughtily. + +“I’m sorry my conduct doesn’t please you,” he said. “Thank you for your +advice. I will call on you when I want more of it.” + +And so saying, thoroughly outraged, he left Dr. Zerneke’s home abruptly. + + + + +Chapter IX: It Was Bound to Happen + + +THAT was on Friday evening. And on Saturday morning he had a telephone +call from Dr. Zerneke. + +“I’ve heard from Isabel,” she said. “The papers are signed. If you +can get off this afternoon to go to the courthouse, the thing will be +settled for good.” + +He would be at her office at two, he said. + +The legal red-tape would soon be unwound, now--his son would be all his +own!... + +Going back to his desk, he found a note there, saying formally that Mr. +Wilkins wished to see him. + +He walked buoyantly into Mr. Wilkins’ office, thinking to himself that +this would be his promised raise. + +“My luck is with me!” he said to himself. + +Ten minutes later, he came out of Mr. Wilkins’ office saying to himself +over and over: + +“Of course. It was bound to happen. I’ve had too easy a time. It was +bound to happen.” + +He had in his hand an order on the cashier for his week’s pay, and +another week’s in advance. + +Mr. Wilkins had observed his work carefully, he said, during these two +weeks. Not everybody had the makings of an advertising man in him. He +felt sure that Mr. Overbeck would do better in some other field. Et +cetera. + +Fired! + +He tried to persuade himself to take it lightly. After all, there were +other advertising agencies in Chicago. He had got this job without +any experience at all. With what he had picked up of the lingo of the +profession, he ought to be able to get a better job. Yes, he was no +longer a mere beginner. He would strike the next place for sixty-five +dollars a week at least.... + +While he felt that way, as soon as he had cleaned up his desk and got +his money from the cashier, he walked over to the H. H. Warner agency +and asked for a job. He did not get it. + +Then he tried the Simpson agency. There was nothing there for him, +either. + +Well, it had taken him some little time to get that first job. It would +take more than a day to get another.... And in the meantime he had to +go to see Dr. Zerneke. + +What an irony! That it should be at such a moment that he should be +given his son! + +With Dr. Zerneke, in her office, he was stiff and formal. He had +decided not to tell her about losing his job--until he had found +another. + +She wasted no words, but pushed a document across her desk. + +“That is the mother’s consent. And here”--she glanced at another paper, +and handed it over--“is your petition. Sign it before a notary, and +take it to Judge Hummel in the County Court, at three o’clock; our +legal representative will be there. His name is Starrett.” + +“Thank you.” + +He took his departure stiffly. + +There was a notary’s office down the street. He had noticed it in +coming. He stopped there, signed his name, and held up his hand while +the notary mumbled a formula. + +At the courthouse he found Mr. Starrett waiting for him. They went into +Judge Hummel’s chambers. The judge looked at him curiously. It was not +every day, it seemed, that a man adopted his illegitimate child.... + +It was over at last. And now to look for a job. + +But no--he must wait till Monday for that.... + +He would have nothing to do over Sunday except think. + +He remembered what Dr. Zerneke had said about the child’s being +supported by his grandfather. It was as if she had known he was going +to lose his job.... + +It was true that he had been slack at his desk all week. Not like the +week before, when he had been living by himself, and calling up Dr. +Zerneke’s office once a day to see whether the baby was all right.... +He had been working for his son, then. Ever since he had come to +Mrs. Czermak’s, he had been lapped in a soft, sentimental dream of +fatherhood.... + +He realized that he had had no lunch. He must eat, even if he was out +of a job. + +He went home early in the evening and picked up a book to read, to keep +his thoughts off his situation. He had decided he would say nothing to +the people here about losing his job. Not until he had got another. He +would go out early in the morning as usual, and keep looking for a job +all day.... + +The book was one that had been in the room when he rented it, a novel +of Dumas’. He had read it when he was a boy. He started to read it +again, with the hope that in this cheerful swashbuckling romance he +would find something to take his mind entirely away from his problems. +It was about Athos--and, as he presently noted, about an illegitimate +son of that worthy. And Norman vaguely remembered, from his boyhood, +the story of how it had all come about. The young man had found upon +his doorstep a bassinet containing the newborn child--a souvenir sent +by a young lady of quality in memory of the jocund night of love which +they had enjoyed the year before. So, it appeared, were such matters +handled in those romantic days. And, as Norman remembered, the young +hero had suffered no pangs of conscience; he had taken it as a matter +of course, and sent the child away to be nursed and educated. Such, as +well as Norman could remember, were the origins and early circumstances +of the Vicompte de Bragelonne.... + +Norman threw the book aside fretfully. Dumas had played him false--had +merely reminded him of his own troubles.... + +He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. Time for the feeding. But +he did not want to go to see it.... He would feel ashamed, knowing that +he had lost his job.... + +What was it that Dr. Zerneke had said about the clock stopping for him? +When he found that he had a baby. Yes, he hadn’t thought of much else +since then. + +When Dumas’ hero found that bassinet on his doorstep, he didn’t moon +over it. He took it in his stride.... + +Well, when he had another job, he would begin to live what Dr. Zerneke +called a normal life. He would make friends. He would meet girls. He +would not hang over his son’s cradle every evening. He would be a +normal young bachelor.... + +But first he had to find a job--and work hard to keep it this time. + +What a fool he had been, to lose that job! It might be hard enough to +get another.... But he wasn’t going to let his son be supported by J. +J. Overbeck.... + +There was a knock at the door. It sounded like Mr. Victor’s. He ignored +it. And Mr. Victor took the hint of his silence and went away. But +presently there came another tap that sounded like Monica’s. He ignored +that, too. He sat slumped in his chair, thinking of his inadequacies. +He was sitting thus, with his head drooped on his chest miserably, +when the door opened slightly, and Monica’s voice uttered a surprised +and apologetic “Oh!” + +Norman did not look up even then. For he became aware of the tears of +self-anger and self-pity in his eyes. He did not want this girl to see +him crying. + +But girls are stupid about such things. She stayed there in the +doorway, and said “Oh!” again, this time in a sympathetic tone. Then +she came timidly into the room, approached him, touched his arm with +her hand. “Please--is anything the matter, Mr. Overbeck? Have you--have +you had bad news from Colorado?” + +She stooped over him in a kind sisterly way. + +Colorado? + +“No!” he said. And he added roughly: “Go away and leave me alone!” + +She fled. + +He shouldn’t have said that, he thought regretfully. She wasn’t his +sister, to be talked to in such a fashion. She had a right to ask--she +had thought his wife was dying or something. That was what any one +would think, to see him sitting there crying. + +Stricken with remorse, he went to the door. + +“Monica!” he called, for she was not in sight. She appeared abruptly at +the head of the stairs. “Yes, Mr. Overbeck?” + +“I--I’m sorry, Monica,” he said. + +“Oh, it’s all right.” + +She was coming down. She stood there before him, with a queer +frightened look on her face. + +He didn’t know that he was holding out his arms to her in the doorway. +He didn’t know until she melted into his clasp, and they were kissing +one another. + +“Oh!” she said at last, “we mustn’t do this. Your wife--” + +“Of course,” said Norman, infinitely astonished at himself. “I forgot!” + +There they were, in the doorway; and at the head of the stairs, as they +both suddenly became aware, was Monica’s mother. They released each +other abruptly. Monica ran out into the hall. Norman closed the door, +and sat down to think. + +Now what? + +He couldn’t imagine why he had done such a foolish thing. + +Fortunately, he was supposed to have a wife in Colorado. Monica +wouldn’t expect him to marry her. + +But what would her mother say? + +He wasn’t left long in doubt. A firm rap at the door was Mrs. Case’s. +He rose to let her in. + + + + +Chapter X: Mrs. Case + + +“I’M very sorry, Mrs. Case,” he began, but she interrupted him. + +“That’s all right,” she said, “you would be, caught as you were, and +I’m not worrying about what’s past. It’s the girl’s fault as much as +your own, and natural enough on both sides, with small blame to either +of you. It’s the days and nights to come I’m thinking of. A man with a +wife away is bound to be kissing some girl, and if it’s not one it will +be another, so another it shall be. We’ve trouble enough in our family, +and it will be some other than my Monica that you philander with from +now on. I’m not blaming you, Mr. Overbeck, you understand, but the way +it is, with you a married man, I’ll just ask you to find another room, +and take temptation out of harm’s way.” + +“It’s very kind of you to look at it in that way, Mrs. Case,” said +Norman, much relieved. “I’ll move to-morrow.--I don’t know how it +happened,” he began to explain. + +“Oh, I know how it happened,” said Mrs. Case. “There was you, and there +was she, and that’s how it happened. I’m not saying a word against +human nature. I can’t have it go on in _my_ house, that’s all. I’ll be +sorry to see you go, but you know how it is. I can’t be staying awake +all night to see that my daughter sleeps in her own bed.” + +Norman blushed. “I assure you,” he said, “that we--that I--” + +“You can save your assurances for your wife when she comes back, it’s +then you’ll need them,” said Mrs. Case. “I know the world of men and +women, and I’ve no great quarrel with the way they’re made. It’s all +right with me, but you can just be leaving your door unlocked at night +for the other girl at your new place, when it comes to that.” + +Norman, not quite following her meaning, asked in bewilderment and some +indignation: + +“What other girl do you mean?” + +“Whatever one it chances to be, and I wish you good luck, too,” said +Mrs. Case. “There’ll be one. You’re not the sort of young man the girls +will let sleep single long, but I’d rather, as I say, it would be some +other woman’s daughter that kept you company when the lights are out.” + +“Really, Mrs. Case,” said Norman in embarrassment. “You mustn’t think--” + +“Oh, it’s only human nature,” said Mrs. Case, “and nothing to apologize +for. I think none the less of you, but I have to look after my own as +best I may.” + +“I think you’re quite right, Mrs. Case,” said Norman. + +“We’ll all miss you, I say, and we’ll all be glad to see you when you +come to visit your boy. You mustn’t think we’ve any grudge against +you, Mr. Overbeck. That’s why I’m asking you to go now, before that +happens which we’ll all be sorry for.” + +There was more to the same effect, and it was arranged that Norman +should find another room and move to-morrow, on the excuse that he had +to be nearer to his office. + +It was just as well all around, thought Norman; he would take a cheaper +room while he was looking for work. He paid Mrs. Case two weeks in +advance for the baby; that at least was secure.... + +“I don’t mind saying I’ll sleep better when you’ve gone, and I don’t +have to wonder is every creak a girl’s bare feet on the stairs,” she +said, at which Norman blushed again. + +Was _that_--he wondered when she had gone--what everybody in this house +thought of their brother-and-sisterly friendship?... Well--that kiss +hadn’t been very brother-and-sisterly! After all, what did he know +about himself? Or Monica? Perhaps this brassy-tongued old woman was +right. Anyway, he gathered that these reflections upon his character +were not intended by Monica’s mother as uncomplimentary. + +As he went to bed, he glanced at the lock on his door. Yes, perhaps +it was just as well he was going to leave this place.... What did he +really know about girls? + + + + +Chapter XI: Paradise Lost + + +ON Sunday morning he found a small room on the North side, not far +away, a narrow hall bedroom on the top floor--a hole in the wall that +cost him only four dollars a week. + +He went back to Mrs. Case’s to pack up. Mr. Victor came in. He had +heard, he said, that Norman was leaving. + +Nobody else came in. They seemed to be avoiding him. + +He asked Mr. Victor to tell Mrs. Case that the corner expressman +would come for his trunk. He looked around the room regretfully, and +wondered again at that inexplicable kiss which had forfeited for him +this comfort.... Well, unless he got a job right away, he couldn’t have +stayed there anyway. + +“Say good-by for me to Mrs. Case, and Mrs. Czermak--and Monica,” he +bade Mr. Victor. “Tell them how grateful I am and always will be to +them, for the way they’ve looked after my child.” + +Mr. Victor raised his eyebrows. “But you’ll be coming here regularly to +see the boy, won’t you?” he asked. + +Norman felt rather foolish. To Mr. Victor, of course, it was not a +farewell to a lost paradise. + +“My work is going to keep me terribly busy for a while,” he said +stiffly. “I shan’t be able to get here very often.” + +“You’ve been almost one of the family,” said Mr. Victor regretfully. + +Just a little too darned near, thought Norman.... That kiss still +astonished him whenever he thought of it. + +But he didn’t like to go away as though he were sneaking off in +disgrace. He wished he could see Monica for a moment.... An idea +occurred to him. + +He unlocked his trunk. In the till were all sorts of trifles which +his mother had collected from his chiffonier. He searched among them, +looking for something appropriate.... Yes, girls wore cuff-links +sometimes. He selected a handsome green jade pair with silver mountings. + +“May I entrust you with a little commission?” he asked Mr. Victor +formally. “I would like you to give these to little Monica.” + +“She’ll be pleased as Punch,” said Mr. Victor, admiring them. + +“I don’t know when I’ll be here again,” said Norman, “so I’ll say +good-by,” and shook hands with Mr. Victor. + +He went over to his new room and awaited the trunk. He was afraid at +first that there would be no room for it. But he found that if it were +set at the end of the narrow iron bedstead, it left space enough for +the door to open half way--and that was enough.... He reflected that +if the worst came to the worst, all those suits of clothes his mother +had sent him ought to fetch something at a pawnshop. + +But that was no way to be thinking at a time like this.... + +He dined as inexpensively as possible, and came back to his hole in the +wall.... At Mrs. Czermak’s there had been a tree in front of the house. +Here he looked out over a chaos of grimy roofs. Well, he might as well +get used to it! This might be his life for some time now. + +All the rest of the day he stayed in his tiny room. He remembered that +he had promised Dr. Zerneke to write to his mother. But he did not want +her to come while he was out of a job. He would have to postpone that +indefinitely. + +Well, what was he going to do? Look for a job, of course. But suppose +he couldn’t find one? + +But he could. He would. He must! + +He hadn’t been discouraged when he started in to look for a job three +weeks before. But this was different, somehow. Being a father, with a +baby to support--that had been then a strange dream, a daring wish, a +rebellious aspiration. Now it was a grim reality. He had to keep on +paying that twelve dollars a week.... And he began with pencil and +paper to figure out how long his money would last, computing his own +expenses at the lowest rate. Less than three weeks! Scarcely more than +two, in fact. He had that much time to find a job in. Then there was +that trunkful of clothes to pawn.... Of course, his father’s money was +there in the bank, waiting for such emergencies as this. But that would +be a confession of failure.... + +Why was he thinking of failure now? Three weeks ago he hadn’t worried +about that possibility.... But three weeks ago he hadn’t just been +fired from a job that he thought he was doing pretty well at. + +Yesterday he had formally adopted his and Isabel’s child. He, a man +without a job, who could assure a child no more than three weeks’ food +and shelter. What would Isabel think, if she knew? Would she be sorry +she hadn’t given her baby to some well-to-do strangers? + +He found it difficult to get to sleep that night. The future stretched +out before him, grim and frightening. + + + + +Chapter XII: Out of a Job + + +HE had intended to get up early Monday morning; but a troubled sleep, +filled with a long, anxious, childish dream concerning an attempt to +find the right train in a huge and bewildering railway station, held +him fast in its grip. Apparently he was waiting for Monica’s knock to +awaken him. But no knock came, and it was ten o’clock before he opened +his eyes. A bad start! He would have to get an alarm clock. + +He called on an advertising agency that day, and was not surprised to +be told that they needed no one. + +The rest of the day he spent in an aimless wandering about the streets. + +The next day, again rising late from the enthrallment of an +anxiety-dream, he called on another advertising agency, and again used +his further time in meaningless perambulation. The fact was that the +experience of being refused a job robbed him of his courage for the +rest of the day. And in addition there was a half-conscious conviction +of the hopelessness of his search, which made him want to stretch out +the effort over a period of days or weeks, and postpone as long as +possible the inevitable conclusion of failure.... + +What occupied his thoughts during these long days was a monotonous +series of trifles which had assumed for him a heavy and grave +importance. One, which took all week to decide about, concerned +the buying of an alarm clock. He certainly needed one--there was +no doubt of that. He was rising later and later from his poisonous +fear-dreams.... But a clock cost money. He looked at clocks in the +windows of drug stores as he passed, noted their prices, and figured +out in his mind how many hours of his money the cheapest of them would +set him back. For he had his money computed now in terms of hours. +Every dollar, as he had calculated it, gave him and his child eight +hours and some forty-eight minutes of food and shelter. A forty-five +cent clock might seem cheap enough, but it robbed them of four hours’ +security! And figured in that fashion, its cost was so stupendous that +its purchase must be postponed and reconsidered pro and con at great +length. + +Again there was the matter of his meals. He had for this period set +down the meager sum of fifty cents a day for food. That had seemed +small enough, but when one ate only two meals a day at very cheap +restaurants it was possible to cut down that figure. He could get a +breakfast of doughnuts and coffee for ten cents, and a dinner of hash +or spaghetti for thirty. The consideration of these items, and the +sense of saving occupied much of his time and thought.... And yet, +after a few days, when he came to balance his budget one evening, +he found that he had spent more money than he should have done. Two +dollars, or seventeen hours and a half, had vanished without trace.... + +And there were items he had not reckoned on--cigarettes he could do +without (he smoked a kind that went out, and he saved the stubs of +his last box and had a luxurious puff or two from one of those before +going to bed), but laundry was a necessity; and so, after butchering +his face with his last dull blade, was a new supply of blades for his +safety razor; though the soap on the washstand was as good for shaving, +he found, as what comes in a tube. And even the small item of carfare +seriously disarranged his estimates; at a minimum of ten cents a day +for three weeks, it shortened his time of security by nineteen hours. +And he had quite forgotten about having to pay for laundry. + +In truth, he knew these estimates were an absurd folly; yet he spent +hours of time every evening going over his figures, working them out in +decimals. There was this comfort in his preposterous mathematics, that +it kept his mind precariously balanced on the edge of the abyss of fear +along which he seemed to walk. It was as if he must keep his eyes fixed +upon these figures, lest he should look down into that gulf and become +dizzy.... + +He did not go to see his child; he could not face the people +there--yet. He called up every evening, and Mrs. Case or Mrs. Czermak +reported that the baby was--of course--all right. Once it was Monica +who answered the telephone; in a queer, constrained voice she gave him +the information he wanted, and then, still in a reserved tone, thanked +him for the cuff-links. (He had forgotten them.) He explained that he +was very busy, but hoped to have time soon for a visit.... + +Every day that week he went to an advertising agency. There were only +two, besides the one from which he had been discharged, where he would +have cared to work; one of them he had gone to last Saturday, and the +other he held in reserve, going first to the smaller and negligible +ones. On Saturday morning he would go to McCullough’s, the one he was +holding in reserve. + +That day he rose early, having bought an alarm clock at +last--recklessly paying seventy-nine cents for it. He indulged in the +luxury of having his shoes shined. He bought a newspaper, and read +about the preparations for the General Strike in England, and the +sports news, so as not to be too out of touch conversationally with the +outside world. Thus prepared, he went to McCullough’s. + +Mr. McCullough himself was not in, but somebody in charge told him +flatly that there was no opening there just now for anybody.... + +That afternoon, when going into a cheap restaurant to brace himself +with another meal of doughnuts and coffee, he noticed a sign in the +window: “Dishwasher Wanted.” He went up to the man at the cashier’s +desk and asked about the job. + +The man looked at him doubtfully and said: “I don’t think it’s the kind +of a job you want.” + +“How much does it pay?” asked Norman. + +“Go and see the boss. He’s in the back.” + +“Whom shall I ask for?” + +“Ask for the boss.” + +Norman went back into the greasy, steaming kitchen. + +“I want to see the boss,” he said to a fat man in an apron. + +“I’m the boss. What do you want?” + +“How about that dishwashing job?” + +The man looked at him. “My God, what next?” he said disgustedly. + +“Why, what’s the matter with me?” Norman asked. + +“You’d last about an hour,” said the man. + +“How much is the pay?” Norman demanded. + +“Twelve dollars and meals. You have the day shift for two weeks and +then the night shift--seven to seven.” + +Twelve dollars--and meals. That was enough for the baby. And he could +pawn his trunkful of clothes to pay for his room. + +“I’ll take it,” he said. + +“If you’re here at six-thirty to-morrow morning and nobody else has +turned up, I’ll try you out,” said the man. + +“All right,” said Norman. “I’ll be here.” + +“The hell you will,” said the man doubtfully. + +As Norman went by the cashier’s desk the man there asked: “Get it?” + +“I think so,” said Norman. + +“Working for a paper?” asked the man. “Going to write us up?” And he +smiled knowingly. + +Norman shook his head and went out. Why were they so suspicious of him? +Just because of his clothes? Well, a week’s dishwashing would change +that.... + +He would have no time to call up Mrs. Czermak to-night. He’d better +call up now. + +Monica answered the telephone. + +“Oh!” she said. “Dr. Zerneke wants very particularly to see you +to-night. She said to go to her home at ten o’clock. Yes, Junior’s all +right. When are you coming to see him?” + +“Soon, I hope,” said Norman vaguely. + +What did Dr. Zerneke want to see him about? Had she found out about his +losing his job? + + + + +Chapter XIII: The Dreamer Wakes + + +DR. ZERNEKE was not in when he arrived at her home at ten o’clock, and +he let himself in as before. + +Waiting for her, he turned to the book-shelves. He caught the name +of Freud on the back of certain imposing volumes.... Ferenczi.... +Flexner.... Frazer.... Fabre.... + +All very informative, no doubt.... Sanger.... Spencer and Gillen.... +Stendhal’s _L’Amour_.... Stopes.... If he read all those large books, +he might understand his own situation better. But it was a little late +to begin his education. Perhaps a younger generation, that babbled of +sex and psychoanalysis instead of nursery rhymes, as it was reputed to +do, would find clear sailing. And maybe not. He had thought he knew +something, himself. He had had a smattering of modern ideas. He had +thought of himself as a liberal. + +Goethe.... Godwin.... Groos.... Remy de Gourmont. Guyot’s _Breviare +de l’amour experimentale_.... All about sex, it seemed.... Janet.... +James Joyce.... Ernest Jones.... Jung.... Kammerer.... Kempf.... Ellen +Key.... The Koran.... Krafft-Ebing.... An omnium gatherum of biology, +sociology, psychiatry, poetry, plays, and what not.... Adler.... Grant +Allen’s “The Woman Who Did”--a novel Norman vaguely remembered having +read in his ’teens; it was about a woman who deliberately and on theory +had an illegitimate child; the child, as Norman recalled, did not +thank her mother for conferring upon her that heroic but embarrassing +distinction.... Aretino.... The Apocrypha.... + +Norman took down the Apocrypha, and looking into it at random was +interested to see there the name Thecla. He had wondered who was the +St. Thecla for whom the Adoption Society was named. He would read the +Apocrypha some time and find out.... He put the book back at the sound +of some one coming up the stairs. + +Dr. Zerneke entered, and greeted him cordially. + +“Well, Mr. Overbeck,” she said, “I suppose you are feeling pretty good +about everything?” + +Norman was disconcerted. + +“What about?” he asked suspiciously. Was she making fun of him? + +“Why, you have your son,” she said. “That hasn’t palled already, has +it?” + +“Oh,” he said. “I thought--” + +“You thought what?” + +“I hadn’t intended to tell you,” he said. “But the fact is, I’ve lost +my job.” + +“That’s too bad,” she said sympathetically. “As a matter of fact,” she +added, “I knew.” + +“Oh’you did?” + +“Yes. I happened to call up Wilkins and Freeman, and they said you +weren’t there any more.” + +“Of course.... It was foolish to think I could keep it a secret.” + +“You haven’t another yet, I suppose?” + +“No,” he admitted. “I’ve been looking for another all week without any +success. I--I seem to have lost my nerve. I’m frightfully discouraged. +To tell the truth, I took a job of dishwashing to-day.” + +“Dishwashing?” + +“Yes. So as to keep up my payments to Mrs. Czermak, while I’m looking +for a real job.... Oh, things will turn out all right, I know, but this +week my prospects haven’t looked so cheerful. It was something of a +shock, losing that job at Wilkins and Freeman’s. And looking for a job +and being turned down every day--it’s hard to keep up one’s courage.” + +“So now,” Dr. Zerneke commented, “you know how a good many other young +fathers feel. Well, it may be good for you.” + +“It may take me, of course,” said Norman, “several weeks to find +another job.” + +“Or several months, even,” said the doctor. “Do you know Mr. Victor, at +Mrs. Case’s rooming-house? He’s been out of work since New Year’s.” + +“How do they keep up?” + +“Some of them don’t. Others have a little money put by for hard times. +When you were a prosperous lawyer, didn’t you save anything?” + +“I had a bank account, yes.” + +“Why not draw on it, then?” + +“It’s not really mine, any longer, since I’ve quit the firm.” + +“Suit yourself. But I hope you’re not going to be silly.” + +“I’ve broken with my life in Vickley. I’d rather stay broken--not go +back for help. Is that so foolish?” + +“Are you engaged in some private quarrel with your father? Or are you +trying to make a career for yourself here in Chicago? If your son, when +he grows up, goes to New York to look for a job, don’t you think he +will need some money to live on before he gets started? Of course, you +can do dishwashing jobs in cheap restaurants if you want to. It may be +good for your soul. But I doubt it. I think you’re ashamed of having +lost your job.” + +“Why shouldn’t I be?” + +“Shame is a luxury no sensible person can afford. Do you want to stay +in the advertising business?” + +“I do. Very much. That’s really what I’m afraid of--that I’ll have to +fall back on something else.” + +“Would you consent to let me do you a favor?” + +“Why not?” + +“I thought you might be too proud. Well--first of all, how much money +have you in the bank at Vickley?” + +“Of my own--something like a thousand dollars. I was going to spend it +on my honeymoon.” + +“Write out a check for it and deposit it in some Chicago bank. How much +are you paying for your new room?” + +“Four dollars a week.” + +“Rent a small apartment. You can get one, furnished, for the summer, in +this neighborhood, for fifty or sixty dollars a month. Give my name as +a reference. You will need such a place to entertain your family in, +anyway. Do that Monday.” + +“And what then?” Norman asked curiously. + +“You are fond of buying pictures, aren’t you?” + +“I’ve confined myself to etchings, chiefly. I have a small collection +of moderns in Vickley.” + +“Send for them. Or go to the galleries and buy something new that +you’ll want to put on your walls. Do that on Tuesday. Also, go to a +department store and buy some cups and saucers or hangings that please +you. Do you dance?” + +“Yes.” + +“I will send you tickets for a ball next Wednesday, for which you will +please remit ten dollars. If you don’t find a girl to take, come alone, +and I’ll introduce you. It’s a masquerade, but evening clothes will do.” + +“Is that all?” Norman asked grimly. + +“Thursday I leave to your own devices. And on Friday go to see Mr. +McCullough, of the McCullough Advertising Agency, and ask for a job.” + +“I was in there this morning. They haven’t got a job to give me.” + +“They will probably have one next Friday.” + +“Why should they have one next Friday?” he asked suspiciously. + +“Because there is such a thing in this wicked world as ‘pull,’ and I +use unscrupulously the little I have for the benefit of my friends. How +do you suppose people get jobs?” + +“But what do you know about my ability?” + +“Nothing. After you get the job, it will be up to you to keep it. +That’s not my affair. All I promise you is a two weeks’ trial. But +it just happens that the last young man I rashly recommended to Mr. +McCullough turned out to be pretty good. If you’re a flop, I’ll merely +lose my reputation for intuition, that’s all. Only, if I were you, I’d +ask for sixty a week to start on. They’ll not respect you otherwise. +Remember that you’ve a baby to support.... And don’t, please, be angry +at me for keeping you from conquering the world by your own unaided +efforts.” + +“I’ll be everlastingly grateful,” he said. “But--I thought poverty was +supposed to be an incentive. Evidently you don’t think so. Why should +you want me to pretend to myself that I’m rich?” + +“Because you’ve always been well-to-do. You are, still, as a plain +matter of fact. Your poverty is a fake poverty--a neurotic lie, to +please yourself.” + +“It didn’t feel so to me. It seemed real enough. And it wasn’t at all +pleasing!” + +“It was an exercise of your imagination, nevertheless. A dream. I’ve +merely waked you up.” + +“It was a nightmare,” he said. + +“A grim little poetic fantasy. Write a poem about it, and send it to +the Daily Worker. It will all be true enough--for others. Not for you! +Be honest about this, if you can.” + +“I admit I feel better than I did when I came in. But why--aside from +the job you’ve more or less promised me--why should the _facts_ seem +different now? Because they do!” + +“You’re facing realities now. Not fighting shadows any more. The +question isn’t whether you can conquer the world with your bare hands. +It’s merely whether you can succeed in the advertising business. Maybe +you can’t, you know!” + +Norman laughed, and thanked her warmly. + +“Have you asked your mother to come to see you?” + +“Not yet.” + +“Well, the sooner the better.” + +As Norman walked back to his room, he had a startling apprehension +of the fact that what she had said about keeping a job was a really +important truth.... There had perhaps been something grimly romantic +about the thought of washing dishes and pawning his clothes to pay that +twelve dollars a week for his son’s care. This problem of keeping +a job after it had been given him--there was, he knew, nothing very +romantic about that. It was a quite realistic problem that he had to +face now.... + +“Am I,” he wondered, “a perfectly incorrigible ass?” + +If it would help to do the things that Dr. Zerneke advised--if it would +keep him from flying off on some preposterous new emotional tangent (he +had Monica’s kiss in mind) he would do as she said. + +He would get an apartment.... And then he would ask his mother to +come.... + + + + + BOOK THREE + + The Dominant Sex + + + + +Chapter I: Vita Nova + + +HIS mother was coming. He had wired, inviting her, and she had wired +back the date of her arrival.... + +Ten days had passed since his talk with Dr. Zerneke, and in the +meantime he had done most of the things outlined in her program. He had +transferred his bank account to Chicago. He had rented a good-sized +furnished apartment on the North side for the summer. He had even, +according to instructions, picked up an etching, a satiric thing by +Peggy Bacon, and put it on the wall, to make the place more his own.... + +He had in other respects dutifully carried out Dr. Zerneke’s commands, +day by day. He had obediently gone to the dance for which she had sent +him tickets (he thought of taking Monica, but rejected that idea as +distinctly out of place); and rather to his surprise, he had found on +that occasion that he was capable of enjoying himself like anybody +else.... + +And finally, with some uneasiness and considerable doubt, he had +applied to Mr. McCullough for a job--and had been taken on at forty +dollars a week, which was all he had the nerve to ask. + +He ought, he knew, to feel at ease now, in his comfortable apartment, +and with his new job. But he had lost his sense of security. His +experience of being out of a job had taught him something he could not +so quickly forget. Some time he might be able to feel again that the +world was made for him; but it seemed still a difficult and dangerous +place, and he a somewhat helpless stranger in it. He was determined +not to lose his new job. Never did a young man work at his tasks more +earnestly and humbly.... + +He had been to Mrs. Czermak’s to see his son twice in those ten +days--formal visits, different enough from the warm intimacy of his +former association with the family. He felt under constraint, and so +did the girls. Monica was distant and resentful, though she was rather +obviously wearing his present--the cuff-links. + +Well, at any rate, he was being sensible. With his mother coming to see +him, he must not get involved in any more messes. But he felt a little +guilty about Monica.... It wasn’t quite the thing to do to kiss a girl +and then drop her cold.... + +When he was settled in his apartment, and at work on his new job, with +no further excuse for delay, he had wired his mother the invitation to +visit him. Her answering wire had said she would arrive Sunday morning; +and this had been followed by a letter, a friendly and casual letter, +taking everything as a matter of course. And Doris had scribbled a +postscript saying that she’d love to see the baby.... Lucinda, it +appeared, was still suffering from “nerves.” He gathered that she had +taken it all pretty hard.... + +And there had been a letter from Gilbert Rand, giving him the town +gossip. They were still talking about him in Vickley. Nothing like that +had ever happened there.... Considering everything, Norman thought it +was pretty sporting of his mother to be so calm and matter-of-fact +about it. + +Nevertheless, with the approach of his mother’s visit, he began to +feel a sense of filial constraint. His new apartment was associated +with the thought of her visit: it was not so much his own place, as +one in which to entertain her. He felt that with her visit he would +lose the liberty he had gained in leaving home and coming to Chicago. +And he began to regret more keenly the pleasures of his stay at Mrs. +Czermak’s, and to recall the delightful details of that period--the +friendly midnight chats with old Mr. Victor, the morning coffee brought +by Monica, and the delightful half hours with the girls in the nursery. +Even Mrs. Case’s Rabelaisian conversation was something which he missed +with regret.... Mrs. Case had not felt any of the constraint which had +marked his visits since his departure from her roof; and last Sunday, +when he had seen his son bathed, she had in her frank way commented +upon one feature of the baby’s anatomy which is usually avoided in +polite conversation. “Ah!” she had said, addressing the baby, “little +do you know, young man, how much trouble you’re going to make in the +world with that!” A realist, she.... Norman grinned, remembering. + +He had lived there only a week altogether. And he had been rather +longer than that installed here in his apartment. Yet that week +would always live in his memory, full of warmth and color and homely +sweetness. This week in his apartment had been merely barren. + +Sitting there in his living room, he looked about with a vague +dissatisfaction. Polite comforts evidently did not suffice a man. The +fact was that he was lonely.... + +And his mother was coming in four days. + +He really ought to make the best of those four days.... + + + + +Chapter II: Waste Not Your Hour + + +YES, he was lonely, that was the trouble. + +Dr. Zerneke had told him to make friends. But he had made friends +already, and had had to drop them.... + +Well, he must make some new friends. + +He took out his memo-book, in which he had written the names, addresses +and telephone numbers of two girls he had met last week at that dance. + +They had been very interesting girls. One of them was a field-worker +for some sort of agency which looked after delinquent children; she +had snapping black eyes and curly black hair, and she had talked very +interestingly about her work, in the intervals between dances. Her name +was Jennie Michaelson; a very intelligent girl, whom he had been eager +to know further. And she liked him. He wondered that he had let so long +a time slip by--more than a week--without calling her up. He looked at +his watch. It was only eight-thirty. She might be in from dinner, and +they could go to a restaurant and talk. She lived on the West side.... + +He hesitated, at the moment of going to the telephone, and sat there +in the big chair beneath the bridge-lamp, looking at his memo-book. +There was another new girl in it somewhere. Louise--he couldn’t +remember her last name: a fine, healthy, lovely blonde, and a wonderful +dancer. Yes--there she was: Louise Van Strohm. She was a student at +the University of Chicago, majoring in biology. It was her idea of +adventure to go around the world and down into deep seas seeing strange +and curious forms of life, like Will Beebe. She would, too, some time, +she said. She lived near the University. She was fond of music, and the +concerts in Jackson Park were commencing. She had mentioned it herself. +There was one to-night. Or they could go somewhere and dance--better +still! He looked at her ’phone number.... + +Again he hesitated, wondering whether what he most wanted to do +was talk or dance. If he wanted to talk, Jennie would be the more +interesting; if to dance, Louise danced like a dream. It was difficult +to decide which girl he most wanted to see to-night.... + +He sat there in his easy chair under the lamp, trying to decide between +Jennie and Louise. + +The clock on the mantel chimed the hour of nine. + +Of course, he had no assurance that either Jennie or Louise would be in +at this hour. Girls had other things to do with their evenings than sit +around in a furnished room waiting for the’phone to ring--especially +girls like these. It was no way to go about it, to call them up at that +hour. Girls had to be dated up beforehand. He’d be a fool to think he +could get them at a moment’s notice. In fact, he should have dated them +up for some evening there at the dance. By now they had forgotten all +about him. After all, if a man asked a girl for her telephone number, +and then didn’t call up for a week, she would naturally conclude that +he couldn’t be very much interested in continuing the acquaintance. It +would be rather embarrassing to call up now.... + +And if he did go to see one of these girls, what would he say to her? +A year ago, at college, he’d have known what to say. But he was a +thousand years older, now. Louise was twenty, Jennie twenty-two; Dr. +Zerneke had told him their ages. They were only kids. He didn’t know +how to get along with girls of that age any more.... + +To be sure, he had got along with them well enough that night at the +dance. But that was because of the stimulus of the music, the costumes, +and the drink or two that everybody had under his and her belt. But +to see these girls again in cold blood ... His spirit faltered at the +frightful difficulties of talking to a strange girl.... + +Well, no doubt it could be done. People did, somehow, get acquainted +with each other.... And his imagination flew on to envisage a time +when he and these girls might be better friends.... The trouble was, +it would be awkward to be always pretending to have a sick wife in +Colorado. Maybe they wouldn’t want to play around with a man who had +a sick wife in Colorado. Of course, he could be a recent widower, if +he preferred. Or a divorced man--one whose wife had run away: that was +near enough to the truth.... And he speculated upon just what Jennie +and Louise would think of a young divorced man with an infant child. +When they knew him better, they would ask to see the baby. Girls seemed +to be interested in babies--almost all girls. They might like him none +the worse for having a baby.... But there was the rub. He couldn’t ever +tell them the truth about that baby. There would be always an invisible +barrier, in his relations with them, from the very beginning. It would +spoil any friendship he might try to have with them.... Things would +come up in conversation about illegitimacy--things like that did come +up in conversation with girls nowadays!--and he would have to hide +his own thoughts. Because he couldn’t go around telling everybody his +story. And he would be ashamed of having to treat these girls as if +they were enemies from whom his thoughts must needs be concealed. Their +friendship would be a farce from the outset.... + +The clock chimed the half-hour. + +It was really too late to call up those girls to-night. Besides, he +didn’t want to go out. He wasn’t in the mood for girls. He would stay +at home and read a book. + +He went to the book-case, took one down at random, glanced through its +pages, and threw it aside. After a few restless turns up and down the +room he abruptly put on his hat. + +It was too beautiful an evening to stay indoors. He would take a walk +in the park. + +He found himself accidentally on the street where he had lived at Mrs. +Czermak’s.... He walked past the house, looking at the lighted windows. +His old room was dark. Had they rented it to somebody else yet? He +hadn’t asked, and they hadn’t told him.... The upstairs room, next to +the nursery, showed a glow of light at the edges of the curtains. That +was the girls’ room--Rose Czermak’s and Monica’s.... + +What did Monica think of him? + +He turned, and walked back, on the other side of the street, looking at +the house. + +He could make some inquiry about the baby, as an excuse for coming. +Yes, he hadn’t told them that his mother was coming. He ought to do +that. He halted.... No, it wouldn’t be very sensible to go to see them +in his present mood. Monica might be there. Better let well enough +alone.... He could telephone them about his mother.... He went on.... + +Walking through Lincoln Park, he reached the Lake front. The full white +moon was lifting itself out of the waters of the lake. He stood and +watched it.... + +What was Monica doing? + +But he reminded himself that he was supposed to have a sick wife +in Colorado. Monica wouldn’t be thinking of him. Besides, to a girl +nowadays, a kiss meant nothing. She had doubtless forgotten all about +it. + +And besides, his mother was coming in four days. He had best keep out +of trouble.... + + + + +Chapter III: His Mother + + +IT was Saturday evening. His mother was coming in the morning. Norman +looked anxiously about his apartment, and spent an hour emptying +ash-trays, picking up cigarette stubs from the hearth, and getting his +bureau drawers in order. He found that he had forgotten to send off his +laundry this week. Well, he could buy some new shirts on Monday.... + +He sat down, seeing his apartment with his mother’s eyes. She would +probably find fault with the work of his cleaning-woman. She would +smile when she saw that bureau drawer full of bright chintz which he +had bought for curtains, forgetting that there was nobody he could ask +to sew them for him.... Mrs. Case, it was true, had asked if there was +anything they could do to help him get settled in his new place. But he +couldn’t have asked them to make his curtains.... + +He had telephoned Mrs. Czermak to let her know that his mother was +coming, and would probably be over to see the baby in the morning. The +news had seemed to upset her.... + +Well, there was nothing else to do to-night. He would read a while and +then go to bed and get some sleep. His mother was arriving on the +early train.... + +He had happened to see a copy of the Apocrypha in a bookshop window, +and had bought it out of curiosity, to see who St. Thecla was. But for +some absurd reason that apocryphal girl saint had reminded him in a +perverse way of Isabel. He did not want to be reminded of Isabel.... +To-night he opened the book, read a little of the story of Thecla, and +fell to wondering about Isabel. She had been going to sail for France +on the eleventh. That was four days ago. (It was curious what a perfect +calendar his mind unconsciously was in these matters: it was four days +ago that he had bought this book, too.) Was she on shipboard now? Or +had she impatiently gone long before, and was she in Paris at this +moment? + +Not that it made any difference to him.... + +But he had a queer troubled dream that night, in which both Isabel and +Monica figured--Isabel as a dim figure in the background, hiding her +face, and Monica, warm and near and dear, holding out her hands to him +appealingly.... + +The alarm clock sounded.... In an hour he must meet his mother at +the station. An hour. Then he could go on sleeping for five minutes +longer.... He wanted to finish that dream.... + +He was awakened by an insistent ringing of the door-bell, and +sprang up in confusion, looking at his watch. Good heavens!--he had +overslept nearly two hours.... Was that his mother now? He threw on a +dressing-gown and went to the door. + +“Mother!” he cried out contritely. + +“Good morning, Norman. You always were a sleepy-head.” She kissed him. +“It’s nice to see you, my boy.” + +“And I didn’t meet you!” He seized her suitcase and packages. “How +awful of me! Come in!” + +“That was all right,” she said. “What a nice place you have. As a +matter of fact, I was rather glad you didn’t come. I went over to see +the baby.” + +“Oh! You did?” + +“Yes. He’s a very nice baby, Norman. He looks exactly like you.” + +“You--you liked him?” + +“Of course. Now, Norman, go and have your bath and get dressed, and +I’ll get some breakfast.” + +“I’m sorry, Mother--I’m afraid there’s not a thing in the house.” + +“I brought everything. I stopped at a delicatessen. Go along, I’ll find +the kitchen. You’re still half asleep. You need a good cup of coffee.” + +It wasn’t quite the way he had expected it to be.... But then, nothing +ever was, he reflected as he hurried through his bath and into his +clothes. She had simply and calmly walked in and taken possession.... + +“Are you almost ready?” + +“Yes, Mother. In three minutes.” + +He could smell the appetizing odors of bacon and coffee. + +“All right. I’ll put the eggs in.” + +That was just like her.... + +He felt half admiring and half resentful of such a mother. + + + + +Chapter IV: ’Ware Women + + +AT breakfast, when Mrs. Overbeck had satisfied herself that her son’s +stomach was being properly ministered to, they talked--Norman with +some caution and embarrassment, but she with apparent ease. It gave +Norman a queer feeling. One would not have thought from her manner that +there was anything unusual, let alone irregular, in his situation. She +inquired briefly and casually about Isabel (whom she referred to quite +familiarly by that name, instead of by any hostile circumlocutions), +and Norman was relieved to find that he need not make any further +explanation in regard to her. His mother appeared to take Isabel’s +going to Paris for granted.... She commented on Mrs. Case and her +daughters. “They seemed rather flustered at my visit,” she said. “They +are all very fond of the baby,” she added. + +“Yes, they are,” he said. + +“By the way,” she remarked, “they asked me something about your wife’s +health.” + +To be sure--he hadn’t warned his mother of that protective fiction. + +“Oh,” he said, “I’m supposed to be married, you know--on account of +the baby. I told them I had a sick wife in Colorado. You didn’t say +anything that would give me away, by any chance?” + +“Why, no, I think not. I didn’t discuss you with them. I just pretended +not to notice the question, and went on talking about the baby. But you +might have told me, Norman. You didn’t write me anything. All I know is +what Dr. Zerneke has told me.” + +“Oh--you’ve seen Dr. Zerneke too?” + +“Not yet. I mean what she wrote to me.” + +He might have known. Doubtless his mother and Dr. Zerneke had been +in correspondence about him all along. He seemed to sniff a maternal +conspiracy. + +“What did she say about me?” he demanded. + +“Oh, just that you were well, and about your work.” + +“What did she say about my work?” + +“She said you’d got a new job that paid more money. I was glad to hear +that. I didn’t see how you could live on thirty dollars a week in +Chicago.” + +She hadn’t known, then, about his losing that other job. He felt +relieved. + +“How is Lucinda?” he asked. He had already inquired about the other +members of the family. + +“Well, you know how Lucinda gets--in a state of nerves over every +little thing. Her new puppy is lost.” + +“What!” + +“Yes, the new one she got from Schwartz’s. It just got out of the house +about ten days ago and disappeared.” + +“I remember. It had a black spot or something.” + +So Gilbert Rand was mistaken! It wasn’t concerned with him and his +baby, Lucinda’s state of nerves. Only her dog--of course.... + +“She’s thinking of coming on while I’m here.” + +“No!” said Norman in helpless protest. + +“Oh, well, you might as well let her, Norman. There’s plenty of room +here. And your baby will take her mind off her lost puppy.” + +“Oh, then, by all means let’s have her,” said Norman ironically. “If my +baby can assuage her grief--!” + +His irony was lost on his mother--as usual. “Yes,” she said, “I think +it would do her good.” + +She had brought along her sewing-kit, and after breakfast sat down to +do the curtains, which she had somehow already discovered in his bureau. + +“Now don’t let me interfere with your usual program,” she said. “Just +go ahead and do whatever you want to do. And don’t let me keep any of +your friends away.” + +He didn’t like to tell her that he hadn’t made any friends.... Really, +he ought to bring somebody home, or she would think he was hiding them +from her.... He might bring Charlie Beckett here some evening. Charlie +was the only one at the office that he knew at all.... + +“I really don’t know many people yet,” he confessed. “I’ve been so +busy. I did get acquainted a little when I was living over at Mrs. +Czermak’s place--but that’s about all. And of course there’s Dr. +Zerneke. I’ve invited her to go out to dinner with us to-night, by the +way.” + +“Yes, I’d like to meet her. And now go on out somewhere if you want to. +These curtains, and the dishes, will occupy me till dinner-time.” + +“But I can’t have you washing my dishes, Mother,” said Norman, +scandalized. + +“It won’t be the first time I’ve washed your dishes,” she said. + +“I’ll do them myself,” he said. “You’re my guest.” + +“Don’t be silly, Norman. Run along and leave me alone here for a while.” + +And after some feeble protest, he did.... He went over to Mrs. +Czermak’s. + +“Well,” he asked her, “what do you think of my mother?” + +She looked at him in a frightened way. + +“Tell me,” she begged, “is she going to take the baby away?” + +“Take the baby away!” Norman echoed. “Why, of course not!” And then he +added, wonderingly: “I never thought of--such a thing.” + +No, but now that he did think of it, it didn’t seem so impossible. If +she wanted to, she would be hard to stop. + +“Why, did she say anything--when she was here?” he asked. + +“It wasn’t what she said. But I’m afraid!” said Mrs. Czermak, and led +the way to the nursery. She lifted the sleeping child from his bed and +held him close in her arms. “I don’t want her to take him away!” she +said. + +“Oh, well,” said Norman reassuringly, “I’m sure she hasn’t any such +idea.” + +But that evening, at dinner with his mother and Dr. Zerneke in the +quiet restaurant he had selected, he was troubled by that thought.... + +Well, wasn’t it what he had once gone home to propose?--that she take +his child to raise!... Yes, but that was ages ago. It was the last +thing in the world that he wanted, now, to have his son brought up by +his family in Vickley. + +He was a little shocked to realize how much he had changed his mind, in +the last six weeks.... + +And another thing, that evening at dinner, bothered him--the sense +that his mother and Dr. Zerneke were already too well acquainted--that +Dr. Zerneke was her friend and ally, rather than his.... There was an +air of implicit secret understanding between them--an understanding +concerning him. + +What were these two women up to? + +Yet it was the first time they had met, and they were of such different +kinds! They were only trying hard to be polite to one another. All they +had in common, after all, was a feminine conviction of his masculine +helplessness when it came to babies.... + + + + +Chapter V: As Usual + + +WHEN Norman’s mother had been there less than a week, he had settled +down to a somewhat fretful but unprotesting acceptance of her presence. +She had got him an efficient cleaning woman; she had sewed buttons on +his shirts, and bought him a needed supply of socks and handkerchiefs. +She waked him in the morning to the kind of breakfast he had always had +at home. It was no use trying to regard her as a guest. She slipped +easily into the familiar, authoritative, useful and neglected rôle of +mother.... When Charlie Beckett, at the office, suggested to Norman +one day, as one bachelor to another, that they have dinner and go to a +musical comedy together that evening, he called up his mother and said +he wouldn’t be home till late--leaving her alone with no more thought +than if he had been at home in Vickley. + +(One incident may be lightly touched upon. Norman was not much of +a drinking man, but in Charlie Beckett’s genial company, at the +place where Charlie took him to get some real old-fashioned beer +after the show, he drank enough to become rather tearily and beerily +confidential; though even then he presented his troubles in a somewhat +fictional disguise. “M’ wife ran away. Lef’ me with a baby. Nice little +kid, too!”--something like that, and so unlike Norman in his sober +senses that he preferred to forget it....) + +His mother had written to Lucinda telling her she could come Saturday. +“Just for a few days,” she explained to Norman.... She herself had not +said how long she was going to stay; but on Monday she had brought +home from the station a second suitcase which she had checked there +on her arrival, and he guessed that she intended to remain at least a +fortnight. Well, there was nothing to complain of, surely, in this; +he had invited her to come--and he couldn’t say that she was in his +way. She did make him comfortable. Nevertheless her motherly presence +secretly and unreasonably irritated him. But that was no new thing, +either. He had been secretly irritated at her for the last several +years.... So that everything was much as it had always been. + +Once, only, there flashed into his mind the curious tale that Gilbert +Rand had told him about his father. He hadn’t exactly doubted the +story--he had taken its truth for granted; but in a certain sense he +had not really believed it. How can one believe such things about one’s +parents? He wondered, now, if his mother had guessed what was going on? +And if she had guessed, had she sat there calmly, sewing buttons on her +husband’s shirts, knowing that he would get over what ailed him sooner +or later? Or had she never dreamed of such a thing? It was hard to make +his mother out--impossible, now, to tell what she knew or thought.... + +She saw the baby every day, and one evening they went together. If +her alien presence exercised a constraint on Mrs. Czermak and her +family, she appeared placidly unaware of it. She was friendly enough +with them; they were formal with her--still suspicious, it seemed, of +her intentions regarding the baby. Norman was ill at ease too, during +this visit.... And thereby occurred a second and still more disturbing +incident in Norman’s relations with Monica. + +It was a rainy evening, late in the week, and he had’phoned for a taxi +to take them back home. As they were getting into the taxi, his mother +remembered that she had left her bag in the nursery; and he went back +to get it. Monica found it for him, and came down to the door with him. +It was the first time they had been alone together since that night +of the kiss, and they were both embarrassed. Doubtless it was this +embarrassment which provoked him to a silly speech. As they passed the +door of his old room, he remarked: “I suppose you’re bringing morning +coffee to somebody else now?” + +She looked at him reproachfully, and they halted outside the room. +“Do you think so?” she said. She turned the knob. “See--it’s still +empty--waiting for you to come back.” And somehow or other they were +there together in that empty room, with the door slowly swinging shut +behind them. As it swung shut, the shadows closed in and obliterated +the light from the flickering gas-jet in the hall. In the darkness +Norman’s hand touched Monica’s hungrily. And this time he was not +surprised that next moment they were in one another’s arms. + +No, he was not surprised. Monica no longer seemed to him a child. And +he knew that he wanted this--her arms about him, her kisses on his +mouth. He wanted it all so much that he couldn’t think of anything else +at the moment. + +“Darling!” he whispered. + +Then, in the darkness, she whispered to him: “I can’t stand it, Norman! +I want you too much! I don’t care if you _are_ married!... + +“Now you know!” And her mouth passionately met his again. + +“Do you want me?” she whispered. + +And what could a young man answer but-- + +“Yes, of course I do!” + +“Then come back and live with us again--and don’t let her take the baby +away!” she whispered pleadingly. + +“We’ll talk about it later,” he said, half brought back to sanity by +this alien note ... half aware that this was all mad folly, until her +kiss dizzied his senses again.... + +“You must go, now, dear,” she said presently, pushing him gently out. + +“Good Lord!” thought Norman, as he ran down to the waiting taxi. + + + + +Chapter VI: Night Thoughts + + +HE could not get to sleep for a long time. + +Of course, he could not take Monica’s proposal seriously. They had both +been a little mad. She hadn’t known what she was saying. She didn’t +really mean it. He couldn’t take advantage of a young girl’s romantic +emotions. It would be simply too caddish.... The best thing to do would +be to ignore the incident. Yes, the next time they met he would just +behave as though nothing had happened. No doubt she would be grateful +and relieved.... + +This mood of chivalry lasted for perhaps three quarters of an hour, +when abruptly his thoughts took another turn. He had a sudden vision +of her looking at him with scornful eyes. Women didn’t appreciate that +kind of masculine chivalry. It would hurt her pride, and she would +despise him.... + +Well, what could he say to her? Not, after their kisses to-night, that +he didn’t really care for her that much.... It would be a lie.... + +Well, if he felt that way, why not take her up? + +The trouble was that it was impracticable. He couldn’t go to live +there again. Mrs. Case would have something to say about that. She had +foreseen this very situation. A realistic mother, Mrs. Case.... No, it +wouldn’t do at all. Agreeable as Monica’s proposal was, as a young man +of the world he had to realize that it must be foregone.... + +To be sure, he had this apartment. And after his mother had gone back +to Vickley-- + +Yes, why not? + +Monica, he told himself, was old enough to know what she was doing. He +wasn’t exactly seducing her. She had made the offer herself. And he +would be a fool to say no.... + +He played in imagination with the idea, and it was infinitely alluring. + +Of course, he must not let Monica enter into this relationship with any +false romantic ideas of its seriousness. He would have to make it clear +to her that it was just--well, a temporary and passing sort of thing.... + +If Monica were older, and had had more experience in the ways of the +world, she would take all this for granted. But that was not the case. +And the thought of making these explanations to her was not very +pleasant. + +As a matter of fact, it would all be terribly serious to her. She would +be committing a sin, for the sake of their love. Because she thought he +was a married man.... It was hardly fair to her.... + +But if he told her the truth, she would want him to marry her.... + +That, of course, was entirely out of the question. The deception +would have to be kept up--or else, for that idea didn’t please his +imagination, he would have to make clear to her why he didn’t want to +get married.... + +He could imagine her saying reproachfully: “You mean--you don’t want to +get married to _me_!” + +Well, all right, take it that way. He supposed he would get married +some day. But he had no intention of doing so for a long time.... + +“But why don’t you want to marry me, Norman?” + +What could he answer to that? He might say that this wasn’t really +love.... But she would indignantly deny that. And she would be right, +so far as she was concerned. It really was love, with her.... And +what was it with him? He remembered how he had walked up and down in +front of her house, wanting desperately to go in and see her.... If +he had felt that way about a young woman of his own social class, +would he have doubted whether it was love?... Yes--that was why he was +subjecting his emotions to so brutal an inquisition: because she was a +stenographer and the daughter of a woman who ran a rooming-house! That +was why he must not permit himself to think of this as love! Madness, +folly, a young man’s casual amusement, a convenience, a chance not to +be passed up--call it anything but love! But what was the truth? + +He wanted her. He liked her. He was happy in her presence. He thought +about her all the time ... the curve of her mouth, the tilt of her +chin, the steady look out of her eyes, the way she tossed back her +bobbed hair, the smoothness of her arms, the poise of her young +body--he knew these charms by heart.... Wasn’t that love? + +Oh, not so romantic and poetic as some sorts of love, perhaps. But it +was real. Oh, it was real enough! + +And yet he didn’t want to marry her. + +Well, and why didn’t he? Simply because she wasn’t the sort of girl he +had ever thought of marrying. Because she was a stenographer. Because +her mother ran a rooming-house. Because her family was poor. Because +she had none of the airs and graces of his own familiar middle-class +world.... And because he was an Overbeck of Vickley. + +Perhaps it _was_ mere snobbishness.... But still--could he and a girl +of such a different background get along together as man and wife? + +That, however, implied that he still belonged to Vickley. He reminded +himself that he had actually left all that sort of thing behind him. He +wasn’t his father’s son, any more. He could marry anybody he liked.... +And what could be a more appropriate wife for a struggling young man +of uncertain prospects than a girl like Monica, able to take care of +herself and make the best of narrow circumstances? It wasn’t at all a +question of her fitting into his world, but of his fitting into hers! +And the answer to that seemed to be the fact that he had been very +happy living there at her house.... + +He hastily summoned up in his mind the differences between them. +Her lack of education.... He was interested in art and ideas, in +abstractions which she would never be able to understand.... Not, +indeed, that most girls cared much for art and ideas; but at least some +girls knew how to talk about them.... + +It did not seem to him, just now, to matter greatly. After all, one +did not marry a wife for the sake of intellectual conversation. And +Monica was no goose, either. She had a sensible little head on her +young shoulders. And her own struggle with poverty had taught her what +life was.... When she knew the truth about his child--she wouldn’t be +shocked.... + +His mother might not like such a match, but she would have to accept +it.... He was running his life to suit himself, not his family.... If +he and Monica could be happy together, what else mattered? + +Abruptly there flashed into his mind what his friend Hal would say +about such a marriage. “_Nostalgia de la boue._” He had always chaffed +Norman with having a common, earthy streak in him--just because, +before he too had fallen under the spell of Hal’s ethereal inamorata, +he had entertained a sufficiently realistic college-boy passion for +a pretty young waitress in Boston.... Well, his affair with that +girl had probably been healthier than his and Hal’s mooning over that +art-struck vixen Isabel.... Homesickness for the mud? Possibly. If he +hadn’t been an Overbeck from Vickley, he’d probably have married that +waitress back in Cambridge. It was shame at finding that he couldn’t +take that affair as lightly as the young-gentlemanly code demanded, +that had made him break off with her. He had never told anybody but Hal +how he really felt about that girl; and Hal had only laughed at him. +But she had given him a taste of simple, earthy young love, reckless +and sweet; and it was the memory, somewhere in the back of his mind, +of her unhesitating and passionate surrender, that had made him so +afraid of Monica. Well, he had been his father’s son at Cambridge; +he couldn’t marry his waitress sweetheart. But he could marry Monica +now--if he was really free from Vickley. _Nostalgia de la boue?_ Say +rather homesickness for the honest, fragrant earth! In Isabel he had +had enough dealings with the unattainable stars; and in his Vickley +fiancée, with the middle region of respectable compromise.... + +Vickley would hear about his marriage with Monica, of course; and +Vickley would think it a final degradation. Vickley would take it as +his surrender of any hope of ever making good and coming back. Well, +let them! He did not want to go back to Vickley. And if marrying Monica +prevented that, so much the better! + +There was nothing about Monica’s family that he really need be ashamed +of. They were self-respecting, hard-working people. He had liked them +all.... Something Dr. Zerneke had said, when she was scolding him, came +into his mind: “If one of those girls were your wife, your behavior +would be admirable.” Well, why shouldn’t Monica become his wife? + +Yes, why not tell her the truth and ask her to marry him? + +But he would rather wait until his mother had gone back to Vickley.... +And it wasn’t a thing to be decided on impulse. He would take the rest +of the week to think it over.... + +A week to think it over.... And he fell asleep to dream of happiness in +Monica’s passionate young arms.... + + + + +Chapter VII: A Letter + + +HE was unusually gay at breakfast, and went whistling to his office.... +Of course, he must not tell Monica just yet; but he might manage a +reassuring touch or word when he went in the evening with his mother to +see the baby.... His imagination was busy with thoughts of their life +together.... + +But something happened that day to disturb the happy tenor of his +thoughts. + +In the afternoon there was a telephone call from Dr. Zerneke. + +“I’ve just had a letter from Isabel,” she said. + +“From Paris?” he asked. + +“No. From Michigan.” + +“But I supposed she had sailed a week or more ago!” + +“It seems that she hasn’t. And this letter concerns you. In fact, +it’s really intended for you. I’m sending it special delivery to your +apartment. It’s something you’ll probably want to discuss with your +mother.” + +“But what in the world--?” + +“You’ll find out when you read her letter.” And that was all she would +say. + +What could Isabel have to say to him? She 256 An Unmarried Father +hadn’t decided that she wanted to keep the baby after all? Girls, he +knew, did sometimes change their minds about such things. But it was +too late--the baby was his, now. And it was going to stay his. + +But he did not allow himself to think about it. He was working with +Charlie Beckett on the Pearson account--an important job--and it needed +all his attention. Charlie seemed to like his ideas.... + +“Here’s a letter for you,” said his mother, when he came home that +afternoon. + +“Oh, thanks,” he said. “Something from Dr. Zerneke.” + +He went into his room, tore open the envelope nervously, put aside Dr. +Zerneke’s accompanying note, and glanced rapidly through the sheets +covered with Isabel’s tiny handwriting.... But it was a long and prolix +letter, and this rapid survey told him nothing, so he dropped into +a comfortable chair, lighted a cigarette, and began it again at the +beginning in a more leisurely manner: + +“Dear Dr. Martha-- + +“I’ve delayed my sailing for a few weeks, because I seem to need a +longer rest before my ocean trip. I should have taken your advice and +stayed another week in the hospital, I realize now. But I expect to be +all right in another week or so. + +“In the meantime, since signing over the baby to Norman, I’ve had +plenty of time to think about it, and I feel that perhaps I ought +to make a suggestion. You will, of course, use your own discretion +in passing it on. If it’s out of place, please throw this in the +wastebasket and forget about it. + +“I hadn’t, of course, realized that Norman was as much interested in +the baby as all that. When he didn’t come to see me at the hospital +any more, I thought he had gone back to Vickley and dropped the matter +entirely. It was really quite a shock to get those documents. I saw +that I had done him an injustice. (It really makes me a little ashamed +of my own lack of the proper parental instincts. Norman and my baby! It +seems very odd, and rather sweet. He will make a nice father.) + +“I feel awkward about making my suggestion. Not knowing anything +about any other plans he may have, I can’t be sure my idea is not an +unwelcome impertinence. If the girl in Vickley, the one he was engaged +to, is going to marry him anyway and take the baby, then of course +you won’t say anything to him about this. But Roberta writes me that +he is living in Chicago now, so perhaps the Vickley engagement is all +off.--You see, I’m very much in the dark about it all. You didn’t tell +me anything; and I suppose it’s really none of my business. But it +occurs to me that it may be almost as embarrassing for a man to have an +illegitimate baby as for a girl. And I can’t forget that under those +circumstances he was generous and considerate enough to offer to marry +me. I appreciated the offer, but since I wasn’t going to keep the baby +there was no reason for accepting it. But now that he has the baby, +perhaps I ought to make him a similar offer. It would be, of course, +and you must make that clear to him, only a legal fiction for his and +the child’s benefit. I would go on to Paris immediately, and he could +divorce me for desertion; or if he wanted the divorce more quickly, +so as to marry somebody else, then I could get a divorce in Paris as +soon as I had established my residence there. And as a divorced man he +would be in a less awkward position about the baby. I only make it as a +suggestion. + +“I tried to paint when I first got here, but gave it up. I shouldn’t +have attempted any work so soon. But it was a reaction from the +hospital atmosphere, and the sense of being a failure when my milk gave +out--I wanted to do something I was equal to doing. But I shall have +to wait a while longer--Art is off me for the present. The truth is, I +feel discouraged. But in Paris, I know, it will all come back. + +“I keep wondering about Norman and the baby. I had no idea he was going +to be such a Tolstoian saint, and atone for the sin of his youth in +that fashion! And did his family throw him out when the scandal broke, +the way mine did? You might tell a fellow something about it all! +Anyway, if my suggestion should be accepted, I’ll be glad to stop in +Chicago for a day on my way to New York, and fix it up accordingly with +him. + +“I’m not trying to thank you for all you’ve done for me--you and St. +Thecla. I’ll try to say it with paint in Paris. I hope Norman won’t +take too long to decide, so I can have it off my mind and go with an +easy conscience. + + “Faithfully yours, + “Isabel Drury.” + +Norman laid down the letter and whispered bitterly to himself: + +“She can go to hell!” + + + + +Chapter VIII: A Sociological Interlude + + +DR. ZERNEKE had suggested that he would want to discuss this matter +with his mother. But that was just what he did not want to do. + +“I’ve something to attend to,” he said. “Would you mind going to dinner +and to see the baby alone this evening?” + +“Of course not. I’ll get myself a bite right here. Just run along.” + +He hurried out, saying that he would be back late that evening. + +He tried to get Dr. Zerneke on the telephone, but she was not in. +Probably she would be, he reflected, at ten o’clock. He would go around +to see her then. + +He did not want to go back to his apartment. His mother would notice +his nervous manner, and wonder what was the matter. (Though she never +asked any questions--that was one comfort.) + +He walked in Lincoln Park for an hour or two. What he felt like doing +was to sit down and write Isabel a cold and decisive rejection of her +proposal. He framed and re-framed that letter in his mind. In one of +the versions it went like this: + +“Dear Isabel--Thank you for your kind offer. You had your own reasons +for rejecting mine, and I have mine for rejecting yours. I wish you +success in your artistic career. Sincerely yours.” + +Another version ran: “Dear Isabel--I have no desire to be made +respectable. Your offer is declined.” + +As a matter of fact, none of these versions were as epigrammatic as he +could have wished, or did anything like justice to his feelings. + +He was, of course, at a disadvantage. She had not addressed him +directly. He might write an informal letter to Dr. Zerneke, and ask +her to send it on. It might begin: “Dear Dr. Zerneke--You tell me that +Isabel Drury has offered to marry me, in order to simplify matters in +regard to my child. Well, a great deal of water has flowed under the +bridge since I made a similar offer to her. In the meantime I have the +child, and the marital farce seems quite unnecessary.” Something as +casual and unemotional as that.... + +But he ought to talk to somebody before he wrote to her. Not his +mother--no. And Dr. Zerneke was the only other person he could talk to +about it. + +Would she urge him--he wondered suddenly--to accept Isabel’s proposal? +For the sake of the child? That had been her reason for everything so +far. His own feelings were never considered in the least.... + +Of course, marriage with Isabel _would_ (along with his acknowledgment +of paternity) legitimate his son, according to the laws of the State +of Illinois. He knew that. He had looked it up at the Crerar library. +In California, subsequent marriage of the parents wasn’t necessary +for legitimation; the child would be legitimated simply by his taking +it into his home and treating it as if it were legitimate. In New +Mexico a process in court sufficed. In New York, on the other hand, +under English common law, subsequent marriage did not legitimate the +child--though perhaps the original relationship could be legally +construed as a common-law marriage. It was all helter-skelter and +ridiculous--like the divorce laws. But he happened to live in Illinois. +It _would_ make a difference. + +He wondered why his father hadn’t suggested it.... He had known, of +course, that Isabel had refused. Had he taken that as final? It wasn’t +like him, to let anybody’s wishes stand in the way of what he thought +correct and proper. There must have been some other reason.... To be +sure, now that the scandal was out, marriage with Isabel wouldn’t make +the thing any more decent in the eyes of Vickley. But it would settle +the legitimacy question. His son could never be called a---- Norman +choked on the word even in his thoughts.... + +Irrelevantly and bitterly, he reflected that it might have been kinder +to his son to let him be adopted in the first place by some married +couple. He would never, then, have known the secret of his birth. He +would have considered himself the son of Mr. and Mrs.----whoever they +were.... + +But no, he would have found out, some time. And then he would always +have wondered who his real father was.... Yes, and his mother, too, of +course.... + +It occurred to Norman that he mustn’t let his son grow up with a +resentment against his mother for deserting him. A story would have to +be concocted that wouldn’t hurt his feelings.... Norman remembered what +Gilbert had said that time--about hypocrisy. Yes, that was the way it +started. Well, there was a good deal to be said for hypocrisy, after +all. It made things so much simpler. + +He looked at his watch. He hadn’t had any dinner, and it was nearly +nine o’clock. That was silly. He would go and get something to eat. + +But instead, he went to the Crerar library. + +Some people, in their troubles, solace themselves with drink, others +with statistics. + +Besides, Norman was a lawyer--or had been. What he had so far seen +of the legal attempts to deal with the problems of illegitimacy only +reënforced his secret contempt for Law. But in his recent reading he +had come across approving references to recent legislation in Norway +and Sweden, by which children born out of wedlock were given, entirely +or almost, the same rights as others. He was thumbing over the card +catalogue looking for information on this Scandinavian Utopia, when he +came upon the title: “Marriage Laws in Soviet Russia.” + +“Well, let’s see how the Bolsheviks handle this thing,” he said to +himself, and turned in a slip for the pamphlet. + +He glanced through its pages rapidly. Ah! Section 133. Note I. +“Children descending from parents who are not married have equal rights +with those descending from parents living in registered marriage.” He +read on. Section 140 required an unmarried woman who becomes pregnant +to give notice to the Bureau of Vital Statistics “not later than three +months before the birth of her child,” together with the name and +address of the father. Section 141 provided that upon receipt of the +notice, the Bureau should issue a citation upon the man named, who +would have two weeks in which to deny paternity. Further sections dealt +with the court inquiry by which paternity should be established. The +man held liable as father was to be held responsible for his share in +the expenses of gestation, delivery, and maintenance of the child.... + +Norman felt a little disappointed. This did not seem so frightfully +revolutionary. A court process to determine paternity was no new +thing in the history of the world. He remembered one in Vickley last +winter--he had gone to Magistrate Cooley’s court out of curiosity. A +girl had charged a neighboring storekeeper with being the father of her +child. Under cross-examination she broke down and confessed that it was +really not he but a young fellow out of a job. She wanted a father for +her child who could support it properly.... Norman wondered if things +like that happened in Soviet Russia. Human nature being what it was, he +didn’t see why not! + +He turned the pages of the pamphlet idly, and his glance rested on this +passage: “160. Children have no right to the property of their parents, +nor parents to the property of their children. 161. Parents shall +be bound to provide board and maintenance for their minor children +and for children who are indigent and unable to work.” That reminded +him--in Soviet Russia, he had heard, there was a different kind of +economic system, which left nothing much for anybody to inherit. That, +of course, would simplify this whole matter of legitimacy. It was +in order to protect the inheritance rights of the legal family that +illegitimate children had been so cruelly penalized the world over. He +remembered a lecture to that effect at law school. And these Bolsheviks +weren’t concerned with defending property rights. That was the real +difference between Moscow and Vickley. If there weren’t any inheritance +rights involved, there wasn’t any reason to deny their human rights to +children born out of wedlock--nothing to make a fuss about at all! + +But he wasn’t living in poverty-stricken and revolutionary Russia. He +was living in prosperous America, where the legal family had property +rights to be defended against the claims of bastards. That was, it +occurred to him, the real reason why he was now an outcast from Vickley +respectability. If men were permitted to do what he had done, what +would become of the Family, in its legal, sacred, property-inheriting +sense? It would mean red ruin and the breaking up of close-corporation +homes, to be sure.... And his father--Norman could appreciate now the +old man’s grim idealism--he was battling stubbornly against his own +respectable Vickley world, attempting to bring his grandson into that +close corporation in spite of a bar sinister.... + +“Board and maintenance”--that was all that Norman himself, set adrift +from family protection, could seriously hope to offer his son: that, +and his mere paternal love and companionship. He had no longer any +illusions about the possibility of any great success in the advertising +business--he would do well if he hung on to his job. And that was +all he really wanted to give the boy, if the truth were told--an +upbringing, and then freedom to make what he wanted to of his life! +But J. J. Overbeck could offer his grandson the prospect not merely +of a legal career, but of lordship in the small town of Vickley: +a snug income from rents, mortgages, government bonds, and steel +securities--and, with these, pride and power. + +Which would the boy choose? + +But at two months of age, the boy had no choice. Norman had to choose +for him.... He might make it easy for his father, by marrying Isabel +before she sailed for France. That, of course, was what Dr. Zerneke +would want him to do. For the child’s sake. + +No! + +He would be damned if he would marry that girl--to make his son one of +the little lords of Vickley. + +He looked up at the library clock. + +Five minutes of ten. + +He would tell Dr. Zerneke that there were limits to what a father +should be asked to do. + + + + +Chapter IX: On Taking a Girl at Her Word + + +DR. ZERNEKE was in when he arrived, and the coffee was steaming. + +“How is your mother enjoying her visit?” she asked, pouring him a cup. + +“All right, I guess.” He drank his coffee at a gulp. “Well, I’ve read +Isabel’s letter....” + +“Yes?” + +“I want to know what you think.” + +“What does your mother say?” + +“I haven’t asked her.... And I’m not going to.” + +Dr. Zerneke shrugged her shoulders. “I really don’t want to get mixed +up in this,” she said. + +“But you can tell me what you think!” + +“And be blamed afterwards....” + +“I’ve got to talk it over with somebody!” + +“There’s your mother,” she reminded him. + +“But you know Isabel, and she doesn’t!” + +“Well, the only thing I feel like advising you is--not to do anything +rash.” + +“Such as what?” + +“Such as taking Isabel at her word in a hurry, without having a chance +to think it all over.” + +“You don’t want me to marry her?” he asked, in surprise. + +“I don’t care whether you marry her or not. That’s entirely up to you.” + +“I’m glad you feel that way about it,” he said. “I thought you’d say I +_ought_ to do it.” + +His relief was so plain that she went on, with a smile: “We don’t +advise girls, in similar circumstances, to marry the fathers of their +children--not, I mean, just to be made respectable; I should think +the same considerations would apply to a man. After all, you’ve gone +through the worst of it, now.” + +“Of course,” he said, “it isn’t just me. Marrying her would serve to +legitimate my son--and nothing else, in this state, will.” + +“That doesn’t matter so much,” said Dr. Zerneke. “In fact, I don’t +think it matters at all, the way things have been arranged. It’s a mere +legal quibble. Socially speaking, an illegitimate child is one whose +father does not give him his name, support and protection. Your child +is very well provided for in all those respects. He’s merely lacking a +mother. But that is scarcely a reason for your marrying Isabel, when +there are other girls in the world.” + +“Then what _would_ be a reason for my marrying her?” he asked. + +“If you were in love with each other, that would be a fairly good +reason,” said Dr. Zerneke. + +Norman laughed, a little grimly. “Then it’s entirely out of the +question,” he said. “Because we’re not. Not in the least. Besides, that +isn’t the proposition to be considered. She says very plainly in her +letter that it would be only a matter of legal form. A marital farce, +she calls it. We would never live together. She would go on to Paris, +and get a divorce.” + +The argument was not going quite as he had expected. In fact, it was +almost as if he were arguing in favor of Isabel’s plan. + +“You would be quite willing that it should be only a matter of form?” +Dr. Zerneke asked. + +“I certainly shouldn’t think of trying to persuade her to make it a +real marriage--if _that’s_ what you mean!” + +“You wouldn’t?” + +“Of course not. We talked all that out, the time I went to see her at +the hospital. She doesn’t want to be a wife and mother.” + +Dr. Zerneke opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper. “I came +across the report of our psychiatrist on her,” she said, “and had some +of it copied. Would you like to see it? It might amuse you. We go about +these things in a very scientific fashion nowadays.” + +He read the typewritten sheet. + +_“Case H 15278. Unmarried mother who refuses to keep her child._ + +_“Report of Dr. A. B. Fishwanger, psychiatrist (extract):_ + +“Her feeling of hostility toward maternity is thus accounted for as a +repression of the psychic conflict originating in her father-complex, +and expressing itself in her artistic ambitions. She is convinced that +if she allowed herself to accept the full rôle of motherhood, she +would never get a chance to be an artist. Something might undoubtedly +be said for this view on strictly realistic grounds. But it would be +truer to say that if she allowed herself to become interested in her +child, she might stop wanting to be an artist. This is what she is +really afraid of. If her child had been born in wedlock, she would +probably have rebelled a little at her fate, and then settled down, +as the saying goes, and become a sufficiently devoted mother. But she +has deliberately managed the affair so as to keep what she calls her +freedom. + +“A thorough analysis, lasting over several months, would probably be +required to resolve her psychic conflict, which appears to be of a +very deep-seated nature. (To this conflict is probably due, in view of +the absence of other findings, the premature drying up of her milk.) A +briefer analysis might have some considerable value, but on account of +the resistance of the subject even this is out of the question.” + +“Can’t you imagine Isabel being interviewed by that psychiatrist?” said +Dr. Zerneke, smiling. “I must say I rather sympathize with her. Still, +it does throw some light on her psychology.” + +“I suppose she was in a state of conflict about it,” said Norman. +“Still, she made up her mind. You don’t think anything has happened to +change it?” + +“I think she’s probably in a very difficult situation just now. +Undoubtedly she is finding out that she is more of a woman than she was +willing to admit. Having a baby does something like that--it starts +all the glandular secretions that create tenderness and devotion. +She’s done her best to fight those feelings down, but they’re there. +She can’t escape them. After all, it’s nothing unusual. Sometimes +girls think beforehand that they are going to hate their illegitimate +babies--but they generally don’t. And it’s quite the ordinary thing for +a girl who has given her baby away to be sorry she’s done it.” + +“But she doesn’t say she’s sorry,” Norman objected. + +“I think that might possibly be read between the lines.” + +“It never occurred to me. You think she wants her baby?” + +“I can’t pretend to speak for her. But that might be one explanation of +her offer.” + +“Not if she were going on to Paris,” said Norman. + +“She might not go on to Paris, then.” + +“But she says definitely that she would!” + +“No doubt she means it. But how do you know what would happen to you +two young people after you get married? You both have families. They +would have something to say about it. You might find yourselves boxed +up in a house together the rest of your lives. That’s why I suggest +that you think twice about marrying her.” + +“I see what you mean. But if I went up to Michigan and we were quietly +married there--who would know about it?” + +“All the newspapers in the United States, I expect. And your mother is +here, as you seem to forget. You couldn’t marry without telling her.” + +“I could make some business excuse for my trip to Michigan. She +wouldn’t know till it was all over, and Isabel on the boat. Then it +would be too late for our families to interfere.” + +“Do as you please. But don’t expect me to be surprised if Isabel comes +back with you from Michigan to meet your mother.” + +“Aren’t you rather cynical, Dr. Zerneke? I think I could trust her. I’m +sure of it.” + +“I’m not suggesting that she has any intention of double-crossing you. +That’s not the point. If she came back with you it would be because you +had invited her to.” + +“But why should I do that?” he asked coldly. + +“You were in love with her once. And she’s your child’s mother. It +would be the most natural thing in the world.” + +“You really think she’d stay with me if I asked her?” + +“Do you really want her to stay? Then the only way to find out is to +ask her. If that’s what you want.” + +“It wouldn’t really mean giving up her career,” said Norman +reflectively. “There would be time enough for that, later.” + +“It would be a decisive step, for her. I doubt if she’ll have any +career, if she marries you now. But that is her own lookout. It’s +nothing for you to worry about--except as it might mean having a +discontented wife on your hands in Vickley.” + +“Why in Vickley?” + +“Can you support a wife on your present job?” + +“I suppose not. She’d have to work.” + +“Has she ever done any work?” + +“You don’t think I ought to marry her?” + +“I’m not trying to run your affairs for you, Norman. But I think you +ought to understand what you may be getting into. Isabel is probably +feeling much more like a mother than an artist, just now. If you want +to capture her, this is undoubtedly your chance. And in justice to her, +I don’t think you ought to accept her offer unless you are willing to +urge her to make it a real marriage. But that is not a thing you can do +out of mere generosity to her--nor is it really necessary to do because +of the child. It all depends on how you feel about her. Do you want her +as your wife?--That’s the real question, Norman. I don’t know how you +feel about that.” + +Norman rose and walked up and down the room. “All this is new to me,” +he said. “I can’t quite believe it.” + +“Take your time and think it over. Talk to your mother about it.” + +“That would mean taking the whole family into my confidence. I don’t +want any more family conferences. And besides, it’s something that +can’t be delayed indefinitely.” + +“She won’t go till she hears from you. I repeat that the only question +is, do you want her for a wife?” + +Norman kept on walking back and forth unhappily. + +“She’s treated me atrociously,” he said. + +The doctor smiled. “Now you’ll have a chance to revenge yourself--by +marrying her.” + +He paid no attention to that remark. “She doesn’t deserve to ever see +her baby again,” he said bitterly. + +And, after a moment: + +“I ought to hate her!” + +“And instead, it seems, you still love her?” + +“Yes--damn her!” + +Dr. Zerneke laughed. + +“You think it’s funny, do you?” Norman said indignantly. + +“Promise me this,” said Dr. Zerneke, “that you’ll take a week to think +it over.” + +“A week?” + +Something clicked in his memory. He realized that he had been going to +take a week to think about marrying Monica.... + +“Yes. Suppose you postpone your decision till next Saturday--or Sunday. +And then tell me what you’ve decided.” + +“All right,” he said meekly. + +“Till next Sunday, then.” + + + + +Chapter X: Which? + + +HE walked in Lincoln Park for a while before going home. + +That damned letter from Isabel! Of course it had upset him.... + +Anyway, he oughtn’t to put any confidence in Dr. Zerneke’s guesses as +to Isabel’s feelings about marriage. He knew Isabel as well as Dr. +Zerneke did--better! She was incapable of being in love with anybody +or anything except her art. She meant just what she had said in her +letter. If he married her, it would be a mere formality for the child’s +benefit. Nothing more. Why should he suppose the marriage would mean +more to her? She had expressed herself plainly enough in her letter. +Why should he give her an opportunity to insult him again? + +She might be a little discouraged about her art just now--but it was +all she really cared anything about. She wasn’t human. She wasn’t a +woman at all. She was what Hal had said about her in a poem--she was a +pixie ... or a leafy shadow in the spring moonlight that seemed like a +girl until one tried to clasp it in one’s arms.... + +Monica was real. Monica was a true flesh-and-blood girl. Monica could +love.... + +Why was he condemned still to be haunted by this ghost of his lost +youth? Why couldn’t he forget her? Why wouldn’t she let him forget +her? How like her this letter was!--in offering a stone for bread.... + +Even if in the discouragement of the moment she should agree to +try being his wife, that would mean nothing. That marriage would +be foredoomed to failure. She had said it herself, that day in the +hospital. She would never really belong to him. He would be clasping +her body, but her thoughts, her soul, would be far away, in a world he +could not enter.... They would come to hate each other.... + +Unless--unless what Dr. Zerneke said about her was true.... + +But it wasn’t true. He knew better than to believe that.... + +It wasn’t quite fair to Monica--to think of marrying her with that +ghost hovering in the background.... + +And if he were going to moon over Isabel all his life, he might as well +marry her and be done with it.... + +Perhaps he was so cursed that he would rather be miserable with Isabel +than happy with Monica.... + +He would have to give her an answer, one way or the other, soon. If he +said “no,” he might regret it all his life.... + +If he said “yes,” he was throwing himself into a whirlpool of doubt and +misery.... + +But he didn’t have to decide right now. He ought to get some sleep. He +had a job to go to in the morning. + +He entered the apartment quietly, so as not to wake his mother. But she +came to his door in a dressing-gown, holding out a telegram. + +“Lucinda’s done such a fool thing,” she said. “Look at this! And I +don’t want you to think it’s my fault, because it’s not.” + +He took the telegram. It read: + + MADGE COMING TO CHICAGO WITH ME TO DO SHOPPING WILL BE AT ANNEX + +“Madge!” he said in astonishment. “And with Lucinda?” + +“Oh, yes--they’re great friends now. You know the way Lucinda is. But +she ought to have more sense than to bring Madge with her. And Madge +ought to have more sense than to come.” + +“Well,” said Norman, “I don’t expect Madge to stay away from Chicago on +my account. Why shouldn’t she come with Lucinda, if she wants to?” + +“You know perfectly well why,” said his mother. “The shopping is only +an excuse. Lucinda will take her to see the baby, and then somehow or +other you’ll run into her.” + +“Well, what of it?” said Norman irritably. “Why shouldn’t we meet?” + +“Don’t talk like a fool, Norman. You know that girl’s still in love +with you!” + +“No, I didn’t,” said Norman, disconcerted. “Is she, really?” + +His mother did not consider that worth a reply. + +She went back to her room, saying as she went: + +“Well, don’t blame me, is all I say!” + +“Good Lord!” said Norman helplessly. + + + + +Chapter XI: As Luck Would Have It + + +A YOUNG man may expend anguished thought upon the question of which of +two girls he ought to marry; but a third claimant breaks the spell of +that dilemma. He no longer feels the sense of having to make a painful +choice; his feeling is rather a bewildering one of having no choice at +all. He loses in imagination the position of embarrassing masculine +jurisdiction over the fate and happiness of the girls, and begins to +feel a little like a hunted animal. + +Abruptly, when left alone by his mother, the color of the whole +situation changed for Norman. He felt as though a horde of women +were closing in upon him. It was not a dignified situation, and in +self-defense he felt a burst of resentment against them all. + +What right had they to make demands upon him? They weren’t any of them +in love with him, really. It was their damned maternal instinct. Even +Monica had talked about the baby in the midst of their love-making.... +Everybody seemed to think that a man with a baby had to have a wife.... +Well, he would show them.... + +He fell asleep in a mood of profound hostility to all womankind, and +when he awoke it was with the grim resolve not to be bullied into +marrying anybody. + +That Saturday afternoon, when he came back from lunch, there was a note +on his desk. He knew when he saw it afar what it would say. That Mr. +McCullough wished to see him.... And it did.... “Fired again!” thought +Norman. + +He wasn’t surprised; he had thought he was doing damn good work on +that Pearson account; but evidently McCullough knew better.... And it +was just the time when a thing like this would happen, with his mother +and sister looking on. He couldn’t keep it a secret from Vickley this +time.... + +But there was just one good thing about it: if he lost his job and +became a bum on a park bench, maybe these women would let him alone.... +It would be a good excuse; he wouldn’t have to marry anybody.... Norman +brightened, and went in cheerfully to get the ax from Mr. McCullough. + +But Mr. McCullough, as he somewhat gradually and rather incredulously +discovered, had not sent for him in order to fire him--only to tell +him that he seemed to be getting along pretty well, and that he could +consider himself a regular member of the staff from now on. “Your +salary check will be for seventy-five this week,” Mr. McCullough added +casually. “And you can go on working with Charlie Beckett on the +Pearson account.” + +“Thank you, Mr. McCullough,” said Norman, gulping down his emotions.... + +Of course, one couldn’t be sorry that one hadn’t been fired.... But +it took away his one avenue of escape from the embarrassing situation +in which he found himself. It left him with no good excuse to make to +those three girls.... + +Those three girls--that was the way he put it in his conscious +thoughts. But in reality it was only one of them that he had in mind. +Isabel would not care--he knew that well enough. And reckless little +Monica--she had offered her love and demanded nothing.... It was Madge +that he was afraid of. Madge--and Vickley. + + + + +Chapter XII: The Fugitive + + +AS for Madge, he was determined to keep out of her way while she was in +Chicago.... + +Lucinda was at the apartment with his mother when he came home that +afternoon. She had been taken to see the baby, and she expressed +herself enthusiastically. Norman couldn’t help being touched. He had +never heard her talk that way even about one of her pet dogs.... He was +on the alert to ignore any reference she might make to Madge.... But +she said nothing about Madge. + +At last, in impatience, he remarked: “I understood Madge was coming to +Chicago with you.” + +“Oh, yes,” said Lucinda, and went on talking about the baby. + +Had Madge seen the baby? He was curious to know, but he was determined +not to ask.... + +Doubtless it was the part of a brother to show his sister about +Chicago--take her to dinner and the theater, and so on. But when she +had been so indiscreet as to come companioned by a girl he did not want +to see, she would have to go without these brotherly attentions. He +would let her look after herself. + +Lucinda seemed not to notice that she was being neglected.... After +all, she had been in Chicago before; and she was accustomed to Norman’s +brotherly indifference. + +But Norman suspected a plot. How could he not suspect it? Lucinda’s +friendship with Madge, her bringing Madge to Chicago--doubtless she +hoped to bring about a reconciliation. His mother, in spite of her +protests, might be in on it. And so might even Dr. Zerneke. They all +thought of him as a helpless male who needed a wife. It was all very +well-meant--but he’d thank them just to leave him alone.... + +To block any plans they might have for an “accidental” meeting at Mrs. +Czermak’s, he invented business engagements for all his evenings which +would prevent his going there to see the baby this week. (And besides, +he didn’t want to face Monica, either.) And with the idea that Madge +might be at the apartment with Lucinda when he came home, he stayed +away every night until very late.... At least, he did this until +Saturday; and that evening, having found nothing better to do than sit +in the Crerar library, he revolted. After all, his apartment belonged +to him. It was rather absurd for him to be kept out of it that way. He +went home. + +All the week he had been having, in his thoughts of Madge, the same +experience which he had had so often since his life ran off the smooth +track of custom and habit into the jungle of uncertainty in which he +had to find out for himself what things were like--the experience +of seeing facts change their appearance before his eyes.... In this +changing and surprising world, his feeling about Madge had remained +fixed until now. He had been sorry to have hurt her--but glad +nevertheless to have escaped from that marriage, because of what it +would have meant. And now that certainty was being undermined. Since +Madge had come to Chicago, he was remembering things about her--no, not +things to make him regret that she had thrown him over, nothing to make +him think himself still in love with her--nothing like that: yet sweet +and brave and tender and funny little things, making of her a human +girl and not a graven image of conventionality, an algebraic formula +of bourgeois marriage. And in merely becoming in his imagination a +person rather than a formula, she had upset him dreadfully--more than +he was willing to admit to himself. For his campaign of life in Chicago +was based implicitly upon an obscure but profound conviction that it +represented a revolt against a system of respectability and hypocrisy. +He wasn’t a theorist, and he couldn’t, or wouldn’t have wished to, +put it in words. But there it was. And that obscure theory gave him +courage and faith. But if it was not against the rock-walled citadel +of Respectability that he had dealt his clumsy and cruel blows, but +against the naked and defenseless breast of a girl--a girl who happened +to be in love with him--then some of the meaning went out of his whole +brave adventure. He didn’t want to face that possibility. He had +tried to put aside these inconvenient and unsettling memories. But he +wondered more and more what Madge was really like. Perhaps he would +never be sure until he saw and talked with her again. + +Anyway, what was there to be afraid of? If she was at his apartment +this evening, well and good. He would find out what that respectable +young woman to whom he had once been engaged to be married was really +like.... + +But there was no one at the apartment. + +He waited impatiently for his mother to come home. + +She came at last, with Lucinda. They had been to the theater, they +said. They did not mention Madge. But he knew quite well she had been +with them. She must have gone on to the hotel alone to avoid meeting +him. These elaborate evasions were rather silly, he thought.... + +Lucinda, in her exasperating fashion, got started on an account of the +musical comedy they had seen, and could not be stopped until she had +described it all. It was the same one Norman had seen the week before +with Charlie Beckett. He heard her wearily to the end--noting that she +had picked up some slangy terms of speech from Doris--and when she +started to go, he said: “I’ll take you to your hotel.” + +She seemed surprised at this offer--and indeed it was a trifle unusual +for Norman voluntarily to act as her escort. “Oh, you needn’t bother,” +she said. “I can get a bus over on the Avenue.” + +“I’ll take you,” said Norman firmly. + + + + +Chapter XIII: Conversation in a Taxi + + +IN the taxi he tried hard to think of something to talk about to his +sister. He couldn’t seem to think of anything at all to say. + +They were going down Michigan Avenue. In another minute or two they +would be at her hotel. + +“Has Madge seen the baby?” he asked abruptly. + +“Oh, yes,” said Lucinda. “She saw it the first thing.” + +“One look was enough, I suppose,” said Norman bitterly. + +“Oh, no,” said Lucinda. “She goes with us every day.” + +“Oh,” said Norman. “She does?” + +“There’s no reason,” said Lucinda, “why she should bear a grudge +against the baby.” + +“I suppose not,” said Norman. “I’m the only one to blame. Of course, +I couldn’t exactly help it--the way I treated her.... I had hoped she +might understand that--and forgive me a little.” + +Lucinda said nothing. + +“Perhaps,” said Norman, “I ought to see her.” + +“I don’t know,” said Lucinda doubtfully. “Tell me, Norman--have you +been carrying on with that little Monica Case?” + +“Why in the world should you think that?” asked Norman indignantly. + +“Well, she wears your jade cuff-buttons, and turns all colors when your +name is mentioned.” + +“And what of it?” Norman asked defiantly. + +“Nothing. That’s just the sort of girl you _would_ get mixed up with,” +said Lucinda. “Your tastes always were rather vulgar, Norman.” + +“We were speaking of Madge, I believe,” said Norman haughtily. + +“Well, that’s just it. I don’t think it’s very nice for Madge.” + +“I’m sorry,” said Norman, “but I can’t regulate my conduct to suit my +ex-fiancée--or you either. Why did you bring Madge to Chicago?” + +“I didn’t bring her,” said Lucinda. “But I knew she wanted to see the +baby--and I thought it might help her to get over it all.” + +“You’re lying, Lucinda,” he said. “You know you want Madge and me to +make up. And so does Mother.” + +“Well,” said Lucinda, “I think we’d all rather you’d marry Madge +than--that other girl.” + +“What other girl?” + +“The one who--deserted the baby. You don’t suppose I think you’d marry +Monica Case, do you?” she added impersonally. + +“Why should I marry at all?” he demanded. + +“Oh, you’ll have to marry _somebody_. Because of the baby, you know.” + +He smiled. “And why not the baby’s mother, then?” he asked curiously. + +“Oh, Norman--that _would_ be the absolute limit! After the way she’s +treated you! You wouldn’t be a--a doormat!” she said scornfully. + +“Anyway,” he said, “there’s no reason why Madge and I shouldn’t +understand one another. I’ve no wish to hurt her feelings wantonly.” + +“Well, you can’t see her to-night,” said Lucinda. “She’s gone to bed by +now. She went on to the hotel so as not to see you.” + +“I think it’s rather ridiculous,” said Norman, “all this artificial +avoidance. Suppose you bring her over to the apartment for breakfast. +About eleven. Will you?” + +“I’ll ask her,” said Lucinda. + +“Do.” + +The taxi stopped at the hotel. + +“I’ve told Lucinda to bring Madge around for Sunday breakfast,” he said +casually to his mother, who was still puttering about the apartment +when he returned. + +She frowned--in disapproval, Norman thought. But what she said was +only: “I wonder if there are enough eggs.” + +She went into the kitchen, and came back. “Yes, there’s plenty of +everything,” she said. + +If she saw any dramatic crisis imminent in her son’s life, she gave no +sign of it.... + + + + +Chapter XIV: A Farewell + + +WHEN his mother had gone to bed, Norman sat up smoking and thinking. + +So Lucinda--and Vickley in general, no doubt--thought he ought not to +marry Isabel! + +Well, perhaps Vickley was right, at that. + +Why should she be given another chance? Why should she be allowed to +have the son she had deserted? + +“No, by God--he’s mine!” thought Norman, rocked with an emotion of +jealous hatred. + +He went to bed. But presently he got up and turned on the light and +brought back to bed with him the Apocrypha he had picked up. He turned +to the story of Thecla.... This apocryphal girl saint was to him a +queer parable. When he had first read its opening sentences he had been +reminded of something Isabel had told him that day in the hospital--how +she had broken her engagement, at eighteen, for the love of art.... St. +Thecla here in the Apocrypha had broken hers for the love of God.... It +was all different enough and yet as he read it had seemed to him that +Isabel’s rebellious career was a queer, perverse, modern echo of that +old tale. For “the gospel of Paul” one need only put “the gospel of +Modern Art.” + +He read it again, now, to allay his hatred of Isabel. For when he +thought of Isabel, it was with love or hatred, and both were torments. +He was safer in hating her, safer from the danger of more pain; but +hating her hurt him. And in this parable he found something to make him +sorry for her.... + +The story he read told of how when Paul was preaching in Iconium a girl +named Thecla, who was betrothed to a young man named Thamyris, sat in +the window of her mother’s house and listened to this new gospel; nor +would she depart from the window. And her mother, when she could not be +prevailed upon, sent for Thamyris, who came with exceeding pleasure, as +hoping now to marry her. He said to her mother, “Where is my Thecla?” + +Her mother replied: “Thamyris, I have a strange thing to tell you. For +the space of three days my daughter has not moved from the window, not +so much as to eat or drink, but is intent on hearing the artful and +delusive discourses of a certain foreigner. Thamyris, this stranger +causes trouble throughout the whole city of the Iconians, for the +young men and girls listen to him and will not marry. And my daughter +too, caught as in a spider’s web at the window, is possessed by a new +desire and a fearful passion. But go you and speak to her, for she is +betrothed to you.” + +And Thamyris went to her, desiring her, and yet alarmed because of her +strange ecstasy, and said: “Thecla, why do you sit thus? What strange +passion holds you in its power? Turn to your Thamyris and be ashamed +of yourself!” And her mother likewise: “Thecla, why do you look down +and answer nothing, as if you had lost your wits?” And they mourned, +Thamyris for his betrothed and her mother for her child, and Thecla +paid no heed to them but listened only the while to the new gospel. + +And Thamyris leapt up and went away ... and brought officers with +staves to arrest Paul, and had him led to the proconsul, saying: “This +is the stranger who keeps girls from marrying.” And Paul was taken to +prison. + +But Thecla that night took off her bracelets and gave them to the +doorkeeper and went into the prison and sat at Paul’s feet and listened +to his words, and kissed his chains. + +And they were brought before the governor, who asked: “Thecla, why will +you not marry Thamyris, according to the law of the Iconians?” But she +looked only upon Paul and answered not, and her own mother cried: “Burn +the lawless one, burn her that will not be a bride, so that the women +of Iconium may be made afraid to follow these new teachings!” + +And she was brought naked to the stake, but God had compassion on her, +and sent a rain to quench the fire. And she was set free, and went to +Paul and said: “I will cut my hair, and follow you wherever you go.” + +But he said: “The time is ill-favored, and you are comely. I fear a +harder trial may come, which you will not be able to withstand.” + +But she cut her hair and went with him to Antioch. And there a +magistrate named Alexander saw her and was enamored of her, and sent +Paul presents.... + +(Norman thought: “I became interested in pictures just to please +Isabel.”...) + +But Paul said: “I know not this woman of whom you speak, neither does +she belong to me.” + +And Alexander seized her in the street, but she rent his cloak and took +the wreath from his head, and made him a laughing-stock before the +whole town.... + +“That’s me,” thought Norman. + +He did not go on to read the rest of Thecla’s triumphant career. He +stopped there with poor Alexander, who had been made a laughing-stock +before the whole town. + +Nobody, he reflected, would ever write the inglorious story of +Alexander. The sympathies of storytellers were always with the girl. + +Not, to be sure, precisely with a girl like Isabel, though. They didn’t +understand a girl’s being faithful to her art, in spite of a moonstruck +moment in the woods--in spite of having a baby at her breast--in spite +of confusion, complications, tormented and conflicting emotions. +Legend, if she became famous, would simplify her story; and he alone +would know what a troubled soul she had been.... + +She was waiting now for her answer. She was trusting him to decide +her life for her. Too tired, sick, discouraged, to know any more what +she wanted, she was leaving it to him to say whether she should be an +artist or a mother. He could take her in this moment of weakness. But +he would never be content with what she had to give.... + +No, he would trouble her no more with his human demands for love. He’d +let her go on to her own destiny.... + +It seemed to him that he had forgiven her. At least, he did not hate +her now. And if he still, in a way loved her, yet he did not want +her for his own. He had let her go. She was remote, now, in his +imagination, above the reach of desire, shining from the abode where +things that seem eternal find refuge.... And at the same time, it +seemed to him that he had put aside his youth for ever. + + + + +Chapter XV: The Inevitable + + +SUNDAY morning dawned for Norman--if it could be said to dawn at about +ten o’clock--with a sense of fatality. At first he didn’t know why. +He lay in bed, hearing his mother stirring in the kitchen. Then he +remembered. She was getting breakfast for Madge. Madge was coming.... + +Suddenly in his imagination he saw the two of them left alone together. +She would reproach him. Well, she had a right to. And he would feel +sorry and ashamed. But he would defend himself--he would try to make +her understand. It would be like one of their old-time quarrels. For +they had quarreled--and made up. They had kissed and made up, always, +and everything had seemed all right again.... + +Well, perhaps it was inevitable. Everybody seemed to think he had to +have a wife. Lucinda had said so. Dr. Zerneke had said so. His mother +had as good as said so. A man with a baby was helpless.... And if Madge +would marry him.... + +He turned, as if for the last time, to the thought of Monica.... +Reckless little Monica--the rooming house--old Mr. Victor--the homely +maternal airs of Mrs. Czermak--the Rabelaisian conversation of Mrs. +Case.... He sighed. He knew now that those things weren’t for him.... + +He rose to face the day and what might come of it.... After all, Madge +would be a damned sight nicer wife than he deserved.... + +Breakfast was getting ready. He walked slowly back and forth. + +The bell rang. He went to the door. + +Lucinda was there, alone. + +“Where’s Madge?” he asked. + +“She wouldn’t come,” said Lucinda. “She’s very much upset. I left her +at the hotel, packing to go back to Vickley.” + +“I’ll go and get her,” said Norman. + +“Wait. She wrote this to you last night.” + +He took the letter and walked out. + +Lucinda ran to the banister and called down to him. “The room is +314--you’d better go right up, Norman, if you want to see her!” + +In the street he opened the envelope, stopped short on the corner, and +read: + +“Dear Norman Overbeck: I came to see your child, not to see you. +Perhaps it was foolish of me to come; but I wanted to, and I’m not +sorry I did. And I can tell you better in a letter how I feel about +you, without seeing you. + +“I don’t blame you for what happened. I mean, about the baby. I love +your baby. But you weren’t fair to me. You never told me about the +other girl. It wasn’t fair to ask me to marry you when you were still +in love with her. But I could forgive that, because maybe you didn’t +know and thought you were over it. That isn’t what hurts most. + +“What hurts is that you should not have trusted me to understand about +the baby. You never gave me a chance. You ran away before we could +talk it over. You treated me as if I were a conventional little fool. +That is what you thought of me. You never came back to explain. You +didn’t try to make me understand. You didn’t let me have a chance to +say whether I would take the baby or not. You just assumed that I was +a certain sort of person. You didn’t trust me, and that’s what I shall +never forgive you for. + +“I’m not what you think. I’ll tell you this. If it had been I that had +had another sweetheart, and found I was going to have a baby when I was +engaged to you--I’d have told you, I’d have trusted you, I’d have given +you your chance. + +“No, I’m not what you think. You never knew me. I hate Vickley as much +as you do--more. It’s you who are conventional at heart. + +“You never gave me my chance. + +“I would rather not see you. Some time I may feel differently, but it +is too bitter a subject just now. I’m glad I’ve seen Norman Junior. I’m +going back to Vickley in the morning, and I’m leaving with Lucinda some +little things I’ve bought for him while I’ve been here. + +“Good-by. + + “Madge Ferris.” + +Norman stood there, with tears in his eyes. He hadn’t known she was +like that.... He had been an awful fool. He didn’t understand girls at +all.... + +Well, if he got there before she left, it might still be all right.... +It was plain that she still cared for him.... + +“Taxi?” + +“Yes!” He climbed in. “The Annex--quick!” In his imagination he could +see Madge in the hotel room, packing.... He saw himself enter ... yes, +and quarrel, and kiss. Oh, there was no doubt that they would make +up.... And no doubt, either, that that would be the best thing all +around.... + +Only one thing bothered him. Madge wasn’t what he had thought, at all. +She wasn’t a doll. She was a real girl, with a heart. She could love, +and suffer. She wouldn’t mind being poor with him in Chicago. She would +be a mother to his child. There was no reason why he shouldn’t be glad +to marry her. And in spite of what she wrote, she would be hoping in +her heart that he would come before she packed up and left the hotel. +Only one thing stood in the way--and that was something a loving and +tender wife could surely banish--the ghost of that girl who was so +unaccountably the mother of his child ... Oh, he would forget Isabel in +time.... + +But he might as well settle that now. He looked out, and rapped on the +glass. “Stop at that cigar store on the corner for a moment!” + +He would send her a telegram, and have that off his mind. He knew her +address in Michigan. + +“Western Union, please.... + +“I want to send a telegram.... + +“To Miss Isabel Drury.... Yes.... Hawk Lake, Michigan.... Just a +moment....” + +He had known what he was going to say. Something polite and final. +But suddenly it was as if Isabel was at the other end of the wire, +listening.... and the words went out of his head.... + +“Just a moment,” he repeated, while the world rocked dizzily about +him.... + +Couldn’t he say the word that would free them both? Couldn’t he let +that vain dream go? + +It seemed not. A new pattern of words was framing itself in his mind, +forcing itself to his lips.... + +Must he forever be a fool? Must he doom himself to endless unhappiness? +It wouldn’t work out. He knew it. He had renounced her. Why couldn’t he +take what life offered? Madge--and peace.... Madge--waiting now, ready +to forgive him, cherish him, be patient with him.... + +No.... But at least he could send a sane telegram. + +He spoke into the telephone to the impatient operator: “I have it, now. +Here’s the message: + +“‘Call me McCullough Advertising Agency when you come Chicago this +week preferably.’ Signed, ‘Norman.’ + +“That’s all. How much is it?” + +He dropped in the nickels and dimes.... + +And Madge?--he couldn’t help it, that was all.... + +“I’ve changed my mind,” he said to the taxi-driver, and handed him a +dollar bill. + +The taxi drove away, leaving him standing there on the corner. + +Yes, no doubt it was a crazy thing to do. But he didn’t care. He had to +see this thing through with Isabel.... + +He began to walk slowly back toward the apartment. + + + [The End] +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78732 *** |