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diff --git a/78732-h/78732-h.htm b/78732-h/78732-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0a3e4af --- /dev/null +++ b/78732-h/78732-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10958 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta name="format-detection" content="telephone=no,date=no,address=no,email=no,url=no"> + <title> + An Unmarried Father | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 7%; + margin-right: 7%; +} + +h1,h2,h3,h4 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +h3 { + page-break-after: avoid + } + +a {text-decoration: none;} +a:hover {text-decoration: underline;} + +.chapter, .nobreak { } + +p { + text-indent: 1.3em; + margin-top: .5em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .5em; +} + +hr.chap { + border: none; + position: relative; + text-align: center; + margin: 3em 0; + page-break-before: always; + page-break-after: avoid + } +hr.chap::before { + content: "ꕥ"; + position: relative; + padding: 0 1em; + background: white; + color: #777; + z-index: 1 + } +hr.chap::after { + content: ""; + position: absolute; + top: 50%; + left: 0; + width: 100%; + border-top: 2px solid #ddd; + z-index: 0 + } +hr.front { + width: 10%; + margin: 1.5em 45%; + border: 0; + border-top: 1px solid #777; + page-break-after: avoid + } + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +table td { padding: 0.25em; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} + +.pagenum { + right: 1%; + font-size: x-small; + color: #333; + text-indent: 0; + text-align: right; + position: absolute; + padding: 0.1em 0.2em; +} + +blockquote { + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 5%; +} + +.center {text-align: center; text-indent: 0;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.smaller {font-size:smaller;} +.xlarge {font-size:x-large;} + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + + </style> +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78732 ***</div> + + +<div class="chapter center"> +<h1> +AN<br> +UNMARRIED FATHER<br> +<i>A Novel</i></h1> +<br> +<br> +By<br> +<span class="xlarge">Floyd Dell</span><br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +NEW YORK<br> +GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY +</div> + +<hr class="front"> +<p class="center smaller"> +COPYRIGHT, 1927,<br> +BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY<br> +<br> +<br> +AN UNMARRIED FATHER<br> +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA +</p> + +<hr class="front"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="pv">v</span></p> + +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"> + CONTENTS + </h2> +</div> + +<table> + <tr><td colspan="3" class="center"><a href="#BOOK_ONE">BOOK ONE: <span class="smcap">The Discovery</span></a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">I.</td><td class="tdl">The Letter</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p9">9</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">II.</td><td class="tdl">Legal Advice</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p16">16</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">III.</td><td class="tdl">The Way of the World</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p24">24</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">IV.</td><td class="tdl">Post Mortem on a Dead Romance</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p32">32</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">V.</td><td class="tdl">Encounter</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p41">41</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">VI.</td><td class="tdl">Dr. Zerneke</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p46">46</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">VII.</td><td class="tdl">Flowers</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p58">58</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">VIII.</td><td class="tdl">Isabel</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p60">60</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">IX.</td><td class="tdl">The Baby</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p72">72</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">X.</td><td class="tdl">Art Alone Endures</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p77">77</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XI.</td><td class="tdl">Common Sense</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p81">81</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XII.</td><td class="tdl">Bad Dreams</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p87">87</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XIII.</td><td class="tdl">En Route</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p91">91</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XIV.</td><td class="tdl">Homecoming</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p100">100</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XV.</td><td class="tdl">Family Breakfast</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p106">106</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XVI.</td><td class="tdl">Aubade</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p111">111</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XVII.</td><td class="tdl">Flight</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p120">120</a></td></tr> + <tr><td colspan="3" class="center"><a href="#BOOK_TWO">BOOK TWO: <span class="smcap">In Exile</span></a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">I.</td><td class="tdl"> The Prodigal<td class="tdr"><a href="#p125">125</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">II.</td><td class="tdl">A Man Has Some Rights</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p136">136</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">III.</td><td class="tdl">An Ambassador from Vickley</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p143">143</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">IV.</td><td class="tdl">Speech to the Jury</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p157">157</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">V.</td><td class="tdl">The Older Generation</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p163">163</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">VI.</td><td class="tdl">J. J. Overbeck</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p169">169</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">VII.</td><td class="tdl">Home</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p176">176</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">VIII.</td><td class="tdl">Apron Strings</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p185">185</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">IX.</td><td class="tdl">It Was Bound to Happen</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p195">195</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">X.</td><td class="tdl">Mrs. Case</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p202">202</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XI.</td><td class="tdl">Paradise Lost</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p205">205</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XII.</td><td class="tdl">Out of a Job</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p209">209</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XIII.</td><td class="tdl">The Dreamer Wakes</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p215">215</a></td></tr> + <tr><td colspan="3" class="center"><a href="#BOOK_THREE">BOOK THREE: <span class="smcap">The Dominant Sex</span></a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">I.</td><td class="tdl">Vita Nova</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p225">225</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">II.</td><td class="tdl">Waste Not Your Hour</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p229">229</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">III.</td><td class="tdl">His Mother</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p235">235</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">IV.</td><td class="tdl">’Ware Women!</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p239">239</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">V.</td><td class="tdl">As Usual</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p244">244</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">VI.</td><td class="tdl">Night Thoughts</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p248">248</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">VII.</td><td class="tdl">A Letter</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p255">255</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">VIII.</td><td class="tdl">A Sociological Interlude</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p260">260</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">IX.</td><td class="tdl">On Taking a Girl at Her Word</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p268">268</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">X.</td><td class="tdl">Which?</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p277">277</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XI.</td><td class="tdl">As Luck Would Have It</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p281">281</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XII.</td><td class="tdl">The Fugitive</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p284">284</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XIII.</td><td class="tdl">Conversation in a Taxi</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p288">288</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XIV.</td><td class="tdl">A Farewell</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p291">291</a></td></tr> + <tr><td class="tdr">XV.</td><td class="tdl">The Inevitable</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#p296">296</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p7">7</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_ONE"> + BOOK ONE + <br> + The Discovery + </h2> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p9"></a>9</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_I_The_Letter"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter I</span>: The Letter + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p10">10</span>time it seemed to him that all he had so far done was +to make costly mistakes.</p> + +<p>“Good morning, Miss Patterson,” he said to the +stenographer. “Is my mail ready?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir,” said the girl. “It’s on your desk.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>As he passed Miss Patterson, he reflected that +she obviously thought of him as grown up....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p11">11</span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“All right, what is it?” he asked patiently.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>It was true, he had forgotten, though she had +spoken of it last night and again at breakfast this +morning.</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Miss Patterson. If my sister should +call up again, tell her I said I wouldn’t forget about +it.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p12">12</span>feverish and jazzy, but certainly a healthier one.... +But families are not always pleasant things to +think about.</p> + +<p>His mind went back to its interrupted thoughts +about himself.</p> + +<p>—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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The first two letters he made notations upon and +put aside.</p> + +<p>The third letter puzzled him.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="p13">13</span>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p14">14</span>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!</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p15">15</span>law, and did not waste his time prowling about art-galleries +and studios. Perhaps it <em>was</em> 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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>He considered a moment longer, and then abruptly +put out his cigarette and took up the +telephone.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p16">16</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_II_Legal_Advice"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter II</span>: Legal Advice + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He congratulated Norman on his victory in the +Harrington case yesterday, to which Norman replied +in a preoccupied way.</p> + +<p>“Now,” he said to Norman, when the luncheon +was under way, “what’s on your mind?”</p> + +<p>Norman took the letter from his pocket and +handed it over. “What do you think of this?” he +said.</p> + +<p>Gilbert put on his glasses and read the letter; +then he read it again.</p> + +<p>“A very clever piece of writing,” he said thoughtfully; +<span class="pagenum" id="p17">17</span>“evidently intended to look as little like blackmail +as possible.”</p> + +<p>Blackmail!</p> + +<p>“So you think so, too!” said Norman. “Well, +what do you think I ought to do about it? Ignore +it? or—what?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Look here,” said Norman. “You seem to accept +it as a matter of fact—that I’m involved with some +girl!”</p> + +<p>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 <em>is</em> it about?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p18">18</span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“That’s curious,” said Gilbert. “Let’s have another +look at it.” He took it up, readjusting his +glasses. “There <em>is</em> something queer about this letter,” +he said.</p> + +<p>“Damned queer!” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“I mean,” said Gilbert, “that it has an air of—well, +of quiet certainty.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what you mean,” said Norman, uncomfortably. +Did old Gilbert think he was lying?</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p19">19</span>no girls in Chicago—and I certainly have +made love to none of them.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said old Gilbert, “there are hysterical +girls who make strange accusations, upon slight or +no provocation.”</p> + +<p>“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Norman. “It +must be something like that.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Yes—but why to me?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="p20">20</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Norman laughed. “I’m not such a devil of a +fellow as all that. I’d not be likely to forget such +an incident.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“You think, then, that I ought to go and see +this doctor?” Norman asked in surprise.</p> + +<p>“Somebody ought to go, and find out what it’s +all about. There’s something that needs to be +straightened out.... Mistaken identity, possibly.”</p> + +<p>“Yes—there’s that,” said Norman. “There may +be some very simple explanation.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p21">21</span>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—”</p> + +<p>“I said I knew no girls in Chicago,” Norman interrupted.</p> + +<p>“You might take a wider range,” suggested +Gilbert.</p> + +<p>Norman made an impatient movement.</p> + +<p>“I’m only trying to help you,” said Gilbert.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“That’s damned good of you, Gilbert.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s nothing.... Only you see, if I’m to +act for you, I’d like to be quite sure of my facts.”</p> + +<p>“You can be quite sure the facts are as I’ve stated +them,” said Norman comfortably.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“What angle is that?” asked Norman.</p> + +<p>“The Cambridge angle,” said Gilbert. “Nothing +<span class="pagenum" id="p22">22</span>like being prepared for the worst, you know.”</p> + +<p>“But that,” said Norman, “is all ancient history +now.”</p> + +<p>“Just the same, I’d better know something about +it. When did these Cambridge incidents occur and +what was the nature of them?”</p> + +<p>“Well, besides the waitress, there was just one incident, +really,” said Norman. “It was just before I +came home.... It seems ages ago.”</p> + +<p>“Actually, however,” said Gilbert, “it’s been +something less than a year. Late June to early +April—”</p> + +<p>“Ten—” said Norman, and then stopped, with a +shock of dismay.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“It couldn’t be Isabel,” said Norman wonderingly. +“And yet—”</p> + +<p>“Isabel?” said Gilbert inquiringly—suppressing a +smile.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but that—it’s impossible!” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“For a girl to have an unexpected baby? I’m +<span class="pagenum" id="p23">23</span>afraid not,” said Gilbert dryly. “Though this is +rather late in the day for her to let you know about +it.”</p> + +<p>“My God!” said Norman.</p> + +<p>The waiter appeared, and recommended the +Mocha tarte.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think I want anything more,” said Norman +faintly.</p> + +<p>“You’d better have some coffee. No? Then +nothing for me either. Bring the check.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Then he added, more kindly: “We’ll go to my +office, thresh the whole thing out, and decide what’s +to be done.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p24">24</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_III_The_Way_of_the_World"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter III</span>: The Way of the World + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>GILBERT RAND, in his office, considered the +boy sympathetically. “How do you feel +now?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Still in a sort of a daze,” Norman confessed.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“You realize,” said Gilbert, “that all this is +merely a guess; there may be nothing to it whatever.”</p> + +<p>Norman shook his head. “It’s only too damned +true,” he said. “I’m not going to try to fool myself +about that.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“It’s awfully good of you,” said Norman. “But +what is there to do? You must forgive me if I seem +<span class="pagenum" id="p25">25</span>stupid. I feel as though the roof of the world had +fallen in.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I just remembered,” said Norman, “that I’ve got +to see Madge to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, that may be a little difficult,” said Gilbert.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry to be such a fool,” said Norman. +“But I don’t see how I can face her.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“That’s just the trouble,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I was thinking that I ought to,” said Norman. +<span class="pagenum" id="p26">26</span>“She’ll have the right to know—a thing like this.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“You mean that this thing can be hushed up, I +suppose.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, if there’s anything to hush up.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p27">27</span></p> + +<p>“No, I haven’t.”</p> + +<p>“You see, you’ve kept your little secret so far +without any difficulty.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“And a very good reason, too,” said Gilbert. +“You did as any lover would do. And you still +love her, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Madge? Of course I do!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p28">28</span>they’re his sins, he ought to be the one to suffer +for them—not she.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t wish to hurt Madge. But she has a right +to know what she’s getting into,” Norman insisted.</p> + +<p>“And if she decided not to marry you—as she +easily might, if you came blurting it out like that—?”</p> + +<p>“That would be her privilege,” said Norman, +tonelessly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p29">29</span></p> + +<p>“Do you think it would bring you together if you +told her?” Gilbert asked ironically.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Norman was silent.</p> + +<p>“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:</p> + +<p>“Misery loves company. You’d like to share your +unhappiness. Natural enough, perhaps. But heroic? +No. Selfish.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you’re probably right,” said Norman, suddenly +weary. “I suppose it wouldn’t do to tell +her....”</p> + +<p>Gilbert waited.</p> + +<p>“Everything seems to me—smashed,” said Norman. +“But maybe something can be saved out of the +wreck.”</p> + +<p>“If you’ll follow my advice, quite a number of +<span class="pagenum" id="p30">30</span>things can be saved out of the wreck,” said Gilbert. +“Your marriage, your career, your father’s pride.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” said Norman quietly. “I’ll do what +you say. Just tell me what to do.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve no doubt I shall. And I’ll be able to thank +you properly. Just now it seems scarcely to +matter....”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p31">31</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p32">32</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_IV_Post_Mortem_on_a_Dead_Romance"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter IV</span>: Post Mortem on a Dead Romance + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Gilbert took out a pencil and paper.</p> + +<p>“What was her name? I think you referred to +her as Isabel.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Isabel Drury.”</p> + +<p>Gilbert wrote it down.</p> + +<p>The porter opened the door and looked in. “Did +you ring, sir?”</p> + +<p>“No, but we could do with a little more air.”</p> + +<p>The porter opened the upper air-vents and went +away.</p> + +<p>Gilbert went on with the inquisition.</p> + +<p>“Her age?”</p> + +<p>“Twenty-five.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose,” said Norman slowly, “you’d call her +<span class="pagenum" id="p33">33</span>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....</p> + +<p>“Art student.” Gilbert wrote it down. “Where +did she come from, do you know?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Gilbert frowned. “How did you come to know +her?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“What was your classmate’s name?” Gilbert +asked casually.</p> + +<p>“Hal Sibley.” Then Norman looked suspiciously +<span class="pagenum" id="p34">34</span>at his questioner. “See here, you mustn’t get him +mixed up in this!”</p> + +<p>“Why do you say that?” Gilbert inquired blandly. +“Was he interested in her too?”</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>“Trying to do what?” asked Gilbert coldly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I only wanted, my boy,” said Gilbert softly, “to +take into account all the possibilities of the situation.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“You prefer not to consider that possibility?” +asked Gilbert smoothly.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p35">35</span></p> + +<p>“Very well,” said Gilbert, “we’ll leave it at that +for the present. Now as to the girl’s family: any +brothers?”</p> + +<p>“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....</p> + +<p>“And the girl—” Gilbert was asking, “beautiful, I +suppose?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“And you fancied yourselves hopelessly in love +with one another?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Yes?” said Gilbert.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p36">36</span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“You lost yourselves in the woods?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“A wood near Athens?”</p> + +<p>“Midsummer-night’s-dream stuff. Perhaps you’d +understand it if you knew her.”</p> + +<p>“Was there ever any question of marriage between +you?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“She laughed at you?”</p> + +<p>“You see, love wasn’t a serious reality to her. It +was just something to play at in idle moments. The +<span class="pagenum" id="p37">37</span>only reality, to her, was art. She wanted to be a +painter—a great painter.”</p> + +<p>Old Gilbert rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Sort +of Rosa Bonheur, eh?”</p> + +<p>“I think she would have despised Rosa Bonheur. +Gauguin was more in her line.”</p> + +<p>“And so that was how it began?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Did you tell your friend Hal what had occurred?”</p> + +<p>“Of course not.”</p> + +<p>“And then you came home to Vickley.”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Did you write to her?”</p> + +<p>“Three times. She didn’t reply.”</p> + +<p>“You were not under the impression that you were +her first lover?”</p> + +<p>Norman hesitated. “I really know nothing about +that. But for some reason I assumed that she had +had lovers.”</p> + +<p>“She seemed sophisticated?”</p> + +<p>“In her talk, yes.”</p> + +<p>“You didn’t ask her about her previous experiences?”</p> + +<p>“One couldn’t have asked her a thing like that. +<span class="pagenum" id="p38">38</span>But I think she wanted it to be taken for granted.”</p> + +<p>Old Gilbert looked puzzled. “She wanted to have +it taken for granted that she was not a virgin?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Old Gilbert considered that helplessly, shook his +head, and changed the subject.</p> + +<p>“As to Springer,” he asked, “was he married?”</p> + +<p>“Not at that time. He’s been married since +then.”</p> + +<p>“How did Springer behave when she brought you +to his studio?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“How well do you know him?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve seen him only that once. Isabel told me a +great deal about him.”</p> + +<p>“Does he make much money with his painting?”</p> + +<p>“Not yet, I’m afraid. What are you getting at?” +Norman demanded.</p> + +<p>“Were Isabel and Springer very great friends?”</p> + +<p>Norman smiled. “She admired his work very +much.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think they had been lovers?”</p> + +<p>“That idea had never occurred to me.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p39">39</span>she made love to you. Do you make anything out +of that?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing at all.”</p> + +<p>“You thought of her as a mysterious and incalculable +creature; but let us supply the <i>x</i> 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?”</p> + +<p>Norman tried hard to be objective. “It might be +true. It merely doesn’t fit in with my conception of +Isabel.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“After all, what does it matter?” said Norman.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="p40">40</span>Now, does it look,” asked Gilbert, “as though +she thought it were your child?”</p> + +<p>“But, Good Lord—!” said Norman in bewilderment.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Norman shook his head. “I can’t believe that +she’d lie to me,” he said.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I wish to God I could believe it,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“Would you rather,” asked Gilbert, “believe yourself +the father of her child?”</p> + +<p>“What I wish,” said Norman, “is that I could +wake up and find that this was only a bad dream.”</p> + +<p>“That’s the way it will seem to-morrow night,” +answered Gilbert cheerfully.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p41">41</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_V_Encounter"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter V</span>: Encounter + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>When Norman was left alone in their suite at the +hotel, he wondered what to do with himself in the +meantime.</p> + +<p>He went out and strolled up Michigan Boulevard.</p> + +<p>He passed the Steinbach Galleries.</p> + +<p>Strolling back, he passed the Steinbach Galleries +again.</p> + +<p>Springer might be there, getting ready for his +exhibit.</p> + +<p>Norman turned and went in.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p42">42</span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Springer paused, glanced at him idly, and took +out his watch and looked at it in a bored way.</p> + +<p>There had been no recognition in that glance. +Norman was disconcerted. He would have to introduce +himself.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Springer,” he said.</p> + +<p>Springer looked at him inquiringly. “Yes?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>It wasn’t at all what Norman had expected. It +<span class="pagenum" id="p43">43</span>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.</p> + +<p>“Well, how did you find Italy?” asked Springer +absently, misled by some <i lang="la">ignis fatuus</i> gleam of false +recollection.</p> + +<p>Norman, ignoring this mistaken reference, said +firmly: “Isabel Drury took me to your studio.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes!” said Springer. “You wrote a play. +I remember now.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Good luck?” Norman repeated, baffled.</p> + +<p>“Yes, she’s going to Paris. Some rich woman is +subsidizing her for a year’s study—isn’t it fine!”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Norman. “But—”</p> + +<p>He scarcely took in the news about Isabel’s going +to Paris.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p44">44</span>it. Maybe he didn’t know anything about it at all!</p> + +<p>“How is Isabel?” Norman asked abruptly.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Springer, “she’s all right.”</p> + +<p>“All right?”</p> + +<p>Why should he say that? Did he mean anything? +Did he know anything?</p> + +<p>“I suppose,” said Norman, as casually as possible, +“that you keep in touch with her?”</p> + +<p>“Well, yes,” said Springer.</p> + +<p>“I understand,” said Norman, “that she’s here in +Chicago now.”</p> + +<p>“Why, yes, she is,” said Springer reluctantly.</p> + +<p>So it was true!</p> + +<p>“I’d like to see her,” said Norman. His heart +was beating heavily. “Where is she?”</p> + +<p>“Well, as a matter of fact, she’s—not seeing anybody. +She’s just recuperating from an operation for +appendicitis.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Is that so?” he said, and his voice mechanically +took on the proper tone of sympathy and courteous +interest.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p45">45</span></p> + +<p>Norman wanted to ask him at what hospital she +was. But he felt that Springer would evade that +question.</p> + +<p>“I’d like to see her before she goes,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Are you going to be in town long?” asked +Springer.</p> + +<p>“No—a day or two.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid there’s no chance,” said Springer.</p> + +<p>“I suppose not,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>The subject seemed closed.</p> + +<p>“I’m having a show here next week,” said +Springer.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I would like to see it,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>Springer held out his hand.</p> + +<p>“Well, I may run into you here again,” he said.</p> + +<p>Norman was dismissed.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>And then it occurred to him that he didn’t know +whether her baby was alive or dead.</p> + +<p>He had to go to see Dr. Zerneke.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p46">46</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_VI_Dr_Zerneke"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter VI</span>: Dr. Zerneke + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>A girl’s voice answered the telephone. He gave +his name.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Mr. Overbeck,” said the girl. “Dr. +Zerneke is expecting you. Can you come right +over?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll be there immediately,” he said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He gave his name.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” she said. “Just wait in here a moment, +please.”</p> + +<p>She opened the door of the reception room, and +went back to her desk.</p> + +<p>He began to wonder why he had come. He +ought to leave this part of it to Gilbert!</p> + +<p>There were three women in the room. One by +one they were called into an inner office by the office +nurse.</p> + +<p>Then it was his turn.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p47">47</span></p> + +<p>As he walked across the room, his mind whirled. +But part of his mind didn’t care. He would know +the whole truth, now.</p> + +<p>A small dark woman seated at a desk rose and +held out her hand.</p> + +<p>“How do you do, Mr. Overbeck.”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Zerneke?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. You received my letter?”</p> + +<p>“You asked me to come to see you.”</p> + +<p>“It is very good of you to come. Sit down, +please.”</p> + +<p>Norman took the chair at the corner of the desk.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Please do explain,” he said.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>So that, thought Norman, was how she would +have begun!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p48">48</span></p> + +<p>“You said, I believe,” he remarked, still keeping +to his rôle of ignorance, “that it was of personal interest +to me.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she answered, “sufficiently so that I feel +sure you will go to some little trouble to oblige us in +the matter.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I see,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said. The great wave hung overhead, +about to fall.</p> + +<p>“At that time you were acquainted with a girl +<span class="pagenum" id="p49">49</span>named Isabel Drury. Recently she has come under +my care, and—”</p> + +<p>Enough of this farce of ignorance!</p> + +<p>“I know,” said Norman, “she has had a baby.”</p> + +<p>“Oh—you know that?”</p> + +<p>“It’s true, then!”</p> + +<p>“Yes. And for certain reasons, Mr. Overbeck—”</p> + +<p>“It’s—alive?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes.”</p> + +<p>“A—a boy or girl?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me,” said Norman impatiently, “when did +it happen?”</p> + +<p>“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....”</p> + +<p>“How did she—come through it?” Norman +asked.</p> + +<p>“The delivery,” said the doctor, “was a somewhat +difficult one, but she stood it very well.”</p> + +<p>“She’s all right now?” Norman persisted.</p> + +<p>“Oh, quite all right. She’ll be able to leave the +hospital within a week or so.”</p> + +<p>“And the baby?” asked Norman.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p50">50</span></p> + +<p>“The baby is a very healthy child. No physical +defects. Six pounds at birth, now about six and a +half.”</p> + +<p>“Isn’t that rather small?” Norman asked anxiously.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Yes?” said Norman anxiously.</p> + +<p>“Do you mind my asking you a few questions?” +She drew a sheet of paper toward her. “How old +are you?”</p> + +<p>“Twenty-five,” said Norman in surprise.</p> + +<p>“Have you recently had a thorough medical examination?”</p> + +<p>“I took out some insurance recently,” he said, +wondering what this was all about. “I was examined +then.”</p> + +<p>“Will you take off your coat and vest, please?” +she asked firmly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The doctor smiled. “You seem to be. Don’t +put on your coat yet. Have any of your family ever +had tuberculosis?”</p> + +<p>“No,” he said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p51">51</span></p> + +<p>“Epilepsy?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Insanity?”</p> + +<p>“No!”</p> + +<p>“Roll up your sleeve, please.”</p> + +<p>He did so, obediently.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“What is that?” he asked curiously.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“What is that for?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Why—I suppose so. Yes, I’m sure I can. But +why do you want to know these things?”</p> + +<p>“Oh—I thought I had explained that, Mr. Overbeck. +<span class="pagenum" id="p52">52</span>It is always desirable in these cases, when +possible.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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....</p> + +<p>“And I thank you very much,” said the doctor, +rising and holding out her hand.</p> + +<p>“Then—that’s all?” he asked.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p53">53</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, that’s all—except for the family medical +history that you promised to send me. You won’t +forget that?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly,” said the doctor, resuming her seat. +“I’ll be glad to explain that to you. Just what is it +you want to know?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Norman uncomfortably, “I really +don’t know—but I don’t quite like the idea of +adoption!”</p> + +<p>“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....</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Norman felt confused by these generalizations. +This wasn’t exactly what he wanted to know....</p> + +<p>“Social workers believe, theoretically,” the doctor +went on, “that both parents should be held as strictly +as possible to their responsibilities for children born +<span class="pagenum" id="p54">54</span>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....”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but—who is going to take Isabel’s baby?” +Norman made himself ask.</p> + +<p>“The Society has a large waiting list,” said the +doctor. “The applicants are thoroughly investigated.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean that you can’t—or won’t tell me?”</p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t think of telling you,” said the doctor.</p> + +<p>“Why not?”</p> + +<p>“It makes trouble in the future,” said the doctor. +<span class="pagenum" id="p55">55</span>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Then Isabel isn’t to know who they are, either?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“And Isabel agrees to this?”</p> + +<p>“She trusts us to do the best for the child.”</p> + +<p>“Has she—signed over the child yet?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Norman was conscious of a feeling of frustration +which he could not quite understand.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Is that true?”</p> + +<p>“You’ll find it to be quite true, Mr. Overbeck.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p56">56</span></p> + +<p>Norman was silent for a long moment. Then he +looked up and said:</p> + +<p>“I must see her—Isabel. Can I?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly,” said the doctor, “as far as I am concerned. +If she wishes to see you.”</p> + +<p>“Why shouldn’t she wish to see me?” Norman +demanded.</p> + +<p>“She may feel that the fact that you are her child’s +father gives you no special claim upon her.”</p> + +<p>“Why do you say that?”</p> + +<p>“She was quite unwilling for me to communicate +with you at all. She particularly said that she did +not wish to see you.”</p> + +<p>“She said that?”</p> + +<p>“But she may feel differently about it now. I am +only warning you.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll call her up and ask her,” said Norman +grimly.</p> + +<p>“I’ll call up for you, if you like, right now, and +find out.”</p> + +<p>“Do, please,” said Norman coldly.</p> + +<p>“Do you wish to see her this morning?”</p> + +<p>“The sooner the better.”</p> + +<p>The doctor lifted the receiver and called the number.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p57">57</span></p> + +<p>Norman waited.</p> + +<p>“Yes.... She will? Thank you.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Very well,” said Norman, and rose impatiently.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p58">58</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_VII_Flowers"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter VII</span>: Flowers + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>HIS taxi passed a florist’s shop, and he leaned +forward and pounded on the window. “Stop +a minute. Yes, right here.”</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>In the shop, he looked about at the banked flowers +in uncertainty.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>Something yellow caught his eye. “Jonquils,” he +said. “Let me see those.”</p> + +<p>“A dollar a dozen,” said the salesman, without +enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p59">59</span>remote, the most casual of acquaintances, +almost a stranger.</p> + +<p>He bought the roses.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Abruptly he knocked on the glass window. +“Drive back to that florist’s,” he ordered.</p> + +<p>The driver turned the corner, rounded the block, +and drew up at the florist’s shop again.</p> + +<p>“Give me two dozen jonquils,” said Norman to +the salesman.</p> + +<p>When they were wrapped up and paid for, he +handed back the other bouquet. “You can keep +these,” he said, and walked out.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p60">60</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_VIII_Isabel"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter VIII</span>: Isabel + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>He accompanied the young woman down the corridor.</p> + +<p>She tapped at a door, opened it slightly, and +glanced in. “A visitor for you,” she said, and ushered +Norman in.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p61">61</span>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.</p> + +<p>“Isabel!” he said.</p> + +<p>“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!</p> + +<p>“The wood near Athens,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Yes—the wood near Athens! But do sit down, +Norman.”</p> + +<p>He drew the chair up close to her bed.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>He nodded, not quite able to trust himself to +speak.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t you want to see me?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose I am rather conventional,” he said +<span class="pagenum" id="p62">62</span>humbly. “But what did you think my attitude would +be, about this?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t you tell me about it?” Norman asked +abruptly.</p> + +<p>“Well, I didn’t know for a long time.”</p> + +<p>“You didn’t know!”</p> + +<p>“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 <em>couldn’t</em> happen to +me.”</p> + +<p>“But you found out you were a woman after all,” +he said solemnly.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="p63">63</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p64">64</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t!” said Norman involuntarily.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“It seems to me,” said Norman, choking a little +as he tried to speak, “that it—is—a concern of +mine.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t intend that it should be. Did it upset +you when you heard about it?”</p> + +<p>“Naturally it upset me. But Dr. Zerneke’s letter +was so diplomatic that at first I didn’t know what it +was all about.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p65">65</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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!</p> + +<p>“I saw him at Steinbach’s this morning,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Springer? Yes, he has a show on at Steinbach’s +next week. He’s done some very fine things. You +ought to see them.”</p> + +<p>“He spoke of you.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“Does Springer approve of—your plans?”</p> + +<p>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 <em>can</em> be artists in a serious +way. See what he’s done to Roberta—”</p> + +<p>“Roberta is his wife, I take it?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p66">66</span></p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Then <em>he</em> doesn’t think you ought to go to Paris?”</p> + +<p>“He doesn’t say anything about it. But he’s not +very enthusiastic.”</p> + +<p>“What does he want you to do?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“And you consider that—quite out of the question, +I suppose.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Even if you know nothing of these people, +Isabel?”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Zerneke knows them. And I’m sure they +couldn’t be worse parents than I should be!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“If he were an artist, that wouldn’t keep him from +being one.” Then Isabel smiled. “But why not suppose +<span class="pagenum" id="p67">67</span>that he will inherit your traits, Norman? +That’s quite as likely. And then he’d get along perfectly +well in his bourgeois environment.”</p> + +<p>“So that’s what you think of me—as a perfectly +bourgeois person,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“You’ve managed to make terms with the world +you live in,” she said, “I thought you got along with +it very comfortably.”</p> + +<p>“So I did,” he said, “until yesterday—when this +thing came up. This has knocked the foundations +of my old life to pieces.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry,” said Isabel. “I hope it’s not as bad +as that. This needn’t affect your life.”</p> + +<p>“It does,” said Norman. “There’s no use pretending. +Isabel, won’t you marry me?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p68">68</span>prison to give up my freedom. I won’t marry you, +Norman.”</p> + +<p>“Is that your real reason?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Marriage is marriage, Norman. I’m going to +Paris to paint. You want to keep me here, looking +after your baby. No, thank you.”</p> + +<p>“Is that the real reason?” he repeated.</p> + +<p>“What else? Oh, I suppose you mean, do I love +you?”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps that’s what I do mean. But I suppose I +know the answer already.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>She turned her head away from him and flung her +arm up to cover her face. She was crying.</p> + +<p>“Go away,” she said, after a moment.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He rose, contritely.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Oh, flowers!” she cried. And then, as he unwrapped +them: “Jonquils! I love them! How +nice of you to remember!”</p> + +<p>She is a girl, after all! thought Norman.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p69">69</span></p> + +<p>“Put them in the water pitcher,” she told him.</p> + +<p>He did so.</p> + +<p>“And now come here and kiss me.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Norman, dear,” she said softly, “will you forgive +me for being—what I am?”</p> + +<p>“But are you that, really?” he asked. “I wish I +knew!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t just us,” he said. “Isabel, it’s our son. +Couldn’t we—”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p70">70</span></p> + +<p>She bit her lip and shook her head.</p> + +<p>“Besides,” she said, “you’re engaged to another +girl. Hal told me so.”</p> + +<p>“What does that matter, now?”</p> + +<p>“She’ll give you another son.”</p> + +<p>“Doesn’t,” he asked desperately, “doesn’t it mean +anything to you?”</p> + +<p>“Why,” she asked wonderingly, “should our child +mean so much to you? You’ve never even seen +him.”</p> + +<p>“I want to see him.”</p> + +<p>“You can. But don’t you understand—”</p> + +<p>“I understand that he would interfere with your +career, yes,” said Norman harshly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But to give your child away to strangers—!” +he protested bitterly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p71">71</span></p> + +<p>She sank back on her pillow. “I can’t talk to you +any more,” she said wearily. “You’d better go.”</p> + +<p>“I want to see my son,” he said stubbornly.</p> + +<p>“The nurse will show you.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset +you. And—I’ll try to understand your point of +view....”</p> + +<p>“Good-by,” she said. “And thank you for the +flowers.”</p> + +<p>There was a tap at the door.</p> + +<p>“Yes?” said Isabel. “I think,” she said to Norman, +“that’s the baby now.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p72">72</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_IX_The_Baby"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter IX</span>: The Baby + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>THE door opened, and an angular, old-maidish-looking +nurse entered with a baby in her arms. +“Feeding time,” she said.</p> + +<p>She went to the bed and laid the baby down beside +Isabel. “I’ll bring the bottle,” she said, and +went out.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>Norman flinched at the word.</p> + +<p>“Well, he is, you know,” said Isabel. “And he’s +<span class="pagenum" id="p73">73</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>A loud wail came from the little bundle.</p> + +<p>“I’ve nothing for you,” said Isabel. “You’ll have +to wait for your bottle.”</p> + +<p>“Why is his head such a queer shape?” asked +Norman.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p74">74</span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>The baby’s wails grew more insistent.</p> + +<p>“Just a minute, young man,” said Isabel.</p> + +<p>“Have you—named him?” asked Norman.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“You named him Norman?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Why the devil,” asked Norman, “should you be +so considerate of <em>me</em>?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“If—for any reason—” he said, “you had decided +to keep the baby, what would you have done then—about +me?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p75">75</span></p> + +<p>“But I think that’s silly,” said Norman. “Because +I could support it—and you couldn’t.”</p> + +<p>“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 <em>you</em>—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—”</p> + +<p>“I see,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>Yes, he thought bitterly, if she were a real mother, +she’d be interested in comforting that crying baby, +instead of explaining her psychology!</p> + +<p>The spinsterish-looking nurse came in efficiently +with the bottle.</p> + +<p>“I think your visitor has been here long enough,” +she said firmly.</p> + +<p>“I’m going,” said Norman.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p76">76</span></p> + +<p>He gathered up his hat and stick. “I’ll see you +again, if I may.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, do,” said Isabel.</p> + +<p>“Here, precious!” said the nurse, cooingly, +“here’s your itsie bottsie-wottsie.”</p> + +<p>Norman heard her crooning over his child as he +went out the door.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p77">77</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_X_Art_Alone_Endures"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter X</span>: Art Alone Endures + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>OUTSIDE of the hospital he hailed a taxi, and +gave the name of his hotel.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He did not know what he was looking for.... +Possibly for some proof that art was as important +<span class="pagenum" id="p78">78</span>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.</p> + +<p>“The father,” he murmured half aloud, “being +unknown to history.”</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>A fragment of a poem of Gautier’s flickered into +<span class="pagenum" id="p79">79</span>his mind. “<i>Tout passe. La vers souveraine demeurent.</i>” +That had impressed him greatly when +he read it at college. All passes; sovereign verse—or, +as in this case, painting—lasts....</p> + +<p>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. <i lang="fr">Pointillisme</i>—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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p80">80</span>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>Norman remembered suddenly his luncheon engagement +with old Gilbert. They were to meet at +the hotel.</p> + +<p>He hurried out.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p81">81</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XI_Common_Sense"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XI</span>: Common Sense + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>“WELL,” said old Gilbert, at the table in the +corner of the hotel dining room, “how +have <em>you</em> been spending your morning?”</p> + +<p>“I went to see Dr. Zerneke,” said Norman. “I +couldn’t wait.”</p> + +<p>Old Gilbert stopped wiping his mouth and threw +his napkin violently on the table.</p> + +<p>“I’ll be damned!” he said. “I suppose I ought to +have known it.”</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t stay away,” said Norman. “I had to +know.”</p> + +<p>“Well, and what did you find out?”</p> + +<p>“Your guess was true, of course. It’s Isabel +Drury. She had her baby eleven days ago.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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—”</p> + +<p>“Yes, what did she want?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p82">82</span></p> + +<p>“Yes—and what else?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“The girl makes no claim on you?”</p> + +<p>“None at all.”</p> + +<p>Old Gilbert looked immensely relieved.</p> + +<p>“Tell me,” said Norman, “have you ever heard +of the Thecla Child Adoption Society?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Gilbert. “I’ve looked that up too.”</p> + +<p>“Is it a reputable organization?”</p> + +<p>“Perfectly. And I had Dr. Zerneke looked up, +too.”</p> + +<p>“You found her to be all right?” asked Norman.</p> + +<p>“Professional reputation unimpeachable, it seems. +Why?”</p> + +<p>“Well—about the adoption matter.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t mean that, precisely.”</p> + +<p>“What, then?”</p> + +<p>“I was thinking—of the child.”</p> + +<p>“They know their business. The child will be put +in good hands. You needn’t worry about that.”</p> + +<p>Old Gilbert once more gave to his lunch the attention +it deserved. “You see,” he said comfortably +<span class="pagenum" id="p83">83</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Why do you want me to go home?” asked Norman.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“You mean that you’re afraid I might go to see +Isabel?”</p> + +<p>“You’re safer, I think, back in Vickley.”</p> + +<p>“Well—I might as well tell you that I saw her, +too. And the baby.”</p> + +<p>“You <em>have</em> 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?”</p> + +<p>“I asked her to, and she refused.”</p> + +<p>“You asked her to!—and she refused? You certainly +have fool’s luck. But why did she refuse +you?”</p> + +<p>“For the same reasons as before. It would interfere +with her career.”</p> + +<p>“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! +<span class="pagenum" id="p84">84</span>You didn’t happen to remember, I suppose, that you +were engaged to another girl.”</p> + +<p>“It didn’t seem to make any difference.”</p> + +<p>“Boy, she might have taken you up. You were +putting your head into the lion’s mouth!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Good Lord, you’re as much infatuated with her +as all that?”</p> + +<p>“No. I’m not even sure that I love her at all.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean to say that you offered to marry +her just to make an honest woman of her?”</p> + +<p>Norman laughed. “Nothing like that.”</p> + +<p>“Then why in the name of God did you offer to +marry her? Can you tell me that?”</p> + +<p>“That seemed the simplest thing to do,” said +Norman.</p> + +<p>“I think you’re a little mad,” said old Gilbert.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” said Norman. “I suppose it +was foolish. Any way, she wouldn’t.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“Well, you needn’t worry about it,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“I shan’t ask her again.”</p> + +<p>“I should hope not!” said old Gilbert.</p> + +<p>“I saw Springer this morning.” And then Norman +<span class="pagenum" id="p85">85</span>was sorry he had mentioned it. Gilbert would +commence again on his suspicions.</p> + +<p>“What is <em>he</em> doing here?” asked Gilbert.</p> + +<p>“Getting ready for his exhibit.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you went to see him?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Well, what did <em>he</em> say?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve been wondering who was paying her expenses,” +said Gilbert.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p86">86</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>He pulled himself back to reality, and smiled +wanly at the absurdity of his fancies.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Norman, “I’ll be ready.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p87">87</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XII_Bad_Dreams"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XII</span>: Bad Dreams + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>BUT what could he do that afternoon?...</p> + +<p>Two o’clock found him back in Dr. Zerneke’s +waiting room.</p> + +<p>“Have you looked us up?” asked Dr. Zerneke +cheerfully, when he was admitted to her office.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Norman. “And she refused.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I understand that,” said Norman. “But +what I object to is this business of turning the baby +over to strangers!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p88">88</span></p> + +<p>“But I don’t,” said Norman stubbornly.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Norman, “I’ve no doubt your Society +is all right. But—” He paused helplessly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said, “I’ll be glad to do that.”</p> + +<p>He took out his check-book and his fountain-pen, +and started to write. But suddenly he laid down his +pen.</p> + +<p>“No,” he said, “I can’t buy them off that way.”</p> + +<p>He spoke softly, as if to himself, but Dr. Zerneke +asked sharply:</p> + +<p>“Buy who off?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>The doctor seemed to understand. She reached +out and put her hand for a moment on one of his +<span class="pagenum" id="p89">89</span>stooped, miserable shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she said. +“What do you want to do?”</p> + +<p>“I—I don’t know,” he said.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>“If you have any practical alternative to offer—” +the doctor was saying.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Do you think your own family would care to +adopt the child?” Dr. Zerneke asked. “Is that what +you would like to do?”</p> + +<p>“I hadn’t thought of that!” he said. “Of course—that’s +what I’ll do!”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the doctor thoughtfully, “you can +consult them about it, and let me know.”</p> + +<p>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....”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p90">90</span></p> + +<p>“Of course,” said the doctor, “they may not take +kindly to the idea.”</p> + +<p>“They’ll—<em>have</em> to do it!” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“We’ll see,” said the doctor. “But I hope there +will not be too much delay in settling the matter, one +way or another.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll go back home to-night,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“And do you think you’ll be able to give me the +decision within, say, two weeks?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” he said.</p> + +<p>She rose. “I’ll expect to see or hear from you +in a fortnight, then.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p91">91</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XIII_En_Route"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XIII</span>: En Route + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>THERE was no use in waiting for old Gilbert. +He would take the next train to Vickley.</p> + +<p>He packed, and left a message, and caught a train +which would get him home at midnight.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>He could get off at Aurora, of course.</p> + +<p>No, he’d have to see it through, somehow.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p92">92</span>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.</p> + +<p>He simply couldn’t involve his family in a thing +like that.</p> + +<p>(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?)</p> + +<p>The train stopped presently at Aurora. Here +was his chance. He’d better take it.</p> + +<p>But he was still in his chair when the train pulled +out of Aurora.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He would tell his father. His father might know +what to do.</p> + +<p>He envisaged in imagination that interview with +his father.</p> + +<p>“Did you seduce this girl under promise of marriage?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p93">93</span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“What is it, Son? Tell your father.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“Was she a good girl?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Father.”</p> + +<p>“Then you’d better marry her, Son. It will hurt +us all, but you must do what is right.”</p> + +<p>“But she won’t marry me, Father.”</p> + +<p>“Send her to me. I’ll talk with her about it. +She’ll <em>have</em> to marry you, Son.”</p> + +<p>Norman smiled. It would be wonderful to believe +again in his father’s omnipotence.</p> + +<p>Well, what would his father say to Isabel? He +imagined that, in the same boyish mood.</p> + +<p>“How old are you, Isabel?”</p> + +<p>“Twenty-six, sir.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But I want to be a painter!”</p> + +<p>“We cannot always have what we want. My son +<span class="pagenum" id="p94">94</span>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!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir!” (Exit Isabel, crying.)</p> + +<p>He frowned, and imagined it again, in a slightly +more realistic vein.</p> + +<p>“You seem to be a well-brought-up young woman. +I really can’t understand this at all.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid nothing I could say would make it any +clearer to you, Mr. Overbeck.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“And I have told him that I won’t marry him.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense! Why not?”</p> + +<p>“Because I am going to Paris to paint.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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. +<span class="pagenum" id="p95">95</span>“And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another engagement.”</p> + +<p>No, it wouldn’t be like that <em>at all</em>. 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.</p> + +<p>(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.)</p> + +<p>He rose restlessly and went into the smoking +compartment.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="p96">96</span>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p97">97</span>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?</p> + +<p>The porter came through the car. “First call +for dinner!”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p98">98</span></p> + +<p>But there wasn’t anything about girls who wanted +to go to Paris and paint, and wouldn’t marry the +fathers of their children....</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Well, there was a grain of comfort in that....</p> + +<p>But why must he, now, find the subject of illegitimacy +everywhere he turned?</p> + +<p>Damn these coincidences!</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Yes—but why had <em>Isabel</em> 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 <em>want</em> 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! +<span class="pagenum" id="p99">99</span>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?</p> + +<p>He looked at his watch. Still an hour and a half +from Vickley.</p> + +<p>Would his father understand?</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p100">100</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XIV_Homecoming"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XIV</span>: Homecoming + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>If he were a girl—would his folks understand? +Better, perhaps, than as it was now. They’d have +to take the baby....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p101">101</span>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....</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p102">102</span></p> + +<p>He ran up the steps and went in. His father’s +voice from the study asked in surprise and disapproval: +“Who’s that?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said his father, “it’s you. I am waiting up +for Doris.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“There she is now,” said his father, as a car +stopped noisily at the curb.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p103">103</span>at school about her being the aunt of a ——? Or +(Good God!) would they think it was really <em>hers</em>? +His fists clenched, and his forehead was suddenly +wet with perspiration....</p> + +<p>Out on the porch Doris and her boy friend were +giggling....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“Good night, Peter!”</p> + +<p>“Good night, Doris!”</p> + +<p>Young voices....</p> + +<p>The front door opened and shut, and Doris came +straight to the lighted room, saying in exasperated +protest: “I <em>do</em> wish, Father, you wouldn’t wait up +for me! I can—”</p> + +<p>She paused in the doorway, seeing her brother. +“Oh, <em>you’re</em> 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.</p> + +<p>“You look,” he said, “like a million dollars! How +was the dance?”</p> + +<p>“I had a swell time,” she answered.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p104">104</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, all rightie!” she replied, and swaggered out.</p> + +<p>“How did you come out with the supreme court?” +asked Norman.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>Now, if ever, was the time to confess. But what +was the use?</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Norman’s chance had passed....</p> + +<p>“I’ll lock up,” said his father.</p> + +<p>“Good night,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“Good night.”</p> + +<p>Upstairs, a door opened as he passed, and a whisper +called him. “Norman!”</p> + +<p>It was his sister Lucinda, in wrapper and archaic +curl-papers. He paused.</p> + +<p>“I just wanted to ask you—did you look at my +puppy for me?”</p> + +<p>“Your puppy?” said Norman, wrenching his mind +loose from his own thoughts.</p> + +<p>“Yes—you know you promised to go and look at +<span class="pagenum" id="p105">105</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I wish you would, Norman! I just can’t +decide by myself!”</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>But what was he going to do?</p> + +<p>He felt suddenly very tired—too tired to think.... +He would decide to-morrow.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p106">106</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XV_Family_Breakfast"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XV</span>: Family Breakfast + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“All—right!” he said reluctantly, opening his +eyes.</p> + +<p>He watched her go out of the room—the little, +sensible, practical wife of the great J. J. Overbeck....</p> + +<p>What was that dream? It had vanished completely.</p> + +<p>He sprang out of bed. And then he remembered +<span class="pagenum" id="p107">107</span>yesterday—Isabel—the baby—Dr. Zerneke—his errand +here. It seemed unreal.</p> + +<p>He shaved hurriedly, so as not to be late to +breakfast.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>“You should have thought of that last night,” said +Lucinda vindictively.</p> + +<p>“You know,” said her mother placatingly, “that +Father likes us all to be at the breakfast table with +him.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know,” said Doris, “but I don’t see the +sense of it. It’s a darn silly rule, if you ask me.”</p> + +<p>They all waited for J. J. Overbeck’s quiet thunders +and lightnings to descend upon the rebel.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Doris struggled with her tears for a moment, +and then jumped up and ran crying from the room.</p> + +<p>Norman looked down at his plate, ashamed. +What a home!...</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p108">108</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“I think Isabel is quite right.”</p> + +<p>He realized the slip of his tongue as they stared +at him.</p> + +<p>“Who’s Isabel?” asked Lucinda.</p> + +<p>He flushed. “I meant Doris. She should be allowed +to sleep after a late party. Especially on +Sunday.”</p> + +<p>“Who is Isabel?” Lucinda repeated.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>He ignored Lucinda’s question and spoke sharply, +forgetting his accustomed dignity:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p109">109</span></p> + +<p>“Father has no right to punish her that way—for +a mere trifle!”</p> + +<p>His father was surprised, and for a moment or +two said nothing at all. At last he remarked +quietly:</p> + +<p>“Late hours don’t seem to agree with you, either, +Norman.”</p> + +<p>Lucinda’s lips were framing the question: +“Who—?”</p> + +<p>“Well,” Norman demanded of his father belligerently, +“are you going to send <em>me</em> to bed at ten +o’clock?”</p> + +<p>“Norman!” said his mother in sensible, practical +disapproval of such nonsense.</p> + +<p>“If you are going to behave like a child,” said +his father, “I ought to send you from the table like +one.”</p> + +<p>“I’d prefer to go,” said Norman. He rose and +marched out of the room—feeling as though he were +ten years old.</p> + +<p>In the hall he saw Doris coming downstairs. He +waited for her.</p> + +<p>“What are you going to do?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m going back and apologize,” she said +lightly. “It’s the only thing to do.”</p> + +<p>Their mother’s practical voice floated out from +the breakfast room.</p> + +<p>“Norman, if you’re going out, take your overcoat.”</p> + +<p>“Where are you running off to?” asked Doris.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p110">110</span></p> + +<p>She was helping him on with his overcoat. “To +see Madge, I suppose!”</p> + +<p>“Madge? Oh—why—yes.”</p> + +<p>He had managed to forget Madge....</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p111">111</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XVI_Aubade"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XVI</span>: Aubade + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He would just behave as if nothing had happened.</p> + +<p>As Gilbert had said, she would be thinking +about other things.... She would never need to +know....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p112">112</span>be called his wife. Perhaps people would speak approvingly +of their happy marriage....</p> + +<p>Here he was, already, at the Ferris house.</p> + +<p>He hadn’t thought what he was going to say.</p> + +<p>Just behave naturally—that was it.</p> + +<p>He gave the bell his customary long ring followed +abruptly by two short ones—the signal that Madge +said sounded like “<em>O</em>-ver-beck!”</p> + +<p>No one came immediately, and he had to fight +an impulse to go away. He rang again, and waited.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“Let little me help him off with his overcoat,” she +said.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>“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! +<span class="pagenum" id="p113">113</span>When your imperious ring came, she was just finishing +her bath!”</p> + +<p>These childish mannerisms of speech had once enchanted +him.</p> + +<p>“When did the old bum get home?” she demanded, +drawing him down on the couch beside her.</p> + +<p>“Last night—late,” he said.</p> + +<p>“How late?”</p> + +<p>“My train got in at midnight.”</p> + +<p>“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....”</p> + +<p>He asked, with a pang of superstitious dread: +“A dream—about me?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>He kissed her again.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter, Norman?” she asked abruptly, +drawing away from him. “Has anything +happened?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said. (Why did he say that?)</p> + +<p>“What is it, dear?” she asked anxiously.</p> + +<p>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....”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Norman?”</p> + +<p>“It’s much too close to my father’s....”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p114">114</span></p> + +<p>“I’ve known that all along,” she said quietly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“What happened this morning? Have you been +quarreling with your family?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said. “How did you know?”</p> + +<p>“What were you quarreling about?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“You think I’d let your family run <em>me</em>?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know how you’d help yourself.” (But +why were they talking about that house?)</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>He didn’t say anything.</p> + +<p>“Have they been criticizing me?” she demanded.</p> + +<p>“Who?”</p> + +<p>“Well—your sister Lucinda.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p115">115</span>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.</p> + +<p>“Then what’s the matter?” she was asking.</p> + +<p>He couldn’t bring realities into that doll-world of +hers.... “Nothing,” he answered—too evasively.</p> + +<p>“I know there is,” she insisted.</p> + +<p>It would be like hurting a child.... But he +ought to give her some warning....</p> + +<p>“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....</p> + +<p>“Norman!”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>This puzzled, incredulous girl at his side—she +wasn’t a child, but a woman. It was he who felt like +a child.</p> + +<p>“I’m in trouble, Madge,” he said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p116">116</span></p> + +<p>Her arms were around him. “What is it, Norman?” +she asked quietly.</p> + +<p>He wanted terribly to tell her. There was some +reason why he shouldn’t—but he couldn’t remember +exactly what it was.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Yes, mine,” he said.</p> + +<p>She rose, slowly. “I’m glad you told me,” she +said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“You’re free now,” she said, “to go to her.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But the maid came first.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Overbeck is wanted on the telephone.”</p> + +<p>“Me?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p117">117</span></p> + +<p>“It’s your sister, Miss Lucinda, Mr. Overbeck. +It’s something about a dog.”</p> + +<p>It was too absurd.... “Yes—please ask her to +wait one moment.” He would have to greet +Madge’s aunt.</p> + +<p>The maid went away....</p> + +<p>Then Aunt Julia.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“When did you get back from Chicago?” Aunt +Julia asked affably, seating herself on the sofa.</p> + +<p>“Last night.” Damn this silly woman!</p> + +<p>“Don’t walk up and down the room, Norman. +Sit down. And tell me what’s the matter.”</p> + +<p>Oh, he’d have to tell her something.</p> + +<p>“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....</p> + +<p>“What!” said Aunt Julia, in amused incredulity. +“No, not really? You mustn’t take these lovers’ +quarrels too seriously, Norman.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p118">118</span></p> + +<p>“Lovers’ quarrels! I wish that were all!” he +said bitterly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, is it so bad as all that, really?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Mrs. Ferris.”</p> + +<p>Her face took on an expression of sympathy, and +after a moment’s thought she said reassuringly:</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>He saw what she was thinking, and reluctantly +answered:</p> + +<p>“No—not exactly.”</p> + +<p>“Not exactly? But she thinks so! I see. Has it +anything to do with your Chicago trip?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—in a way,” he said evasively.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p119">119</span>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.</p> + +<p>The maid returned to say: “Miss Lucinda is still +on the wire, Mr. Overbeck.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes. Excuse me.” What a nightmare!</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>“All right. I’ll go.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p><em>Why</em> had he done it? But it was too late to ask +that....</p> + +<p>Anyway, he <em>had</em> done it....</p> + +<p>It was all over....</p> + +<p>He stood there irresolutely for a moment, then +took his things from the hall, and went quietly out +of the house.</p> + +<p>Madge had been a good sport about it. But it +was a little too much like committing murder.</p> + +<p>And <em>now</em> to face the folks at home....</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p120">120</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XVII_Flight"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XVII</span>: Flight + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>BUT he did not go home. He walked down +town.</p> + +<p>He had keys to the Overbeck building. He would +go there and think.</p> + +<p>Why had he told Madge? There wasn’t any +sense to it. Yes, why?...</p> + +<p>But that wasn’t the question, either. The question +was what to do now—now that he had told +Madge....</p> + +<p>He walked up and down in the outer office, trying +to think. It was no use. His mind wouldn’t work.</p> + +<p>He lay down on one of the leather-upholstered +benches, exhausted, and fell asleep.</p> + +<p>When he woke up it was dark. He looked at his +watch. Ten o’clock. Had he slept all day?</p> + +<p>He had certainly made a frightful mess of things.... +He reached for a cigarette.</p> + +<p>When he had smoked all his cigarettes, he went +out for more. He had not been able to make any +decisions at all.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p121">121</span></p> + +<p>“Sorry,” he muttered, and hung up the receiver.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“Fifty, if you like, Mr. Overbeck,” said Jack.</p> + +<p>“All right—I could use fifty. Or a hundred. +Could you let me have a hundred?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll see, Mr. Overbeck.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“That will be fine.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>Jack thought there was just about time to make it.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p122"></a><a id="p123"></a>[123]</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_TWO"> + BOOK TWO + <br> + In Exile + </h2> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p124"></a><a id="p125"></a>[125]</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_I_The_Prodigal"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter I</span>: The Prodigal + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>The waiting-room to-day was full of women patients, +but Norman was ushered immediately into +the doctor’s office.</p> + +<p>Norman felt rather like a fool—and at the same +<span class="pagenum" id="p126">126</span>time quite pleased with himself. Dr. Zerneke, he +felt, if anybody, would understand. At any rate, +he hoped she would!...</p> + +<p>“Well!” said Dr. Zerneke, shaking hands with +him. “What have you been doing, these last two +weeks?”</p> + +<p>“I—why—I’ve been here in Chicago, as a matter +of fact,” he said. “Has anybody been looking for +me?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry,” said Norman. “Were my family +worried?”</p> + +<p>“Of course they were worried. They didn’t know +whether you were alive or dead.”</p> + +<p>“But I sent a letter—”</p> + +<p>“So I heard. And it seems to have sounded to +your family as if you were intending to commit +suicide.”</p> + +<p>“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?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p127">127</span></p> + +<p>“But what have you been up to, all this time?”</p> + +<p>“Why, I’ve been getting a job.” He masked his +secret pride with an air of casualness.</p> + +<p>“A job here in Chicago?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Really!”</p> + +<p>“Yes. In an advertising office. Wilkins and +Freeman.”</p> + +<p>“So that’s what you’ve been doing!” She looked +at him curiously.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“The two weeks are up to-day,” he added.</p> + +<p>Dr. Zerneke said reflectively: “As I remember, +I gave you two weeks to find out if your family +would take the baby.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you see—I made rather a mess of +that,” he confessed.</p> + +<p>“I was afraid you might find it difficult to persuade +them.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p128">128</span></p> + +<p>“You?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly. That’s why I came here and got +a job.”</p> + +<p>He took out a cigarette, tapped it, and put it back +in the case....</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think my prospects are so bad, really, +Dr. Zerneke,” he protested.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“It’s not entirely a question of money,” said Dr. +Zerneke. “It’s partly a matter of character.”</p> + +<p>He hadn’t expected to have to argue about it +<span class="pagenum" id="p129">129</span>like this. But he would defend himself if he had +to....</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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—”</p> + +<p>“But I didn’t know they were going to think any +such idiotic thing.”</p> + +<p>“Well, why did you do it? That’s what I don’t +understand.”</p> + +<p>“Because it was the only way I could be free to—to +go ahead with this. I <em>had</em> to cut loose from my +family.”</p> + +<p>“You wish to acknowledge the child as your son?”</p> + +<p>“I do, certainly.”</p> + +<p>“And make him your heir?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, of course.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But—that isn’t all. I want to have my son with +me.”</p> + +<p>“You are hardly in a position to take care of him, +<span class="pagenum" id="p130">130</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Is that a rule, Dr. Zerneke? Even when the +bachelor happens to be the baby’s father?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, so I heard. What’s—become of Isabel?”</p> + +<p>“She has left town.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>He wouldn’t let himself think about Isabel.... +That was all over....</p> + +<p>With an effort he put his attention on what Dr. +Zerneke was saying:</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p131">131</span>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.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I can see your point of view,” said Norman +doubtfully.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but that’s off. I told her about the baby, +and she broke the engagement.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Not until then?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly not now. What would you do with +a four-weeks-old baby, Mr. Overbeck?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p132">132</span>fantasies had all concerned the future, not the +present....</p> + +<p>“I—I hadn’t worked all that out,” he said.</p> + +<p>“I thought not. Tell me, Mr. Overbeck—if you +saw a roomful of babies, could you pick out your +own child?”</p> + +<p>Norman reflected. “I think so,” he said. “He +has light hair, like mine, and a queer-shaped head.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Zerneke smiled. “Would you like to see him +again?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I would.”</p> + +<p>“If I can feel safe that you’re not going to do +something idiotic, I’ll let you see him.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean, idiotic?”</p> + +<p>“Such as trying to kidnap him....”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but really—you don’t think I’m as crazy as +all that!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I ought to tell you, Dr. Zerneke, that I have no +intention of trying to make up with my family,” +said Norman firmly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>She took pen and paper, and wrote. Looking up, +she said: “You’ll find her a very capable foster-mother. +<span class="pagenum" id="p133">133</span>She has an interesting story that I’ll tell +you some time. This is the third baby she’s taken +care of for me.”</p> + +<p>“What,” asked Norman, “happened to the +others?” His tone was anxious. He had heard of +“baby-farms.”...</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>She handed him the note.</p> + +<p>“And by the way,” she said, “we must make up +a story for you.”</p> + +<p>“A story for me?”</p> + +<p>“To account for the baby. You don’t want everybody +in Chicago to know the peculiar state of your +affairs, do you?”</p> + +<p>“No. I’ve had enough of trying to explain it in +Vickley.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p134">134</span></p> + +<p>“It does seem a rather difficult problem, doesn’t +it?” said Norman, trying hard to think.</p> + +<p>“T.B. is the only thing I can think of.”</p> + +<p>“T.B.?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Do you really think there’s any great likelihood +of any one being willing to marry me?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>The telephone rang, and Dr. Zerneke turned to +answer.</p> + +<p>“Yes, connect him, please.... Mr. Rand?... +Yes, indeed—your young friend is right here. I’ll +let you speak to him.”</p> + +<p>She handed the telephone to Norman.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Gilbert.”</p> + +<p>“Good God, is it really you, Norman?”</p> + +<p>“It’s all right, Gilbert. Where are you?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p135">135</span></p> + +<p>“At the Annex. What the devil have you been +doing?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll be with you in +about an hour.... Keep your shirt on. Good-by!”</p> + +<p>He turned to Dr. Zerneke. “You don’t quite +realize what I’m in for,” he said.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Just the same, I want to make my first visit +to—my son. Before I see any one from Vickley.”</p> + +<p>“If that will make you feel better, go ahead,” +said Dr. Zerneke.</p> + +<p>She dismissed him with a warm hand-shake.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p136">136</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_II_A_Man_Has_Some_Rights"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter II</span>: A Man Has Some Rights + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>One in a row of dingy three-story brick houses. +He rang the bell. A young woman came to the door.</p> + +<p>“I want to see Mrs. Czermak.”</p> + +<p>“I’m Mrs. Czermak. Did you want a room?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“No—I—here’s a letter from Dr. Zerneke,” he +said.</p> + +<p>She stood there, leaving him waiting on the doorstep, +while she opened and read it. Then she looked +up quickly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I’d like to,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>She led him upstairs, through a bedroom, very +<span class="pagenum" id="p137">137</span>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>The baby stirred in its sleep, and flung up a tiny +fist.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“It’s awfully little, isn’t it!” he said awkwardly.</p> + +<p>“He’s a fine baby!” said Mrs. Czermak defensively.</p> + +<p>Norman was conscious of having said “it” instead +of “he.” Was she offended by that? Did she +think he didn’t appreciate the baby?</p> + +<p>“If you come just before six, you can see him +<span class="pagenum" id="p138">138</span>awake,” she said. “That’s his feeding time. Or +on Sundays you could come at a little before two.”</p> + +<p>Well, that was all. What had he expected? He +had come to see his son. And he had seen him. +Now he would go.</p> + +<p>Gilbert was waiting for him....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Sundays at two, you say?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes. That’s when he gets his bottle. You +might come a little before then—fifteen minutes +before.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>As he started to leave, an idea came brilliantly. +Yes, why not? He turned to Mrs. Czermak.</p> + +<p>“You say you have rooms for rent here?”</p> + +<p>She hesitated, and then answered reluctantly:</p> + +<p>“Sometimes.”</p> + +<p>He vaguely sensed some opposition to his plan. +But he asked in a determined way:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p139">139</span></p> + +<p>“Have you any vacant now?”</p> + +<p>Again she hesitated. “Not any suitable for two.”</p> + +<p>“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!</p> + +<p>“Oh!” said Mrs. Czermak. “Well, I have a hall +bedroom on the next floor.”</p> + +<p>“May I see it?”</p> + +<p>“Is it for yourself or your wife?” asked Mrs. +Czermak.</p> + +<p>He remembered abruptly what Dr. Zerneke had +told him to say.</p> + +<p>“My wife has been ordered to Colorado for her +health. She started to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Oh—and without the baby!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Where is that—in Denver?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said. He was anxious to get off a +subject on which further questions would be embarrassing. +“May I see the room?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p140">140</span></p> + +<p>He looked around. It was much larger, lighter, +cleaner, than the one he had been living in.</p> + +<p>“How much is it?” he asked.</p> + +<p>She thought a moment. “We could let you have +it for eight dollars, I guess.”</p> + +<p>Remarkably cheap! He had been paying eight +for the hole he had been living in.</p> + +<p>“I’ll take it,” he said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“Could I have a small, solid table to write on? +An unpainted kitchen table would do.”</p> + +<p>“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Czermak. “When do you +want to move in?”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p141">141</span>had paid in advance were about up. He might as +well make the change without delay, and get settled. +He took out some bills.</p> + +<p>“By the way,” he said, “how much has Dr. Zerneke +been paying you for taking care of the baby?”</p> + +<p>“Ten dollars a week. With Grade A milk, and +clothes, it comes to about twelve dollars, not counting +extras.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I’ll take care of that from now on,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Suppose I pay a week in advance for the room, +and a week for the baby,” he said. “Will that be +all right?”</p> + +<p>He handed her the money.</p> + +<p>She looked at it. “There’s supposed to be a deposit +for the keys,” she said, “but we won’t bother +about that.”</p> + +<p>“Why not?” he said, and offered her another +dollar.</p> + +<p>“No,” she shook her head. “You’ll need every +dollar you can save. With a sick wife in Colorado.”</p> + +<p>He somewhat guiltily put the dollar back in his +pocket.</p> + +<p>“I’ll get you your keys,” she said, turning to go.</p> + +<p>“Never mind,” he said, “give them to me to-night. +<span class="pagenum" id="p142">142</span>I’m in a hurry now.” He looked at his watch.</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid I can’t promise the table till Monday,” +she said.</p> + +<p>“That’s all right.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll try to make you comfortable.”</p> + +<p>Well, that was settled! And now for old Gilbert....</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p143">143</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_III_An_Ambassador_from_Vickley"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter III</span>: An Ambassador from Vickley + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry I’ve given you so much trouble, Gilbert,” +said Norman stiffly.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Looking for work.” And he told Gilbert briefly +of his new job.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“But I wrote in my letter to my mother, from the +station, not to worry—”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p144">144</span></p> + +<p>“But really—why all this nonsense about suicide? +Perhaps my letter wasn’t as tactful as I thought it +was—but after all—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that’s all right,” said Gilbert. “The suicide +part and everything. It fitted in fine. You did +everything just right.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>These remarks were evidently intended to be reassuring; +but they reminded Norman uncomfortably +of what a fool he had behaved like in Vickley.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I’m happy, you son-of-a-gun, because you’re +alive. Here, have a drink.”</p> + +<p>Gilbert opened his suitcase and took out a bottle. +“No? Well, I will. My nerves have gone to pieces +<span class="pagenum" id="p145">145</span>over this.” He poured some whiskey into a tumbler, +and drank.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Gilbert—I know. I should have told you. I +suppose I was afraid to. The truth is, I wasn’t +capable of reasonable thought.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know exactly what you’d done, Norman, +but I knew you were running amuck somehow,” +Gilbert went on, with a smile.</p> + +<p>“You knew I had told Madge, at least,” said +Norman unhappily.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p146">146</span>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!”</p> + +<p>“But didn’t Madge—or her aunt—tell them anything +about—about the engagement being broken?”</p> + +<p>“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—”</p> + +<p>“I know—about a dog.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p147">147</span>you were carrying around, and surer every minute +that you had set it off.”</p> + +<p>Norman sighed. Must Gilbert go into all these +painful details? Why not let the dead past be forgotten?</p> + +<p>“I tell you,” said Gilbert, “I was sweating blood!”</p> + +<p>“It didn’t occur to you, I suppose, to tell them the +truth?” Norman asked with some asperity.</p> + +<p>“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 <em>would</em> 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.”</p> + +<p>“What <em>was</em> 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....</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p148">148</span>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p149">149</span>weeks!—Not news <em>from</em> you, but news <em>of</em> you. It +sounded like grim death itself.”</p> + +<p>Norman twisted uncomfortably in his chair.</p> + +<p>“I never thought of that, Gilbert. But <em>you</em> +knew—”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Of course—you didn’t know,” Norman murmured.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p150">150</span></p> + +<p>“Cool?” Norman asked in surprise.</p> + +<p>“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 <em>is</em> suicide.”</p> + +<p>“You keep harping on that, Gilbert. It’s not a +pleasant thought.”</p> + +<p>“I’m telling you just what happened.”</p> + +<p>“Of course. Go on.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p151">151</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“So he knows....”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Madge? But she knew!”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p152">152</span>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.”</p> + +<p>He would rather not hear that part of it. But +he felt obliged to ask:</p> + +<p>“What did Madge say?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But I told her about the baby!” he protested.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Not about the baby, I think,” said Norman, +<span class="pagenum" id="p153">153</span>making an effort to remember these things that +seemed to have happened so many thousands of +years ago.</p> + +<p>“So Madge said. But between what you told the +girl and what her aunt imagined, she got it wrong.”</p> + +<p>“What in the world did she think I had told her?”</p> + +<p>“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 <em>her</em>.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t have a chance to go into details. But +I’m sure I told her about the baby!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“So—that’s what she meant.... She told me +I was free—to go to her!”</p> + +<p>“Exactly. I tell you, Norman, she’s a good +sport!”</p> + +<p>“I see that I blundered the thing frightfully.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“She’ll think a little more kindly of me, perhaps,” +said Norman wistfully.</p> + +<p>“She’s sorry for you. And she’s interested in +your wanting the baby. I told her why you had +<span class="pagenum" id="p154">154</span>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.’”</p> + +<p>“Humble!”</p> + +<p>“To tell the truth, Norman, she thinks of you +as a kind of saint.”</p> + +<p>“Gilbert, don’t razz me.”</p> + +<p>“Women are queer, Norman. Of course, there’s +some credit due me as your advocate. I didn’t +neglect my opportunities. And it <em>is</em> 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.”</p> + +<p>(Perhaps—but how did old Gilbert understand?)</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“You told her I had offered to marry Isabel?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—and that you didn’t love her. That’s correct, +I think?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. How did Madge take that?”</p> + +<p>“She seemed to understand it perfectly. It made +you all the more saintlike.”</p> + +<p>“Please lay off that, Gilbert.”</p> + +<p>“If you depart from the beaten track, Norman, +you have to take the consequences. You can’t do +<span class="pagenum" id="p155">155</span>what you’ve done without being regarded either as a +scoundrel or a saint.”</p> + +<p>“I was prepared to be regarded as a scoundrel.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“You haven’t mentioned my kid sister—Doris. I +was really trying to protect her.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think it will—hurt her much?” Norman +asked anxiously.</p> + +<p>“Doris? On the contrary, she’s quite a heroine +on account of it. Times are changing, Norman!”</p> + +<p>“In Vickley!” said Norman incredulously.</p> + +<p>Gilbert looked at him gravely.</p> + +<p>“I haven’t intended to deceive you, Norman. You +<span class="pagenum" id="p156">156</span>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?”</p> + +<p>“Thank God for that!”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“All right.”</p> + +<p>“But first I’ll help myself to another drink.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p157">157</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_IV_Speech_to_the_Jury"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter IV</span>: Speech to the Jury + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>“AND now,” said Norman, “what about this +alleged moral victory? You didn’t by any +chance tell people the real truth about me?”</p> + +<p>Gilbert put his feet up on a chair. He, at any +rate, was enjoying these reminiscences.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p158">158</span>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....”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 <em>you</em> crying before I’ve +finished!’ And I did, too....”</p> + +<p>“What in God’s name did you tell them, Gilbert?”</p> + +<p>“The story of a respectable man and his illegitimate +son. I must admit that I embroidered it a little. +<span class="pagenum" id="p159">159</span>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p160">160</span>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.”</p> + +<p>Norman looked at old Gilbert in astonishment. +“I hope you don’t expect me to live up to your romantic +stories!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p161">161</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>Norman looked at him curiously—wonderingly.... +What did old Gilbert know about such +things?</p> + +<p>The telephone rang. Gilbert took up the receiver.</p> + +<p>“A telegram? Yes, send it up.”</p> + +<p>He turned to Norman. “That will be from your +father. I wired him that the lost was found and in +good shape.”</p> + +<p>They waited. There was a knock at the door, and +the boy with the telegram. Gilbert read it and +handed it to Norman.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p162">162</span></p> + +<p>In the stiff, reticent phrases that were so like his +father, it read:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>PLEASED AND GRATEFUL WILL ARRIVE CHICAGO +SUNDAY MORNING AS PLANNED</p> + +<p class="right"> + OVERBECK +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Ten words.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p163">163</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_V_The_Older_Generation"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter V</span>: The Older Generation + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“You know,” said Norman awkwardly, “he was +named for me—by his mother.”</p> + +<p>Gilbert nodded. “Queer girl!” he said.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>Then they talked of Norman’s father—of whom +Norman had been secretly and painfully thinking all +the while....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p164">164</span></p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Still afraid of the old man?” asked Gilbert, smiling, +as he read Norman’s thoughts, so plain to see in +his troubled face.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“No?” said Gilbert. “Well, I wouldn’t worry +about that, if I were you.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p165">165</span>Vickley. I’ve hurt him in a way he never can +forgive.”</p> + +<p>“Norman,” said Gilbert, “maybe I know your +father better than you do. We were in Cuba together, +you know. Before you were born.”</p> + +<p>“Are you hinting at something, Gilbert?” Norman +asked in astonishment.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“My—father!” Norman whispered incredulously.</p> + +<p>“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 <em>my</em> 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p166">166</span>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?”</p> + +<p>“I—it does upset me, rather,” Norman confessed. +“I’ve no right to feel like that, I know. But—”</p> + +<p>“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!...</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Well, there was another Vickley boy in our company, +<span class="pagenum" id="p167">167</span>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....</p> + +<p>“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....</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p168">168</span>her house was comfortable. He got to be more at +ease there than at home. And so it began.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“Yes—I get the picture,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Of course not,” said Norman.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p169">169</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_VI_J_J_Overbeck"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter VI</span>: J. J. Overbeck + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, please do!” he said.</p> + +<p>“All right. It’ll be here when you’re ready.”</p> + +<p>He opened the door when she had gone, and +brought in the tray she had left on the floor.</p> + +<p>There was toast, too!</p> + +<p>“What a nice family!” he thought gratefully.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p170">170</span>watched the gate, and the stream of passengers. +There was his father.... Gilbert’s story seemed +perfectly incredible.</p> + +<p>“Well, Father,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Well, Norman.”</p> + +<p>“Let me take your grip. Did you manage to get +any sleep?”</p> + +<p>“I slept pretty well. Where are you taking me?”</p> + +<p>“We’ll have breakfast, and then I’ll take you to +my room.”</p> + +<p>“It’s not breakfast time for me yet. This is Sunday, +you know. You’d better take me to your room +first.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly.”</p> + +<p>In the taxi he said: “Does your job permit of your +taking taxis like this?”</p> + +<p>It was his kind of humor.</p> + +<p>“Only for very distinguished visitors,” said +Norman.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Michigan Avenue isn’t bad-looking,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>They passed the Art Institute.</p> + +<p>“Been buying any more pictures?” asked J. J. +Overbeck.</p> + +<p>That was probably humor, too.</p> + +<p>“Not on my present salary. I get thirty a week +at present,” said Norman.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p171">171</span></p> + +<p>“Thirty a week is not bad to start with,” said +J. J. Overbeck. “I know young lawyers in Vickley +who make less.”</p> + +<p>There was a silence.</p> + +<p>“What are you working at? If you don’t mind +my knowing.”</p> + +<p>“Not at all. Advertising. Wilkins and Freeman.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve heard of them.”</p> + +<p>Silence again.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Thanks.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“All right,” thought Norman, “who cares?”</p> + +<p>The taxi drew up presently at the curb.</p> + +<p>“Here’s where I live.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Father and son sat down.</p> + +<p>“Comfortable place,” said Norman’s father.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p172">172</span></p> + +<p>“Yes. Very.”</p> + +<p>“And—where do you keep the baby?”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“Upstairs,” said Norman. “I’ll find out if we +can see him now.”</p> + +<p>He went out in search of Mrs. Czermak. The +younger sister was in the hall, apparently waiting.</p> + +<p>“Is he ready to see the baby now?” she asked +eagerly.</p> + +<p>“Yes, if he may.”</p> + +<p>“He’s in our room—the big room. You can go +on up, any time.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you.”</p> + +<p>He went back. “We can go right up,” he told +his father.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p173">173</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Norman followed him.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“I’d rather have a cigarette, if you don’t mind,” +said Norman.</p> + +<p>They sat down.</p> + +<p>“Have you made a new will?” his father asked.</p> + +<p>“Why, no,” said Norman,—remembering what +Dr. Zerneke had told him as to the sensible way of +proceeding in this affair.</p> + +<p>“You’d better, right away. That’s the thing to +do. We can get Gilbert Rand to help us draw it +up to-day.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p174">174</span></p> + +<p>Yes, Dr. Zerneke had said that he was to make +up with his father, and then make the child his +heir....</p> + +<p>“I suppose I’d better,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Have you named him?”</p> + +<p>“His mother—named him Norman.”</p> + +<p>Doubtless it would be politic to suggest calling +him James Norman.... But he wasn’t going to.</p> + +<p>“Norman.” His father nodded thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>There was a long silence, while J. J. Overbeck +smoked.</p> + +<p>“I’m not going to change the firm name,” he said, +with an air of finality.</p> + +<p>Norman frowned in a puzzled way.</p> + +<p>“I’m not expecting to come back,” he said.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>(“Not if I know it!” thought Norman.)</p> + +<p>“Now, as to financial arrangements,” said his +father. “Of course, I expect you to take care of +<span class="pagenum" id="p175">175</span>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.”</p> + +<p>Norman resolved never to touch it.... But he +must not offend his father.</p> + +<p>“It’s very good of you,” he said stiffly.</p> + +<p>J. J. Overbeck rose. “It’s time for breakfast,” he +said. “We’ll go to the hotel and rout out Gilbert +Rand.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p176">176</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_VII_Home"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter VII</span>: Home + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p177">177</span>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....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p178">178</span>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:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>Norman abruptly realized that he was at his +station.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p179">179</span></p> + +<p>He had just entered his room when there was a +knock at the door. It was the elderly musician, Mr. +Victor.</p> + +<p>“Pardon me,” he said with a smile, “but I’d like +to hear the news, if I may.”</p> + +<p>“The news?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Oh—come in.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p180">180</span></p> + +<p>“The girls will be pleased,” said the old man. +“They are very fond of the baby.”</p> + +<p>There was another knock at the door.</p> + +<p>“I think it’s them,” said Mr. Victor, with a smile. +“Wanting to hear.”</p> + +<p>Norman opened the door. It was the younger +sister, Monica.</p> + +<p>“Excuse me, Mr. Overbeck,” she said eagerly. +“But what did he think of the baby?”</p> + +<p>Norman was touched at her interest, but he replied +casually:</p> + +<p>“Well—he seemed favorably impressed. Didn’t +you think so?”</p> + +<p>“Yes! we both thought so. Did he say anything?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“He certainly acted pleased.”</p> + +<p>“Won’t you sit down?”</p> + +<p>“No—I just came in to ask. You don’t mind my +asking? We couldn’t help being anxious.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s all right,” he said reassuringly.</p> + +<p>“I’m so glad!” she said, and was about to go +when he remembered:</p> + +<p>“I haven’t thanked you for the flowers—and the +coffee. It was terribly nice of you.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p181">181</span>having our own at seven, and it would be no trouble +at all!”</p> + +<p>“Then you must let me pay you for it,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t think my sister would want that,” +she said.</p> + +<p>“We’ll discuss that later, then,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Good-night, then.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night.”</p> + +<p>“A nice family,” he remarked to Mr. Victor.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Mr. Victor. “A very nice family. +Not the usual type of people who keep rooming-houses. +I know.”</p> + +<p>“They’ve been so friendly,” said Norman. “I +don’t feel as though I were among strangers at +all.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Has Mrs. Czermak been a nurse-maid?” asked +Norman.</p> + +<p>“Yes. Babies of her own—that’s what she +needs,” said Mr. Victor wisely.</p> + +<p>“She’s not a widow, is she?” asked Norman.</p> + +<p>“No. But she isn’t living with her husband, +you know.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s not exactly a secret. He ran away.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p182">182</span></p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“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....”</p> + +<p>“He wrote in English?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“And what happened to her baby?”</p> + +<p>“It was prematurely born, and it died very soon +afterward.”</p> + +<p>“Hard luck,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think she or the baby had the right kind +of care,” said Mr. Victor. “Poor people go to poor +<span class="pagenum" id="p183">183</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“I probably shall,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“She’s hoping so,” said Mr. Victor. “She’s devoted +to it.”</p> + +<p>“And she hasn’t heard from her husband since he +went away?”</p> + +<p>“No. She’s going to get a divorce shortly.”</p> + +<p>“The family isn’t Catholic, then?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“How old is she—Mrs. Czermak?”</p> + +<p>“Twenty-seven. That was one of the difficulties +about her marriage. The boy was three or four +years younger.”</p> + +<p>“And her sister—how old is she?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p184">184</span></p> + +<p>“Monica is twenty.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“It’s a very pleasant place here,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Your wife is in Colorado for her health, I understand?” +said Mr. Victor.</p> + +<p>They discussed the state of health of Norman’s +alleged wife.</p> + +<p>“You mustn’t be discouraged,” said Mr. Victor +encouragingly. “Everything will come out all +right.” He rose to go.</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” said Norman, “I’m sure it will.”</p> + +<p>“That’s the right spirit!” said Mr. Victor.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He said to himself that his new life had really +begun.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p185">185</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_VIII_Apron_Strings"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter VIII</span>: Apron Strings + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He called up the doctor that afternoon and, explaining +his reasons, postponed the engagement. +It was arranged that he should call Wednesday evening +instead.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p186">186</span>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.</p> + +<p>“You can see him bathed Sunday morning,” said +Monica enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p187">187</span>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!”</p> + +<p>This was an occasion much too important to be +sacrificed to a mere conference with Dr. Zerneke.</p> + +<p>“I’d be very glad to,” he said.</p> + +<p>He called up Dr. Zerneke the next day, and the +engagement was postponed until Friday.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p188">188</span>Springer’s exhibit. Well, he was a workingman +now. Not an art patron any more....</p> + +<p>Dr. Zerneke entered, carrying her medicine case.</p> + +<p>“You let yourself in—good. I’ll make some +coffee in a moment.”</p> + +<p>Norman asked: “Can I do anything?”</p> + +<p>“No. Sit down.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Why,” she asked, “didn’t you consult me before +going to live at Mrs. Czermak’s?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Is there,” he asked, “any reason why I should +not live there?”</p> + +<p>“It’s merely,” said Dr. Zerneke, “that it will make +it more difficult for her to give up the baby.”</p> + +<p>“That won’t be necessary for some time, I presume,” +said Norman.</p> + +<p>“I had not planned to leave the baby there more +than a few weeks,” said Dr. Zerneke.</p> + +<p>“But why?” asked Norman in surprise. “I +thought it was a fine place.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p189">189</span>too much devotion. And you can see that your being +there makes it unnecessarily embarrassing.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But she’s already given it up to the Society!” +said Norman.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Where is Isabel—in Paris?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p190">190</span></p> + +<p>“Would you call them neurotic?” Norman asked +defensively. “I should have said they were a very +healthy lot.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But how have I made it any the worse?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Am I to take this as a warning?” Norman asked +coldly.</p> + +<p>“Stranger things have happened. Of course, if +you wish to settle down there permanently”—Dr. +<span class="pagenum" id="p191">191</span>Zerneke smiled—“you’d find her an excellent wife +in many respects.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>The boiling water plunged upward through the +glass tube furiously, and Dr. Zerneke put out the +flame beneath.</p> + +<p>“Things came off very well Sunday, didn’t they?” +she said.</p> + +<p>“My father,” he replied uncomfortably, “was +more than kind.”</p> + +<p>“Yes—he was sensible, which is more to the point. +When is your mother coming?”</p> + +<p>He hesitated. “No definite date has been set,” +he told her.</p> + +<p>“Have you asked her?”</p> + +<p>“She knows where I am. She can come if she +wants to.”</p> + +<p>“Have you written to her at all?”</p> + +<p>“No,” he said reluctantly.</p> + +<p>“Nor to any of your family?”</p> + +<p>“No. Why should I?”</p> + +<p>“You must remember that you repudiated them, +when you left home without telling them about the +<span class="pagenum" id="p192">192</span>baby. Don’t you suppose families have feelings? +They won’t come to see the baby till you invite +them.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I suppose I should.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“It’s been a very comfortable place,” he said. “I +should be sorry to have to leave.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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....</p> + +<p>“I’ll stop scolding you,” she said, handing him the +cup. “How is your work going?”</p> + +<p>“Not brilliantly, I’m afraid.”</p> + +<p>“Well, the adoption matter ought to be settled +soon, and then you can settle down to a normal life.”</p> + +<p>Something in her tone made him ask: “What, exactly, +<span class="pagenum" id="p193">193</span>is your idea of a normal life for me, Dr. +Zerneke?”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>Norman set down his coffee cup and rose +haughtily.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p194">194</span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>And so saying, thoroughly outraged, he left Dr. +Zerneke’s home abruptly.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p195">195</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_IX_It_Was_Bound_to_Happen"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter IX</span>: It Was Bound to Happen + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>THAT was on Friday evening. And on Saturday +morning he had a telephone call from +Dr. Zerneke.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>He would be at her office at two, he said.</p> + +<p>The legal red-tape would soon be unwound, now—his +son would be all his own!...</p> + +<p>Going back to his desk, he found a note there, saying +formally that Mr. Wilkins wished to see him.</p> + +<p>He walked buoyantly into Mr. Wilkins’ office, +thinking to himself that this would be his promised +raise.</p> + +<p>“My luck is with me!” he said to himself.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later, he came out of Mr. Wilkins’ +office saying to himself over and over:</p> + +<p>“Of course. It was bound to happen. I’ve had +too easy a time. It was bound to happen.”</p> + +<p>He had in his hand an order on the cashier for +his week’s pay, and another week’s in advance.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p196">196</span></p> + +<p>Fired!</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Then he tried the Simpson agency. There was +nothing there for him, either.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>What an irony! That it should be at such a moment +that he should be given his son!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>She wasted no words, but pushed a document +across her desk.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p197">197</span>o’clock; our legal representative will be there. His +name is Starrett.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you.”</p> + +<p>He took his departure stiffly.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>It was over at last. And now to look for a job.</p> + +<p>But no—he must wait till Monday for that....</p> + +<p>He would have nothing to do over Sunday except +think.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p198">198</span></p> + +<p>He realized that he had had no lunch. He must +eat, even if he was out of a job.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>Norman threw the book aside fretfully. Dumas +<span class="pagenum" id="p199">199</span>had played him false—had merely reminded him of +his own troubles....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>When Dumas’ hero found that bassinet on his +doorstep, he didn’t moon over it. He took it in his +stride....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>But first he had to find a job—and work hard to +keep it this time.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p200">200</span>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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>She stooped over him in a kind sisterly way.</p> + +<p>Colorado?</p> + +<p>“No!” he said. And he added roughly: “Go +away and leave me alone!”</p> + +<p>She fled.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Stricken with remorse, he went to the door.</p> + +<p>“Monica!” he called, for she was not in sight. +She appeared abruptly at the head of the stairs. +“Yes, Mr. Overbeck?”</p> + +<p>“I—I’m sorry, Monica,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s all right.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p201">201</span></p> + +<p>She was coming down. She stood there before +him, with a queer frightened look on her face.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” she said at last, “we mustn’t do this. Your +wife—”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said Norman, infinitely astonished +at himself. “I forgot!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Now what?</p> + +<p>He couldn’t imagine why he had done such a foolish +thing.</p> + +<p>Fortunately, he was supposed to have a wife in +Colorado. Monica wouldn’t expect him to marry +her.</p> + +<p>But what would her mother say?</p> + +<p>He wasn’t left long in doubt. A firm rap at the +door was Mrs. Case’s. He rose to let her in.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p202">202</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_X_Mrs_Case"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter X</span>: Mrs. Case + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>“I’M very sorry, Mrs. Case,” he began, but she +interrupted him.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 <em>my</em> house, that’s all. +I’ll be sorry to see you go, but you know how it is. I +<span class="pagenum" id="p203">203</span>can’t be staying awake all night to see that my +daughter sleeps in her own bed.”</p> + +<p>Norman blushed. “I assure you,” he said, “that +we—that I—”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Norman, not quite following her meaning, asked +in bewilderment and some indignation:</p> + +<p>“What other girl do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Really, Mrs. Case,” said Norman in embarrassment. +“You mustn’t think—”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I think you’re quite right, Mrs. Case,” said +Norman.</p> + +<p>“We’ll all miss you, I say, and we’ll all be glad +to see you when you come to visit your boy. You +<span class="pagenum" id="p204">204</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>Was <em>that</em>—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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p205">205</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XI_Paradise_Lost"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XI</span>: Paradise Lost + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He went back to Mrs. Case’s to pack up. Mr. +Victor came in. He had heard, he said, that Norman +was leaving.</p> + +<p>Nobody else came in. They seemed to be avoiding +him.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Victor raised his eyebrows. “But you’ll be +coming here regularly to see the boy, won’t you?” he +asked.</p> + +<p>Norman felt rather foolish. To Mr. Victor, of +course, it was not a farewell to a lost paradise.</p> + +<p>“My work is going to keep me terribly busy for +<span class="pagenum" id="p206">206</span>a while,” he said stiffly. “I shan’t be able to get +here very often.”</p> + +<p>“You’ve been almost one of the family,” said +Mr. Victor regretfully.</p> + +<p>Just a little too darned near, thought Norman.... +That kiss still astonished him whenever he +thought of it.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“May I entrust you with a little commission?” he +asked Mr. Victor formally. “I would like you to +give these to little Monica.”</p> + +<p>“She’ll be pleased as Punch,” said Mr. Victor, +admiring them.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know when I’ll be here again,” said +Norman, “so I’ll say good-by,” and shook hands +with Mr. Victor.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p207">207</span>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.</p> + +<p>But that was no way to be thinking at a time like +this....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Well, what was he going to do? Look for a +job, of course. But suppose he couldn’t find one?</p> + +<p>But he could. He would. He must!</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="p208">208</span>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>He found it difficult to get to sleep that night. +The future stretched out before him, grim and +frightening.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p209">209</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XII_Out_of_a_Job"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XII</span>: Out of a Job + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He called on an advertising agency that day, and +was not surprised to be told that they needed no +one.</p> + +<p>The rest of the day he spent in an aimless wandering +about the streets.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p210">210</span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, +<span class="pagenum" id="p211">211</span>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p212">212</span>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Mr. McCullough himself was not in, but somebody +in charge told him flatly that there was no opening +there just now for anybody....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p213">213</span>Wanted.” He went up to the man at the +cashier’s desk and asked about the job.</p> + +<p>The man looked at him doubtfully and said: “I +don’t think it’s the kind of a job you want.”</p> + +<p>“How much does it pay?” asked Norman.</p> + +<p>“Go and see the boss. He’s in the back.”</p> + +<p>“Whom shall I ask for?”</p> + +<p>“Ask for the boss.”</p> + +<p>Norman went back into the greasy, steaming +kitchen.</p> + +<p>“I want to see the boss,” he said to a fat man +in an apron.</p> + +<p>“I’m the boss. What do you want?”</p> + +<p>“How about that dishwashing job?”</p> + +<p>The man looked at him. “My God, what next?” +he said disgustedly.</p> + +<p>“Why, what’s the matter with me?” Norman +asked.</p> + +<p>“You’d last about an hour,” said the man.</p> + +<p>“How much is the pay?” Norman demanded.</p> + +<p>“Twelve dollars and meals. You have the day +shift for two weeks and then the night shift—seven +to seven.”</p> + +<p>Twelve dollars—and meals. That was enough +for the baby. And he could pawn his trunkful of +clothes to pay for his room.</p> + +<p>“I’ll take it,” he said.</p> + +<p>“If you’re here at six-thirty to-morrow morning +and nobody else has turned up, I’ll try you out,” +said the man.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p214">214</span></p> + +<p>“All right,” said Norman. “I’ll be here.”</p> + +<p>“The hell you will,” said the man doubtfully.</p> + +<p>As Norman went by the cashier’s desk the man +there asked: “Get it?”</p> + +<p>“I think so,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“Working for a paper?” asked the man. “Going +to write us up?” And he smiled knowingly.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>He would have no time to call up Mrs. Czermak +to-night. He’d better call up now.</p> + +<p>Monica answered the telephone.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Soon, I hope,” said Norman vaguely.</p> + +<p>What did Dr. Zerneke want to see him about? +Had she found out about his losing his job?</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p215">215</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XIII_The_Dreamer_Wakes"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XIII</span>: The Dreamer Wakes + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>DR. ZERNEKE was not in when he arrived at +her home at ten o’clock, and he let himself +in as before.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>All very informative, no doubt.... Sanger.... +Spencer and Gillen.... Stendhal’s <i lang="fr">L’Amour</i>.... +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.</p> + +<p>Goethe.... Godwin.... Groos.... Remy +de Gourmont. Guyot’s <i lang="fr">Breviare de l’amour experimentale</i>.... +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, +<span class="pagenum" id="p216">216</span>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Dr. Zerneke entered, and greeted him cordially.</p> + +<p>“Well, Mr. Overbeck,” she said, “I suppose you +are feeling pretty good about everything?”</p> + +<p>Norman was disconcerted.</p> + +<p>“What about?” he asked suspiciously. Was she +making fun of him?</p> + +<p>“Why, you have your son,” she said. “That +hasn’t palled already, has it?”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” he said. “I thought—”</p> + +<p>“You thought what?”</p> + +<p>“I hadn’t intended to tell you,” he said. “But the +fact is, I’ve lost my job.”</p> + +<p>“That’s too bad,” she said sympathetically. “As +a matter of fact,” she added, “I knew.”</p> + +<p>“Oh’you did?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p217">217</span></p> + +<p>“Yes. I happened to call up Wilkins and Freeman, +and they said you weren’t there any more.”</p> + +<p>“Of course.... It was foolish to think I could +keep it a secret.”</p> + +<p>“You haven’t another yet, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Dishwashing?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“So now,” Dr. Zerneke commented, “you know +how a good many other young fathers feel. Well, +it may be good for you.”</p> + +<p>“It may take me, of course,” said Norman, “several +weeks to find another job.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“How do they keep up?”</p> + +<p>“Some of them don’t. Others have a little money +<span class="pagenum" id="p218">218</span>put by for hard times. When you were a prosperous +lawyer, didn’t you save anything?”</p> + +<p>“I had a bank account, yes.”</p> + +<p>“Why not draw on it, then?”</p> + +<p>“It’s not really mine, any longer, since I’ve quit +the firm.”</p> + +<p>“Suit yourself. But I hope you’re not going to +be silly.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve broken with my life in Vickley. I’d rather +stay broken—not go back for help. Is that so +foolish?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Why shouldn’t I be?”</p> + +<p>“Shame is a luxury no sensible person can afford. +Do you want to stay in the advertising business?”</p> + +<p>“I do. Very much. That’s really what I’m afraid +of—that I’ll have to fall back on something else.”</p> + +<p>“Would you consent to let me do you a favor?”</p> + +<p>“Why not?”</p> + +<p>“I thought you might be too proud. Well—first +of all, how much money have you in the bank at +Vickley?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p219">219</span></p> + +<p>“Of my own—something like a thousand dollars. +I was going to spend it on my honeymoon.”</p> + +<p>“Write out a check for it and deposit it in some +Chicago bank. How much are you paying for your +new room?”</p> + +<p>“Four dollars a week.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“And what then?” Norman asked curiously.</p> + +<p>“You are fond of buying pictures, aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve confined myself to etchings, chiefly. I have +a small collection of moderns in Vickley.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Is that all?” Norman asked grimly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p220">220</span></p> + +<p>“I was in there this morning. They haven’t got a +job to give me.”</p> + +<p>“They will probably have one next Friday.”</p> + +<p>“Why should they have one next Friday?” he +asked suspiciously.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“But what do you know about my ability?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p221">221</span></p> + +<p>“It didn’t feel so to me. It seemed real enough. +And it wasn’t at all pleasing!”</p> + +<p>“It was an exercise of your imagination, nevertheless. +A dream. I’ve merely waked you up.”</p> + +<p>“It was a nightmare,” he said.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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 <em>facts</em> seem different +now? Because they do!”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>Norman laughed, and thanked her warmly.</p> + +<p>“Have you asked your mother to come to see +you?”</p> + +<p>“Not yet.”</p> + +<p>“Well, the sooner the better.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p222">222</span>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....</p> + +<p>“Am I,” he wondered, “a perfectly incorrigible +ass?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He would get an apartment.... And then he +would ask his mother to come....</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p223">223</span></p> + + + <h2 class="nobreak" id="BOOK_THREE"> + BOOK THREE + <br> + The Dominant Sex + </h2> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p224"></a><a id="p225"></a>[225]</span></p> +<div class="chapter"> + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_I_Vita_Nova"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter I</span>: Vita Nova + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>HIS mother was coming. He had wired, inviting +her, and she had wired back the date of +her arrival....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He ought, he knew, to feel at ease now, in his +<span class="pagenum" id="p226">226</span>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.... +<span class="pagenum" id="p227">227</span>Lucinda, it appeared, was still suffering from +“nerves.” He gathered that she had taken it all +pretty hard....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p228">228</span>man, how much trouble you’re going to make in +the world with that!” A realist, she.... Norman +grinned, remembering.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>And his mother was coming in four days.</p> + +<p>He really ought to make the best of those four +days....</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p229">229</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_II_Waste_Not_Your_Hour"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter II</span>: Waste Not Your Hour + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>YES, he was lonely, that was the trouble.</p> + +<p>Dr. Zerneke had told him to make friends. +But he had made friends already, and had had to +drop them....</p> + +<p>Well, he must make some new friends.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p230">230</span>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>He sat there in his easy chair under the lamp, trying +to decide between Jennie and Louise.</p> + +<p>The clock on the mantel chimed the hour of nine.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p231">231</span>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p232">232</span>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....</p> + +<p>The clock chimed the half-hour.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He went to the book-case, took one down at random, +glanced through its pages, and threw it aside. +<span class="pagenum" id="p233">233</span>After a few restless turns up and down the room he +abruptly put on his hat.</p> + +<p>It was too beautiful an evening to stay indoors. +He would take a walk in the park.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>What did Monica think of him?</p> + +<p>He turned, and walked back, on the other side +of the street, looking at the house.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>What was Monica doing?</p> + +<p>But he reminded himself that he was supposed to +<span class="pagenum" id="p234">234</span>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.</p> + +<p>And besides, his mother was coming in four days. +He had best keep out of trouble....</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p235">235</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_III_His_Mother"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter III</span>: His Mother + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>Well, there was nothing else to do to-night. He +would read a while and then go to bed and get some +<span class="pagenum" id="p236">236</span>sleep. His mother was arriving on the early +train....</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Not that it made any difference to him....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p237">237</span>two hours.... Was that his mother now? He +threw on a dressing-gown and went to the door.</p> + +<p>“Mother!” he cried out contritely.</p> + +<p>“Good morning, Norman. You always were a +sleepy-head.” She kissed him. “It’s nice to see you, +my boy.”</p> + +<p>“And I didn’t meet you!” He seized her suitcase +and packages. “How awful of me! Come in!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! You did?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. He’s a very nice baby, Norman. He looks +exactly like you.”</p> + +<p>“You—you liked him?”</p> + +<p>“Of course. Now, Norman, go and have your +bath and get dressed, and I’ll get some breakfast.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry, Mother—I’m afraid there’s not a +thing in the house.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“Are you almost ready?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Mother. In three minutes.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p238">238</span></p> + +<p>He could smell the appetizing odors of bacon and +coffee.</p> + +<p>“All right. I’ll put the eggs in.”</p> + +<p>That was just like her....</p> + +<p>He felt half admiring and half resentful of such +a mother.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p239">239</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_IV_Ware_Women"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter IV</span>: ’Ware Women + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Yes, they are,” he said.</p> + +<p>“By the way,” she remarked, “they asked me +something about your wife’s health.”</p> + +<p>To be sure—he hadn’t warned his mother of that +protective fiction.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p240">240</span></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Oh—you’ve seen Dr. Zerneke too?”</p> + +<p>“Not yet. I mean what she wrote to me.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“What did she say about me?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>“Oh, just that you were well, and about your +work.”</p> + +<p>“What did she say about my work?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>She hadn’t known, then, about his losing that +other job. He felt relieved.</p> + +<p>“How is Lucinda?” he asked. He had already +inquired about the other members of the family.</p> + +<p>“Well, you know how Lucinda gets—in a state +of nerves over every little thing. Her new puppy +is lost.”</p> + +<p>“What!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, the new one she got from Schwartz’s. It +just got out of the house about ten days ago and +disappeared.”</p> + +<p>“I remember. It had a black spot or something.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p241">241</span></p> + +<p>So Gilbert Rand was mistaken! It wasn’t concerned +with him and his baby, Lucinda’s state of +nerves. Only her dog—of course....</p> + +<p>“She’s thinking of coming on while I’m here.”</p> + +<p>“No!” said Norman in helpless protest.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, then, by all means let’s have her,” said Norman +ironically. “If my baby can assuage her +grief—!”</p> + +<p>His irony was lost on his mother—as usual. +“Yes,” she said, “I think it would do her good.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p242">242</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But I can’t have you washing my dishes, +Mother,” said Norman, scandalized.</p> + +<p>“It won’t be the first time I’ve washed your +dishes,” she said.</p> + +<p>“I’ll do them myself,” he said. “You’re my +guest.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t be silly, Norman. Run along and leave +me alone here for a while.”</p> + +<p>And after some feeble protest, he did.... He +went over to Mrs. Czermak’s.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he asked her, “what do you think of my +mother?”</p> + +<p>She looked at him in a frightened way.</p> + +<p>“Tell me,” she begged, “is she going to take the +baby away?”</p> + +<p>“Take the baby away!” Norman echoed. “Why, +of course not!” And then he added, wonderingly: +“I never thought of—such a thing.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Why, did she say anything—when she was +here?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“It wasn’t what she said. But I’m afraid!” said +<span class="pagenum" id="p243">243</span>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.</p> + +<p>“Oh, well,” said Norman reassuringly, “I’m sure +she hasn’t any such idea.”</p> + +<p>But that evening, at dinner with his mother and +Dr. Zerneke in the quiet restaurant he had selected, +he was troubled by that thought....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He was a little shocked to realize how much he +had changed his mind, in the last six weeks....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>What were these two women up to?</p> + +<p>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....</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p244">244</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_V_As_Usual"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter V</span>: As Usual + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>(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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p245">245</span>Norman in his sober senses that he preferred to +forget it....)</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p246">246</span></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p247">247</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Darling!” he whispered.</p> + +<p>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 <em>are</em> married!...</p> + +<p>“Now you know!” And her mouth passionately +met his again.</p> + +<p>“Do you want me?” she whispered.</p> + +<p>And what could a young man answer but—</p> + +<p>“Yes, of course I do!”</p> + +<p>“Then come back and live with us again—and +don’t let her take the baby away!” she whispered +pleadingly.</p> + +<p>“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....</p> + +<p>“You must go, now, dear,” she said presently, +pushing him gently out.</p> + +<p>“Good Lord!” thought Norman, as he ran down +to the waiting taxi.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p248">248</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_VI_Night_Thoughts"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter VI</span>: Night Thoughts + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>HE could not get to sleep for a long time.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>Well, if he felt that way, why not take her up?</p> + +<p>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. +<span class="pagenum" id="p249">249</span>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....</p> + +<p>To be sure, he had this apartment. And after his +mother had gone back to Vickley—</p> + +<p>Yes, why not?</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>He played in imagination with the idea, and it +was infinitely alluring.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>But if he told her the truth, she would want him to +marry her....</p> + +<p>That, of course, was entirely out of the question. +The deception would have to be kept up—or else, +<span class="pagenum" id="p250">250</span>for that idea didn’t please his imagination, he would +have to make clear to her why he didn’t want to get +married....</p> + +<p>He could imagine her saying reproachfully: “You +mean—you don’t want to get married to <em>me</em>!”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“But why don’t you want to marry me, Norman?”</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p251">251</span>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?</p> + +<p>Oh, not so romantic and poetic as some sorts of +love, perhaps. But it was real. Oh, it was real +enough!</p> + +<p>And yet he didn’t want to marry her.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it <em>was</em> mere snobbishness.... But still—could +he and a girl of such a different background +get along together as man and wife?</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p252">252</span>answer to that seemed to be the fact that he had been +very happy living there at her house....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Abruptly there flashed into his mind what his +friend Hal would say about such a marriage. “<i lang="fr">Nostalgia +de la boue.</i>” 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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p253">253</span>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. <i lang="fr">Nostalgia de la +boue?</i> 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....</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p254">254</span></p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>Yes, why not tell her the truth and ask her to +marry him?</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>A week to think it over.... And he fell asleep +to dream of happiness in Monica’s passionate young +arms....</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p255">255</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_VII_A_Letter"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter VII</span>: A Letter + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>But something happened that day to disturb the +happy tenor of his thoughts.</p> + +<p>In the afternoon there was a telephone call from +Dr. Zerneke.</p> + +<p>“I’ve just had a letter from Isabel,” she said.</p> + +<p>“From Paris?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“No. From Michigan.”</p> + +<p>“But I supposed she had sailed a week or more +ago!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But what in the world—?”</p> + +<p>“You’ll find out when you read her letter.” And +that was all she would say.</p> + +<p>What could Isabel have to say to him? She +<span class="pagenum" id="p256">256</span>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“Here’s a letter for you,” said his mother, when +he came home that afternoon.</p> + +<p>“Oh, thanks,” he said. “Something from Dr. Zerneke.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Dear Dr. Martha—</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p257">257</span>it on. If it’s out of place, please throw this +in the wastebasket and forget about it.</p> + +<p>“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.)</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p258">258</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p259">259</span>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.</p> + +<p class="right"> + <span style="margin-right: 3.0em;">“Faithfully yours,</span><br> + “<span class="smcap">Isabel Drury</span>.” +</p> + +<p>Norman laid down the letter and whispered bitterly +to himself:</p> + +<p>“She can go to hell!”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p260">260</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_VIII_A_Sociological_Interlude"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter VIII</span>: A Sociological Interlude + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I’ve something to attend to,” he said. “Would +you mind going to dinner and to see the baby alone +this evening?”</p> + +<p>“Of course not. I’ll get myself a bite right here. +Just run along.”</p> + +<p>He hurried out, saying that he would be back late +that evening.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.)</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“Dear Isabel—Thank you for your kind offer. +You had your own reasons for rejecting mine, and I +<span class="pagenum" id="p261">261</span>have mine for rejecting yours. I wish you success +in your artistic career. Sincerely yours.”</p> + +<p>Another version ran: “Dear Isabel—I have no +desire to be made respectable. Your offer is declined.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>Of course, marriage with Isabel <em>would</em> (along +with his acknowledgment of paternity) legitimate +his son, according to the laws of the State of Illinois. +<span class="pagenum" id="p262">262</span>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 <em>would</em> make a difference.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p263">263</span></p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But instead, he went to the Crerar library.</p> + +<p>Some people, in their troubles, solace themselves +with drink, others with statistics.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Well, let’s see how the Bolsheviks handle this +<span class="pagenum" id="p264">264</span>thing,” he said to himself, and turned in a slip for +the pamphlet.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p265">265</span>if things like that happened in Soviet Russia. +Human nature being what it was, he didn’t see why +not!</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p266">266</span>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....</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>Which would the boy choose?</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p267">267</span>what Dr. Zerneke would want him to do. For the +child’s sake.</p> + +<p>No!</p> + +<p>He would be damned if he would marry that +girl—to make his son one of the little lords of +Vickley.</p> + +<p>He looked up at the library clock.</p> + +<p>Five minutes of ten.</p> + +<p>He would tell Dr. Zerneke that there were +limits to what a father should be asked to do.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p268">268</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_IX_On_Taking_a_Girl_at_Her_Word"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter IX</span>: On Taking a Girl at Her Word + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>DR. ZERNEKE was in when he arrived, and +the coffee was steaming.</p> + +<p>“How is your mother enjoying her visit?” she +asked, pouring him a cup.</p> + +<p>“All right, I guess.” He drank his coffee at a +gulp. “Well, I’ve read Isabel’s letter....”</p> + +<p>“Yes?”</p> + +<p>“I want to know what you think.”</p> + +<p>“What does your mother say?”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t asked her.... And I’m not going +to.”</p> + +<p>Dr. Zerneke shrugged her shoulders. “I really +don’t want to get mixed up in this,” she said.</p> + +<p>“But you can tell me what you think!”</p> + +<p>“And be blamed afterwards....”</p> + +<p>“I’ve got to talk it over with somebody!”</p> + +<p>“There’s your mother,” she reminded him.</p> + +<p>“But you know Isabel, and she doesn’t!”</p> + +<p>“Well, the only thing I feel like advising you is—not +to do anything rash.”</p> + +<p>“Such as what?”</p> + +<p>“Such as taking Isabel at her word in a hurry, +without having a chance to think it all over.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t want me to marry her?” he asked, in +surprise.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p269">269</span></p> + +<p>“I don’t care whether you marry her or not. +That’s entirely up to you.”</p> + +<p>“I’m glad you feel that way about it,” he said. “I +thought you’d say I <em>ought</em> to do it.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” he said, “it isn’t just me. Marrying +her would serve to legitimate my son—and +nothing else, in this state, will.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Then what <em>would</em> be a reason for my marrying +her?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“If you were in love with each other, that would +be a fairly good reason,” said Dr. Zerneke.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p270">270</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“You would be quite willing that it should be only +a matter of form?” Dr. Zerneke asked.</p> + +<p>“I certainly shouldn’t think of trying to persuade +her to make it a real marriage—if <em>that’s</em> what you +mean!”</p> + +<p>“You wouldn’t?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>He read the typewritten sheet.</p> + +<p><i>“Case H 15278. Unmarried mother who refuses +to keep her child.</i></p> + +<p><i>“Report of Dr. A. B. Fishwanger, psychiatrist +(extract):</i></p> + +<p>“Her feeling of hostility toward maternity is thus +<span class="pagenum" id="p271">271</span>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose she was in a state of conflict about +it,” said Norman. “Still, she made up her mind. +<span class="pagenum" id="p272">272</span>You don’t think anything has happened to change +it?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But she doesn’t say she’s sorry,” Norman objected.</p> + +<p>“I think that might possibly be read between the +lines.”</p> + +<p>“It never occurred to me. You think she wants +her baby?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t pretend to speak for her. But that might +be one explanation of her offer.”</p> + +<p>“Not if she were going on to Paris,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“She might not go on to Paris, then.”</p> + +<p>“But she says definitely that she would!”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p273">273</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“I see what you mean. But if I went up to +Michigan and we were quietly married there—who +would know about it?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Do as you please. But don’t expect me to be +surprised if Isabel comes back with you from Michigan +to meet your mother.”</p> + +<p>“Aren’t you rather cynical, Dr. Zerneke? I +think I could trust her. I’m sure of it.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But why should I do that?” he asked coldly.</p> + +<p>“You were in love with her once. And she’s your +child’s mother. It would be the most natural thing +in the world.”</p> + +<p>“You really think she’d stay with me if I asked +her?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p274">274</span></p> + +<p>“Do you really want her to stay? Then the only +way to find out is to ask her. If that’s what you +want.”</p> + +<p>“It wouldn’t really mean giving up her career,” +said Norman reflectively. “There would be time +enough for that, later.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Why in Vickley?”</p> + +<p>“Can you support a wife on your present job?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose not. She’d have to work.”</p> + +<p>“Has she ever done any work?”</p> + +<p>“You don’t think I ought to marry her?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Norman rose and walked up and down the room. +<span class="pagenum" id="p275">275</span>“All this is new to me,” he said. “I can’t quite believe +it.”</p> + +<p>“Take your time and think it over. Talk to your +mother about it.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“She won’t go till she hears from you. I repeat +that the only question is, do you want her for a +wife?”</p> + +<p>Norman kept on walking back and forth unhappily.</p> + +<p>“She’s treated me atrociously,” he said.</p> + +<p>The doctor smiled. “Now you’ll have a chance to +revenge yourself—by marrying her.”</p> + +<p>He paid no attention to that remark. “She +doesn’t deserve to ever see her baby again,” he said +bitterly.</p> + +<p>And, after a moment:</p> + +<p>“I ought to hate her!”</p> + +<p>“And instead, it seems, you still love her?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—damn her!”</p> + +<p>Dr. Zerneke laughed.</p> + +<p>“You think it’s funny, do you?” Norman said indignantly.</p> + +<p>“Promise me this,” said Dr. Zerneke, “that you’ll +take a week to think it over.”</p> + +<p>“A week?”</p> + +<p>Something clicked in his memory. He realized +<span class="pagenum" id="p276">276</span>that he had been going to take a week to think about +marrying Monica....</p> + +<p>“Yes. Suppose you postpone your decision till +next Saturday—or Sunday. And then tell me what +you’ve decided.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” he said meekly.</p> + +<p>“Till next Sunday, then.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p277">277</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_X_Which"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter X</span>: Which? + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>HE walked in Lincoln Park for a while before +going home.</p> + +<p>That damned letter from Isabel! Of course it +had upset him....</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>Monica was real. Monica was a true flesh-and-blood +girl. Monica could love....</p> + +<p>Why was he condemned still to be haunted by this +ghost of his lost youth? Why couldn’t he forget +<span class="pagenum" id="p278">278</span>her? Why wouldn’t she let him forget her? How +like her this letter was!—in offering a stone for +bread....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>Unless—unless what Dr. Zerneke said about her +was true....</p> + +<p>But it wasn’t true. He knew better than to believe +that....</p> + +<p>It wasn’t quite fair to Monica—to think of marrying +her with that ghost hovering in the background....</p> + +<p>And if he were going to moon over Isabel all his +life, he might as well marry her and be done with +it....</p> + +<p>Perhaps he was so cursed that he would rather be +miserable with Isabel than happy with Monica....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>If he said “yes,” he was throwing himself into a +whirlpool of doubt and misery....</p> + +<p>But he didn’t have to decide right now. He ought +<span class="pagenum" id="p279">279</span>to get some sleep. He had a job to go to in the +morning.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>He took the telegram. It read:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>MADGE COMING TO CHICAGO WITH ME TO DO +SHOPPING WILL BE AT ANNEX</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>“Madge!” he said in astonishment. “And with +Lucinda?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Well, what of it?” said Norman irritably. +“Why shouldn’t we meet?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t talk like a fool, Norman. You know +that girl’s still in love with you!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p280">280</span></p> + +<p>“No, I didn’t,” said Norman, disconcerted. “Is +she, really?”</p> + +<p>His mother did not consider that worth a reply.</p> + +<p>She went back to her room, saying as she went:</p> + +<p>“Well, don’t blame me, is all I say!”</p> + +<p>“Good Lord!” said Norman helplessly.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p281">281</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XI_As_Luck_Would_Have_It"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XI</span>: As Luck Would Have It + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>He fell asleep in a mood of profound hostility to +all womankind, and when he awoke it was with the +<span class="pagenum" id="p282">282</span>grim resolve not to be bullied into marrying anybody.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Mr. McCullough,” said Norman, +gulping down his emotions....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p283">283</span></p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p284">284</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XII_The_Fugitive"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XII</span>: The Fugitive + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>AS for Madge, he was determined to keep out +of her way while she was in Chicago....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>At last, in impatience, he remarked: “I understood +Madge was coming to Chicago with you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” said Lucinda, and went on talking +about the baby.</p> + +<p>Had Madge seen the baby? He was curious to +know, but he was determined not to ask....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p285">285</span></p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p286">286</span>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p287">287</span>really like. Perhaps he would never be sure until he +saw and talked with her again.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>But there was no one at the apartment.</p> + +<p>He waited impatiently for his mother to come +home.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll take you,” said Norman firmly.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p288">288</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XIII_Conversation_in_a_Taxi"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XIII</span>: Conversation in a Taxi + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>They were going down Michigan Avenue. In +another minute or two they would be at her hotel.</p> + +<p>“Has Madge seen the baby?” he asked abruptly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes,” said Lucinda. “She saw it the first +thing.”</p> + +<p>“One look was enough, I suppose,” said Norman +bitterly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, no,” said Lucinda. “She goes with us every +day.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Norman. “She does?”</p> + +<p>“There’s no reason,” said Lucinda, “why she +should bear a grudge against the baby.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Lucinda said nothing.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” said Norman, “I ought to see her.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” said Lucinda doubtfully. “Tell +me, Norman—have you been carrying on with that +little Monica Case?”</p> + +<p>“Why in the world should you think that?” asked +Norman indignantly.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p289">289</span></p> + +<p>“Well, she wears your jade cuff-buttons, and turns +all colors when your name is mentioned.”</p> + +<p>“And what of it?” Norman asked defiantly.</p> + +<p>“Nothing. That’s just the sort of girl you <em>would</em> +get mixed up with,” said Lucinda. “Your tastes +always were rather vulgar, Norman.”</p> + +<p>“We were speaking of Madge, I believe,” said +Norman haughtily.</p> + +<p>“Well, that’s just it. I don’t think it’s very nice +for Madge.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“You’re lying, Lucinda,” he said. “You know you +want Madge and me to make up. And so does +Mother.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” said Lucinda, “I think we’d all rather +you’d marry Madge than—that other girl.”</p> + +<p>“What other girl?”</p> + +<p>“The one who—deserted the baby. You don’t +suppose I think you’d marry Monica Case, do you?” +she added impersonally.</p> + +<p>“Why should I marry at all?” he demanded.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you’ll have to marry <em>somebody</em>. Because of +the baby, you know.”</p> + +<p>He smiled. “And why not the baby’s mother, +then?” he asked curiously.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p290">290</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, Norman—that <em>would</em> be the absolute limit! +After the way she’s treated you! You wouldn’t be +a—a doormat!” she said scornfully.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll ask her,” said Lucinda.</p> + +<p>“Do.”</p> + +<p>The taxi stopped at the hotel.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>She frowned—in disapproval, Norman thought. +But what she said was only: “I wonder if there are +enough eggs.”</p> + +<p>She went into the kitchen, and came back. “Yes, +there’s plenty of everything,” she said.</p> + +<p>If she saw any dramatic crisis imminent in her +son’s life, she gave no sign of it....</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p291">291</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XIV_A_Farewell"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XIV</span>: A Farewell + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>WHEN his mother had gone to bed, Norman +sat up smoking and thinking.</p> + +<p>So Lucinda—and Vickley in general, no doubt—thought +he ought not to marry Isabel!</p> + +<p>Well, perhaps Vickley was right, at that.</p> + +<p>Why should she be given another chance? Why +should she be allowed to have the son she had +deserted?</p> + +<p>“No, by God—he’s mine!” thought Norman, +rocked with an emotion of jealous hatred.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p292">292</span></p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p293">293</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>But he said: “The time is ill-favored, and you are +<span class="pagenum" id="p294">294</span>comely. I fear a harder trial may come, which you +will not be able to withstand.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>(Norman thought: “I became interested in pictures +just to please Isabel.”...)</p> + +<p>But Paul said: “I know not this woman of whom +you speak, neither does she belong to me.”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“That’s me,” thought Norman.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Nobody, he reflected, would ever write the inglorious +story of Alexander. The sympathies of storytellers +were always with the girl.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p295">295</span></p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>No, he would trouble her no more with his human +demands for love. He’d let her go on to her own +destiny....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p296">296</span></p> + + + <h3 class="nobreak" id="Chapter_XV_The_Inevitable"> + <span class="smcap">Chapter XV</span>: The Inevitable + </h3> +</div> + + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p297">297</span></p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>Breakfast was getting ready. He walked slowly +back and forth.</p> + +<p>The bell rang. He went to the door.</p> + +<p>Lucinda was there, alone.</p> + +<p>“Where’s Madge?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“She wouldn’t come,” said Lucinda. “She’s very +much upset. I left her at the hotel, packing to go +back to Vickley.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll go and get her,” said Norman.</p> + +<p>“Wait. She wrote this to you last night.”</p> + +<p>He took the letter and walked out.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>In the street he opened the envelope, stopped +short on the corner, and read:</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class="pagenum" id="p298">298</span>thought you were over it. That isn’t what hurts +most.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“You never gave me my chance.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Good-by.</p> + +<p class="right"> + “<span class="smcap">Madge Ferris.</span>” +</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p299">299</span></p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>Well, if he got there before she left, it might still +be all right.... It was plain that she still cared +for him....</p> + +<p>“Taxi?”</p> + +<p>“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....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>But he might as well settle that now. He looked +<span class="pagenum" id="p300">300</span>out, and rapped on the glass. “Stop at that cigar +store on the corner for a moment!”</p> + +<p>He would send her a telegram, and have that off +his mind. He knew her address in Michigan.</p> + +<p>“Western Union, please....</p> + +<p>“I want to send a telegram....</p> + +<p>“To Miss Isabel Drury.... Yes.... Hawk +Lake, Michigan.... Just a moment....”</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>“Just a moment,” he repeated, while the world +rocked dizzily about him....</p> + +<p>Couldn’t he say the word that would free them +both? Couldn’t he let that vain dream go?</p> + +<p>It seemed not. A new pattern of words was framing +itself in his mind, forcing itself to his lips....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>No.... But at least he could send a sane telegram.</p> + +<p>He spoke into the telephone to the impatient operator: +“I have it, now. Here’s the message:</p> + +<p>“‘Call me McCullough Advertising Agency when +<span class="pagenum" id="p301">301</span>you come Chicago this week preferably.’ Signed, +‘Norman.’</p> + +<p>“That’s all. How much is it?”</p> + +<p>He dropped in the nickels and dimes....</p> + +<p>And Madge?—he couldn’t help it, that was +all....</p> + +<p>“I’ve changed my mind,” he said to the taxi-driver, +and handed him a dollar bill.</p> + +<p>The taxi drove away, leaving him standing there +on the corner.</p> + +<p>Yes, no doubt it was a crazy thing to do. But +he didn’t care. He had to see this thing through +with Isabel....</p> + +<p>He began to walk slowly back toward the apartment.</p> + + +<p class="center p2"> +[The End] +</p> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78732 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |