Chapter XI: Common Sense

“WELL,” said old Gilbert, at the table in the corner of the hotel dining room, “how have _you_ been spending your morning?”

“I went to see Dr. Zerneke,” said Norman. “I couldn’t wait.”

Old Gilbert stopped wiping his mouth and threw his napkin violently on the table.

“I’ll be damned!” he said. “I suppose I ought to have known it.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” said Norman. “I had to know.”

“Well, and what did you find out?”

“Your guess was true, of course. It’s Isabel Drury. She had her baby eleven days ago.”

“I’ve had time to find out that much myself,” said Gilbert. “I had some one call up all the hospitals in town for me. What I want to know is what kind of mess you’ve got yourself into.”

“If I haven’t got myself into a mess,” said Norman, “it’s not my fault, I’m afraid. I didn’t try to deny anything. But all that this doctor wanted--”

“Yes, what did she want?”

“She wanted to find out whether the baby has a healthy father. The people who are planning to adopt the child wished to be sure of that, it seems.”

“Yes--and what else?”

“That appears to be all. She was at great pains to assure me that I had no further responsibility in the matter. When I’ve furnished her with some more medical data, I can dismiss the matter from my mind entirely, I gather.”

“The girl makes no claim on you?”

“None at all.”

Old Gilbert looked immensely relieved.

“Tell me,” said Norman, “have you ever heard of the Thecla Child Adoption Society?”

“Yes,” said Gilbert. “I’ve looked that up too.”

“Is it a reputable organization?”

“Perfectly. And I had Dr. Zerneke looked up, too.”

“You found her to be all right?” asked Norman.

“Professional reputation unimpeachable, it seems. Why?”

“Well--about the adoption matter.”

“That’s all right. They’ll handle it in the right way. I found out something about their work. And if you’ve been assured that your secret will be kept, you’ve nothing to fear from them.”

“I didn’t mean that, precisely.”

“What, then?”

“I was thinking--of the child.”

“They know their business. The child will be put in good hands. You needn’t worry about that.”

Old Gilbert once more gave to his lunch the attention it deserved. “You see,” he said comfortably between mouthfuls, “things have turned out all right after all--just as I said they would. And now that you’ve had your mind put at ease, I think you’d better go right home. There’s no point in your hanging around Chicago.”

“Why do you want me to go home?” asked Norman.

“Because I think well enough is best left alone,” said Gilbert. “Everything is all right now, and that’s a good way to leave it.”

“You mean that you’re afraid I might go to see Isabel?”

“You’re safer, I think, back in Vickley.”

“Well--I might as well tell you that I saw her, too. And the baby.”

“You _have_ taken this case into your own hands, with a vengeance,” said old Gilbert in discouragement. “I was a damned fool ever to bring you here. Well, tell me the worst at once. Did you offer to marry her?”

“I asked her to, and she refused.”

“You asked her to!--and she refused? You certainly have fool’s luck. But why did she refuse you?”

“For the same reasons as before. It would interfere with her career.”

“That’s beyond me. But I suppose she has her reasons. Lord, what a tight squeak! You don’t know how lucky you are! But I suppose you thought that was the noble thing to do--offer to marry her! You didn’t happen to remember, I suppose, that you were engaged to another girl.”

“It didn’t seem to make any difference.”

“Boy, she might have taken you up. You were putting your head into the lion’s mouth!”

“Oh, I knew what I was doing. And it wasn’t just a noble gesture. I was quite ready to let everything else go to hell.”

“Good Lord, you’re as much infatuated with her as all that?”

“No. I’m not even sure that I love her at all.”

“Do you mean to say that you offered to marry her just to make an honest woman of her?”

Norman laughed. “Nothing like that.”

“Then why in the name of God did you offer to marry her? Can you tell me that?”

“That seemed the simplest thing to do,” said Norman.

“I think you’re a little mad,” said old Gilbert.

“I don’t know,” said Norman. “I suppose it was foolish. Any way, she wouldn’t.”

“Fortunately,” said Gilbert, “she seems to be just as crazy as you are! What would your father think of me if I took you here to Chicago and let you get into a mess like that, right under my nose!”

“Well, you needn’t worry about it,” said Norman.

“I shan’t ask her again.”

“I should hope not!” said old Gilbert.

“I saw Springer this morning.” And then Norman was sorry he had mentioned it. Gilbert would commence again on his suspicions.

“What is _he_ doing here?” asked Gilbert.

“Getting ready for his exhibit.”

“Oh, you went to see him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what did _he_ say?”

“He didn’t know me. He said Isabel had appendicitis. His wife has found her a rich patron, and she’s going to Paris to study.”

“I’ve been wondering who was paying her expenses,” said Gilbert.

“I suppose you still wish to think that Springer is mixed up in this affair,” said Norman, “and that something is being put over on me. But I am convinced that you are wrong. And I have acknowledged the child as my own.”

“I’ve only been trying to act as your friend in this matter, Norman. Of course, if you are convinced that the child is yours, there’s nothing more to say on that score. The only question is, what do you propose to do about it? Publish the fact from the housetops? I appreciate your honorable scruples. They seem to me excessive, I must admit. But you have acted upon them--you have offered to marry the girl; and she has declined your offer. The question of money does not seem to be involved. If it were a matter of paying the girl’s expenses--or if she wanted to keep the child herself--I’m sure you would wish to be generous. As it is, there seems to be nothing more that you can do. Dr. Zerneke will find a good home for the child. The girl will go ahead and paint pictures. And you will go back to Vickley and resume the practice of law. That is the situation as I see it. The matter is closed. It has been very exciting, and no doubt instructive. But it’s all over.”

“Yes,” said Norman, and sighed. “I suppose it is all over.” All except remembering, and thinking, and wondering--and he’d have the rest of his life for that.

A picture flashed into his mind. An absurd picture--a melodramatic picture. He was older, and driving a car slowly through a Chicago street at night. A young man, with a revolver in his hand, stepped in front of the car and called, “Stop!” But he bent his head and stepped hard on the gas. A bullet grazed his cheek like a knife, and then he became aware that the car was dragging a dead, mangled body. And somehow he knew that it was his son’s....

He pulled himself back to reality, and smiled wanly at the absurdity of his fancies.

“Well,” old Gilbert was saying, “this business has turned out remarkably well, considering everything. We can go back to the status quo ante without a qualm. We take the eleven o’clock train to-night. You’ll be here at ten ready to go?”

“Yes,” said Norman, “I’ll be ready.”