Chapter VII: A Letter

HE was unusually gay at breakfast, and went whistling to his office.... Of course, he must not tell Monica just yet; but he might manage a reassuring touch or word when he went in the evening with his mother to see the baby.... His imagination was busy with thoughts of their life together....

But something happened that day to disturb the happy tenor of his thoughts.

In the afternoon there was a telephone call from Dr. Zerneke.

“I’ve just had a letter from Isabel,” she said.

“From Paris?” he asked.

“No. From Michigan.”

“But I supposed she had sailed a week or more ago!”

“It seems that she hasn’t. And this letter concerns you. In fact, it’s really intended for you. I’m sending it special delivery to your apartment. It’s something you’ll probably want to discuss with your mother.”

“But what in the world--?”

“You’ll find out when you read her letter.” And that was all she would say.

What could Isabel have to say to him? She 256 An Unmarried Father hadn’t decided that she wanted to keep the baby after all? Girls, he knew, did sometimes change their minds about such things. But it was too late--the baby was his, now. And it was going to stay his.

But he did not allow himself to think about it. He was working with Charlie Beckett on the Pearson account--an important job--and it needed all his attention. Charlie seemed to like his ideas....

“Here’s a letter for you,” said his mother, when he came home that afternoon.

“Oh, thanks,” he said. “Something from Dr. Zerneke.”

He went into his room, tore open the envelope nervously, put aside Dr. Zerneke’s accompanying note, and glanced rapidly through the sheets covered with Isabel’s tiny handwriting.... But it was a long and prolix letter, and this rapid survey told him nothing, so he dropped into a comfortable chair, lighted a cigarette, and began it again at the beginning in a more leisurely manner:

“Dear Dr. Martha--

“I’ve delayed my sailing for a few weeks, because I seem to need a longer rest before my ocean trip. I should have taken your advice and stayed another week in the hospital, I realize now. But I expect to be all right in another week or so.

“In the meantime, since signing over the baby to Norman, I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, and I feel that perhaps I ought to make a suggestion. You will, of course, use your own discretion in passing it on. If it’s out of place, please throw this in the wastebasket and forget about it.

“I hadn’t, of course, realized that Norman was as much interested in the baby as all that. When he didn’t come to see me at the hospital any more, I thought he had gone back to Vickley and dropped the matter entirely. It was really quite a shock to get those documents. I saw that I had done him an injustice. (It really makes me a little ashamed of my own lack of the proper parental instincts. Norman and my baby! It seems very odd, and rather sweet. He will make a nice father.)

“I feel awkward about making my suggestion. Not knowing anything about any other plans he may have, I can’t be sure my idea is not an unwelcome impertinence. If the girl in Vickley, the one he was engaged to, is going to marry him anyway and take the baby, then of course you won’t say anything to him about this. But Roberta writes me that he is living in Chicago now, so perhaps the Vickley engagement is all off.--You see, I’m very much in the dark about it all. You didn’t tell me anything; and I suppose it’s really none of my business. But it occurs to me that it may be almost as embarrassing for a man to have an illegitimate baby as for a girl. And I can’t forget that under those circumstances he was generous and considerate enough to offer to marry me. I appreciated the offer, but since I wasn’t going to keep the baby there was no reason for accepting it. But now that he has the baby, perhaps I ought to make him a similar offer. It would be, of course, and you must make that clear to him, only a legal fiction for his and the child’s benefit. I would go on to Paris immediately, and he could divorce me for desertion; or if he wanted the divorce more quickly, so as to marry somebody else, then I could get a divorce in Paris as soon as I had established my residence there. And as a divorced man he would be in a less awkward position about the baby. I only make it as a suggestion.

“I tried to paint when I first got here, but gave it up. I shouldn’t have attempted any work so soon. But it was a reaction from the hospital atmosphere, and the sense of being a failure when my milk gave out--I wanted to do something I was equal to doing. But I shall have to wait a while longer--Art is off me for the present. The truth is, I feel discouraged. But in Paris, I know, it will all come back.

“I keep wondering about Norman and the baby. I had no idea he was going to be such a Tolstoian saint, and atone for the sin of his youth in that fashion! And did his family throw him out when the scandal broke, the way mine did? You might tell a fellow something about it all! Anyway, if my suggestion should be accepted, I’ll be glad to stop in Chicago for a day on my way to New York, and fix it up accordingly with him.

“I’m not trying to thank you for all you’ve done for me--you and St. Thecla. I’ll try to say it with paint in Paris. I hope Norman won’t take too long to decide, so I can have it off my mind and go with an easy conscience.

“Faithfully yours,
“Isabel Drury.”

Norman laid down the letter and whispered bitterly to himself:

“She can go to hell!”