Chapter IX: On Taking a Girl at Her Word

DR. ZERNEKE was in when he arrived, and the coffee was steaming.

“How is your mother enjoying her visit?” she asked, pouring him a cup.

“All right, I guess.” He drank his coffee at a gulp. “Well, I’ve read Isabel’s letter....”

“Yes?”

“I want to know what you think.”

“What does your mother say?”

“I haven’t asked her.... And I’m not going to.”

Dr. Zerneke shrugged her shoulders. “I really don’t want to get mixed up in this,” she said.

“But you can tell me what you think!”

“And be blamed afterwards....”

“I’ve got to talk it over with somebody!”

“There’s your mother,” she reminded him.

“But you know Isabel, and she doesn’t!”

“Well, the only thing I feel like advising you is--not to do anything rash.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as taking Isabel at her word in a hurry, without having a chance to think it all over.”

“You don’t want me to marry her?” he asked, in surprise.

“I don’t care whether you marry her or not. That’s entirely up to you.”

“I’m glad you feel that way about it,” he said. “I thought you’d say I _ought_ to do it.”

His relief was so plain that she went on, with a smile: “We don’t advise girls, in similar circumstances, to marry the fathers of their children--not, I mean, just to be made respectable; I should think the same considerations would apply to a man. After all, you’ve gone through the worst of it, now.”

“Of course,” he said, “it isn’t just me. Marrying her would serve to legitimate my son--and nothing else, in this state, will.”

“That doesn’t matter so much,” said Dr. Zerneke. “In fact, I don’t think it matters at all, the way things have been arranged. It’s a mere legal quibble. Socially speaking, an illegitimate child is one whose father does not give him his name, support and protection. Your child is very well provided for in all those respects. He’s merely lacking a mother. But that is scarcely a reason for your marrying Isabel, when there are other girls in the world.”

“Then what _would_ be a reason for my marrying her?” he asked.

“If you were in love with each other, that would be a fairly good reason,” said Dr. Zerneke.

Norman laughed, a little grimly. “Then it’s entirely out of the question,” he said. “Because we’re not. Not in the least. Besides, that isn’t the proposition to be considered. She says very plainly in her letter that it would be only a matter of legal form. A marital farce, she calls it. We would never live together. She would go on to Paris, and get a divorce.”

The argument was not going quite as he had expected. In fact, it was almost as if he were arguing in favor of Isabel’s plan.

“You would be quite willing that it should be only a matter of form?” Dr. Zerneke asked.

“I certainly shouldn’t think of trying to persuade her to make it a real marriage--if _that’s_ what you mean!”

“You wouldn’t?”

“Of course not. We talked all that out, the time I went to see her at the hospital. She doesn’t want to be a wife and mother.”

Dr. Zerneke opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper. “I came across the report of our psychiatrist on her,” she said, “and had some of it copied. Would you like to see it? It might amuse you. We go about these things in a very scientific fashion nowadays.”

He read the typewritten sheet.

_“Case H 15278. Unmarried mother who refuses to keep her child._

_“Report of Dr. A. B. Fishwanger, psychiatrist (extract):_

“Her feeling of hostility toward maternity is thus accounted for as a repression of the psychic conflict originating in her father-complex, and expressing itself in her artistic ambitions. She is convinced that if she allowed herself to accept the full rôle of motherhood, she would never get a chance to be an artist. Something might undoubtedly be said for this view on strictly realistic grounds. But it would be truer to say that if she allowed herself to become interested in her child, she might stop wanting to be an artist. This is what she is really afraid of. If her child had been born in wedlock, she would probably have rebelled a little at her fate, and then settled down, as the saying goes, and become a sufficiently devoted mother. But she has deliberately managed the affair so as to keep what she calls her freedom.

“A thorough analysis, lasting over several months, would probably be required to resolve her psychic conflict, which appears to be of a very deep-seated nature. (To this conflict is probably due, in view of the absence of other findings, the premature drying up of her milk.) A briefer analysis might have some considerable value, but on account of the resistance of the subject even this is out of the question.”

“Can’t you imagine Isabel being interviewed by that psychiatrist?” said Dr. Zerneke, smiling. “I must say I rather sympathize with her. Still, it does throw some light on her psychology.”

“I suppose she was in a state of conflict about it,” said Norman. “Still, she made up her mind. You don’t think anything has happened to change it?”

“I think she’s probably in a very difficult situation just now. Undoubtedly she is finding out that she is more of a woman than she was willing to admit. Having a baby does something like that--it starts all the glandular secretions that create tenderness and devotion. She’s done her best to fight those feelings down, but they’re there. She can’t escape them. After all, it’s nothing unusual. Sometimes girls think beforehand that they are going to hate their illegitimate babies--but they generally don’t. And it’s quite the ordinary thing for a girl who has given her baby away to be sorry she’s done it.”

“But she doesn’t say she’s sorry,” Norman objected.

“I think that might possibly be read between the lines.”

“It never occurred to me. You think she wants her baby?”

“I can’t pretend to speak for her. But that might be one explanation of her offer.”

“Not if she were going on to Paris,” said Norman.

“She might not go on to Paris, then.”

“But she says definitely that she would!”

“No doubt she means it. But how do you know what would happen to you two young people after you get married? You both have families. They would have something to say about it. You might find yourselves boxed up in a house together the rest of your lives. That’s why I suggest that you think twice about marrying her.”

“I see what you mean. But if I went up to Michigan and we were quietly married there--who would know about it?”

“All the newspapers in the United States, I expect. And your mother is here, as you seem to forget. You couldn’t marry without telling her.”

“I could make some business excuse for my trip to Michigan. She wouldn’t know till it was all over, and Isabel on the boat. Then it would be too late for our families to interfere.”

“Do as you please. But don’t expect me to be surprised if Isabel comes back with you from Michigan to meet your mother.”

“Aren’t you rather cynical, Dr. Zerneke? I think I could trust her. I’m sure of it.”

“I’m not suggesting that she has any intention of double-crossing you. That’s not the point. If she came back with you it would be because you had invited her to.”

“But why should I do that?” he asked coldly.

“You were in love with her once. And she’s your child’s mother. It would be the most natural thing in the world.”

“You really think she’d stay with me if I asked her?”

“Do you really want her to stay? Then the only way to find out is to ask her. If that’s what you want.”

“It wouldn’t really mean giving up her career,” said Norman reflectively. “There would be time enough for that, later.”

“It would be a decisive step, for her. I doubt if she’ll have any career, if she marries you now. But that is her own lookout. It’s nothing for you to worry about--except as it might mean having a discontented wife on your hands in Vickley.”

“Why in Vickley?”

“Can you support a wife on your present job?”

“I suppose not. She’d have to work.”

“Has she ever done any work?”

“You don’t think I ought to marry her?”

“I’m not trying to run your affairs for you, Norman. But I think you ought to understand what you may be getting into. Isabel is probably feeling much more like a mother than an artist, just now. If you want to capture her, this is undoubtedly your chance. And in justice to her, I don’t think you ought to accept her offer unless you are willing to urge her to make it a real marriage. But that is not a thing you can do out of mere generosity to her--nor is it really necessary to do because of the child. It all depends on how you feel about her. Do you want her as your wife?--That’s the real question, Norman. I don’t know how you feel about that.”

Norman rose and walked up and down the room. “All this is new to me,” he said. “I can’t quite believe it.”

“Take your time and think it over. Talk to your mother about it.”

“That would mean taking the whole family into my confidence. I don’t want any more family conferences. And besides, it’s something that can’t be delayed indefinitely.”

“She won’t go till she hears from you. I repeat that the only question is, do you want her for a wife?”

Norman kept on walking back and forth unhappily.

“She’s treated me atrociously,” he said.

The doctor smiled. “Now you’ll have a chance to revenge yourself--by marrying her.”

He paid no attention to that remark. “She doesn’t deserve to ever see her baby again,” he said bitterly.

And, after a moment:

“I ought to hate her!”

“And instead, it seems, you still love her?”

“Yes--damn her!”

Dr. Zerneke laughed.

“You think it’s funny, do you?” Norman said indignantly.

“Promise me this,” said Dr. Zerneke, “that you’ll take a week to think it over.”

“A week?”

Something clicked in his memory. He realized that he had been going to take a week to think about marrying Monica....

“Yes. Suppose you postpone your decision till next Saturday--or Sunday. And then tell me what you’ve decided.”

“All right,” he said meekly.

“Till next Sunday, then.”