Chapter X: Which?

HE walked in Lincoln Park for a while before going home.

That damned letter from Isabel! Of course it had upset him....

Anyway, he oughtn’t to put any confidence in Dr. Zerneke’s guesses as to Isabel’s feelings about marriage. He knew Isabel as well as Dr. Zerneke did--better! She was incapable of being in love with anybody or anything except her art. She meant just what she had said in her letter. If he married her, it would be a mere formality for the child’s benefit. Nothing more. Why should he suppose the marriage would mean more to her? She had expressed herself plainly enough in her letter. Why should he give her an opportunity to insult him again?

She might be a little discouraged about her art just now--but it was all she really cared anything about. She wasn’t human. She wasn’t a woman at all. She was what Hal had said about her in a poem--she was a pixie ... or a leafy shadow in the spring moonlight that seemed like a girl until one tried to clasp it in one’s arms....

Monica was real. Monica was a true flesh-and-blood girl. Monica could love....

Why was he condemned still to be haunted by this ghost of his lost youth? Why couldn’t he forget her? Why wouldn’t she let him forget her? How like her this letter was!--in offering a stone for bread....

Even if in the discouragement of the moment she should agree to try being his wife, that would mean nothing. That marriage would be foredoomed to failure. She had said it herself, that day in the hospital. She would never really belong to him. He would be clasping her body, but her thoughts, her soul, would be far away, in a world he could not enter.... They would come to hate each other....

Unless--unless what Dr. Zerneke said about her was true....

But it wasn’t true. He knew better than to believe that....

It wasn’t quite fair to Monica--to think of marrying her with that ghost hovering in the background....

And if he were going to moon over Isabel all his life, he might as well marry her and be done with it....

Perhaps he was so cursed that he would rather be miserable with Isabel than happy with Monica....

He would have to give her an answer, one way or the other, soon. If he said “no,” he might regret it all his life....

If he said “yes,” he was throwing himself into a whirlpool of doubt and misery....

But he didn’t have to decide right now. He ought to get some sleep. He had a job to go to in the morning.

He entered the apartment quietly, so as not to wake his mother. But she came to his door in a dressing-gown, holding out a telegram.

“Lucinda’s done such a fool thing,” she said. “Look at this! And I don’t want you to think it’s my fault, because it’s not.”

He took the telegram. It read:

MADGE COMING TO CHICAGO WITH ME TO DO SHOPPING WILL BE AT ANNEX

“Madge!” he said in astonishment. “And with Lucinda?”

“Oh, yes--they’re great friends now. You know the way Lucinda is. But she ought to have more sense than to bring Madge with her. And Madge ought to have more sense than to come.”

“Well,” said Norman, “I don’t expect Madge to stay away from Chicago on my account. Why shouldn’t she come with Lucinda, if she wants to?”

“You know perfectly well why,” said his mother. “The shopping is only an excuse. Lucinda will take her to see the baby, and then somehow or other you’ll run into her.”

“Well, what of it?” said Norman irritably. “Why shouldn’t we meet?”

“Don’t talk like a fool, Norman. You know that girl’s still in love with you!”

“No, I didn’t,” said Norman, disconcerted. “Is she, really?”

His mother did not consider that worth a reply.

She went back to her room, saying as she went:

“Well, don’t blame me, is all I say!”

“Good Lord!” said Norman helplessly.