AN
UNMARRIED FATHER
_A Novel_
By
Floyd Dell
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1927,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
AN UNMARRIED FATHER
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE: The Discovery
I. The Letter 9
II. Legal Advice 16
III. The Way of the World 24
IV. Post Mortem on a Dead Romance 32
V. Encounter 41
VI. Dr. Zerneke 46
VII. Flowers 58
VIII. Isabel 60
IX. The Baby 72
X. Art Alone Endures 77
XI. Common Sense 81
XII. Bad Dreams 87
XIII. En Route 91
XIV. Homecoming 100
XV. Family Breakfast 106
XVI. Aubade 111
XVII. Flight 120
BOOK TWO: In Exile
I. The Prodigal 125
II. A Man Has Some Rights 136
III. An Ambassador from Vickley 143
IV. Speech to the Jury 157
V. The Older Generation 163
VI. J. J. Overbeck 169
VII. Home 176
VIII. Apron Strings 185
IX. It Was Bound to Happen 195
X. Mrs. Case 202
XI. Paradise Lost 205
XII. Out of a Job 209
XIII. The Dreamer Wakes 215
BOOK THREE: The Dominant Sex
I. Vita Nova 225
II. Waste Not Your Hour 229
III. His Mother 235
IV. ’Ware Women! 239
V. As Usual 244
VI. Night Thoughts 248
VII. A Letter 255
VIII. A Sociological Interlude 260
IX. On Taking a Girl at Her Word 268
X. Which? 277
XI. As Luck Would Have It 281
XII. The Fugitive 284
XIII. Conversation in a Taxi 288
XIV. A Farewell 291
XV. The Inevitable 296
BOOK ONE
The Discovery
Chapter I: The Letter
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 time it seemed to
him that all he had so far done was to make costly mistakes.
“Good morning, Miss Patterson,” he said to the stenographer. “Is my
mail ready?”
“Yes, sir,” said the girl. “It’s on your desk.”
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.
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.
As he passed Miss Patterson, he reflected that she obviously thought of
him as grown up....
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.
“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.”
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.
“All right, what is it?” he asked patiently.
“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.”
It was true, he had forgotten, though she had spoken of it last night
and again at breakfast this morning.
“Thank you, Miss Patterson. If my sister should call up again, tell her
I said I wouldn’t forget about it.”
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.
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 feverish and jazzy, but certainly a healthier
one.... But families are not always pleasant things to think about.
His mind went back to its interrupted thoughts about himself.
--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.
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.
The first two letters he made notations upon and put aside.
The third letter puzzled him.
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, “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.”
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.
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 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!
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?
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 law,
and did not waste his time prowling about art-galleries and studios.
Perhaps it _was_ 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....
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.
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....
He considered a moment longer, and then abruptly put out his cigarette
and took up the telephone.