MADGE! Yes, he had to go to see her. But--could he tell her? What was
the use! He couldn’t bring his son to Vickley. He realized that now....
Perhaps he ought to be sensible about the thing.
He wished Hal were here. Hal, at Cambridge, was the first real friend
he had ever had since childhood. Hal wouldn’t argue with him, wouldn’t
tell him what he ought to do. Hal would listen to him. That was what
he needed. Maybe if he could talk to somebody--somebody who didn’t
represent Vickley--he would feel better.
At any rate, there was no sense in telling Madge. Old Gilbert had been
quite right about that.... He would have to act a part.
He would just behave as if nothing had happened.
As Gilbert had said, she would be thinking about other things.... She
would never need to know....
His life stretched out in front of him--a long vista of bridge-parties,
as it seemed at this moment, with Madge as a handsome young matron
presiding over them. He would live all his life with that pretty
stranger--for so now she seemed. She would be called his wife. Perhaps
people would speak approvingly of their happy marriage....
Here he was, already, at the Ferris house.
He hadn’t thought what he was going to say.
Just behave naturally--that was it.
He gave the bell his customary long ring followed abruptly by two short
ones--the signal that Madge said sounded like “_O_-ver-beck!”
No one came immediately, and he had to fight an impulse to go away. He
rang again, and waited.
A sound of feet running down the stairs quickly. Madge! He felt a
sick qualm in his stomach. Madge calling to the maid who came tardily
hurrying from the back: “I’ll answer the bell, Katie!”
She opened the door. “Hello, Toodles!” she said. In the hall she flung
herself into his arms.... It seemed queer to be so passionately kissing
a stranger....
“Let little me help him off with his overcoat,” she said.
She led him into the “den” off the hall. It was a place of memories of
their courtship. But these memories seemed curiously alien to him now.
Was it he that had read poetry to her, sitting on that sofa? Was it he
who had asked her, one winter night, to be his wife?
“She’s not dressed,” she said, drawing her flowery negligée about her,
and bending her bobbed golden head toward him. “Her hair’s not dry!
When your imperious ring came, she was just finishing her bath!”
These childish mannerisms of speech had once enchanted him.
“When did the old bum get home?” she demanded, drawing him down on the
couch beside her.
“Last night--late,” he said.
“How late?”
“My train got in at midnight.”
“That’s not late. She was waiting for you--hoping you’d be back. She
couldn’t get to sleep, thinking of you. And she had a queer dream....”
He asked, with a pang of superstitious dread: “A dream--about me?”
“Never mind,” she said. “She never tells her dreams before breakfast.”
And then: “Why doesn’t he act as if he were glad to see me?”
He kissed her again.
“What’s the matter, Norman?” she asked abruptly, drawing away from him.
“Has anything happened?”
“Yes,” he said. (Why did he say that?)
“What is it, dear?” she asked anxiously.
He must not tell her.... And he spoke at random, saying the first thing
that came into his mind--just to be saying something: “I looked at our
house....”
“Yes, Norman?”
“It’s much too close to my father’s....”
“I’ve known that all along,” she said quietly.
“Did you?” That little remark of hers astonished him infinitely. He
realized that he had never known this girl at all. “I didn’t,” he said,
“until this morning.”
“What happened this morning? Have you been quarreling with your family?”
“Yes,” he said. “How did you know?”
“What were you quarreling about?” she asked.
“Why--nothing, really. About getting up on Sunday.” He laughed
nervously. “You’d have to get up at eight on Sunday--if you lived
there!”
“You think I’d let your family run _me_?”
“I don’t know how you’d help yourself.” (But why were they talking
about that house?)
“Trust me!” she answered. “Norman--we haven’t talked about it: but you
and I are going to live our own lives, when we are married. We can live
anywhere we like.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Have they been criticizing me?” she demanded.
“Who?”
“Well--your sister Lucinda.”
“Oh, no--of course not!” he said. But the stream of memory began to
flow back into its old channels. And he could remember that there had
been a time, months ago, when Lucinda had been spiteful about Madge.
She had called her “frivolous” and “giddy.” Nor, what was somewhat more
important, had Madge’s Aunt Julia approved at all of him. She had
thought of him, for some reason, as irresponsible. He and Madge had
enjoyed all the sensations of being misunderstood, of defying their
families, of being leagued together in love and faith against a hostile
world.... And then the criticisms had changed to blessings. Within a
few months, all their world was anxious to get them married and settled
down. But to Madge, it would seem, their romantic defiance of the world
was still real. That was the only thing she could imagine as shadowing
their happiness--the opinion of his family.
“Then what’s the matter?” she was asking.
He couldn’t bring realities into that doll-world of hers.... “Nothing,”
he answered--too evasively.
“I know there is,” she insisted.
It would be like hurting a child.... But he ought to give her some
warning....
“Madge,” he said, “I may have to give up my position in my father’s
office--and go away--” He stopped. He hadn’t intended to say that....
“Norman!”
The trouble was that he kept forgetting his purpose. A purpose implies
a conviction, and a stable sense of realities. His world fluctuated and
changed about him from moment to moment....
This puzzled, incredulous girl at his side--she wasn’t a child, but a
woman. It was he who felt like a child.
“I’m in trouble, Madge,” he said.
Her arms were around him. “What is it, Norman?” she asked quietly.
He wanted terribly to tell her. There was some reason why he
shouldn’t--but he couldn’t remember exactly what it was.
“I never told you,” he said, “about a girl I knew at Cambridge. We
were--sweethearts. And--I didn’t know until the other day--when she
sent for me--in Chicago--there’s a baby.”
“You mean--yours?” Her voice was very cool, remote, far away. He didn’t
look at her. But he was aware that her arms had slipped away from him,
that her body no longer touched his.
“Yes, mine,” he said.
She rose, slowly. “I’m glad you told me,” she said.
He didn’t look at her face, but he saw her body convulsed by a shiver,
and her hands were fumbling together. Then a ring dropped to the floor.
He stooped to pick it up, and rose. Now he remembered the reason why he
must not tell her. She wouldn’t want to marry him--of course.
“You’re free now,” she said, “to go to her.”
They were struck silent in their tableau by a sense of people coming.
The maid. And footsteps descending the stair. That would be Aunt Julia.
But the maid came first.
“Mr. Overbeck is wanted on the telephone.”
“Me?”
“It’s your sister, Miss Lucinda, Mr. Overbeck. It’s something about a
dog.”
It was too absurd.... “Yes--please ask her to wait one moment.” He
would have to greet Madge’s aunt.
The maid went away....
Then Aunt Julia.
“Good morning, Norman.” She offered her cheek to be kissed. “You’d
better go and put some clothes on, Madge. I’ll entertain Norman while
you dress. You’ll stay to breakfast, Norman.”
Madge went out, and slowly up the stairs.... He hadn’t had a chance to
explain anything to her. Why did Aunt Julia have to interrupt them just
now? He smouldered with helpless anger.
“When did you get back from Chicago?” Aunt Julia asked affably, seating
herself on the sofa.
“Last night.” Damn this silly woman!
“Don’t walk up and down the room, Norman. Sit down. And tell me what’s
the matter.”
Oh, he’d have to tell her something.
“Madge,” he said, “has just broken our engagement.” And as he spoke he
seemed to realize for the first time what he had done. Of course she
wouldn’t marry him. He had smashed everything....
“What!” said Aunt Julia, in amused incredulity. “No, not really? You
mustn’t take these lovers’ quarrels too seriously, Norman.”
“Lovers’ quarrels! I wish that were all!” he said bitterly.
“Oh, is it so bad as all that, really?”
“Yes, Mrs. Ferris.”
Her face took on an expression of sympathy, and after a moment’s
thought she said reassuringly:
“I know, Madge is a very high-spirited girl. But it’s a little late in
the day to change her mind. If you’ll only tell me what the trouble is,
I’ll be glad to talk with her. An older woman, you know, Norman, has a
more reasonable point of view. If it’s really so serious, it must be a
question of--well, another girl. Have you been philandering, Norman?”
He saw what she was thinking, and reluctantly answered:
“No--not exactly.”
“Not exactly? But she thinks so! I see. Has it anything to do with your
Chicago trip?”
“Yes--in a way,” he said evasively.
“Don’t you want to tell me about it, Norman? I’m sure it’s nothing that
can’t be smoothed out. I know Madge will be reasonable when she’s had a
chance to think things over.”
Norman felt a sudden unreasonable anger. She was so comfortable--so
sure that nothing could go seriously wrong in her little world. He
wanted to shatter that complacency of hers....
But it was not necessary for him to speak. At that moment they both
heard a sound of sobbing upstairs. It was like no woman’s crying that
he had ever heard. It had a strange note of animal pain in it.... Then
silence.... Norman felt himself transfixed by pity as by a spear thrust
through his body. He realized what he had done to Madge.... Aunt Julia
rose, startled.
The maid returned to say: “Miss Lucinda is still on the wire, Mr.
Overbeck.”
“Oh, yes. Excuse me.” What a nightmare!
Lucinda’s voice. “Oh, Norman, Mr. Schwartz called up, and said that
somebody else wants to buy that puppy. He wants to know whether I want
it. Won’t you go and look at it right away, and tell me what you think?
It’s the one with the black spot over his left eye!”
“All right. I’ll go.”
When he came back, the room was empty. Aunt Julia had gone upstairs to
comfort Madge. He listened, and he heard the sound of voices....
_Why_ had he done it? But it was too late to ask that....
Anyway, he _had_ done it....
It was all over....
He stood there irresolutely for a moment, then took his things from the
hall, and went quietly out of the house.
Madge had been a good sport about it. But it was a little too much like
committing murder.
And _now_ to face the folks at home....