Chapter III: An Ambassador from Vickley

GILBERT was standing in the door of his room. “You crazy loon,” he cried. “My God, I’m glad to see you.” He threw his arms around Norman, and pulled him inside the door. “You’ve aged me ten years in the last two weeks, you son-of-a-gun.”

“I’m sorry I’ve given you so much trouble, Gilbert,” said Norman stiffly.

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Gilbert. “Now that it’s turned out this way, it’s perfectly all right. Couldn’t be better. But tell me just one thing--what have you been doing these last two weeks?”

“Looking for work.” And he told Gilbert briefly of his new job.

Gilbert slapped him on the shoulder. “I thought so. That’s exactly what I’ve been telling them. Sit tight, I said, and trust me.--But I tell you, if you hadn’t shown up to-day or to-morrow, my hair would have gone white. Two weeks is a long time to wait.”

“But I wrote in my letter to my mother, from the station, not to worry--”

“I know what you wrote. And that there’d be news of you in two weeks. That’s what I counted on. That’s been my job--getting them to wait, instead of notifying the police.”

“But really--why all this nonsense about suicide? Perhaps my letter wasn’t as tactful as I thought it was--but after all--”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Gilbert. “The suicide part and everything. It fitted in fine. You did everything just right.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that. I thought I had done everything just wrong. I’ve realized that my behavior must have seemed very queer to the folks at home. But even so--suicide!”

“That’s just the point, my boy. People can forgive anything to a man who’s probably committed suicide. And when it turns out that you haven’t, they’re so glad, that nothing else matters. You framed the thing just right--that quarrel with your father, the mysterious references to the unknown girl, everything down to cashing that check at the cigar store and asking about the St. Louis train. Couldn’t have been better.”

These remarks were evidently intended to be reassuring; but they reminded Norman uncomfortably of what a fool he had behaved like in Vickley.

“I suppose you think I did it on purpose?” he said. “Well, I didn’t. I was in a state of mind. I hardly knew what I was doing, Gilbert. But I still don’t understand why you’re so happy about it all.”

“I’m happy, you son-of-a-gun, because you’re alive. Here, have a drink.”

Gilbert opened his suitcase and took out a bottle. “No? Well, I will. My nerves have gone to pieces over this.” He poured some whiskey into a tumbler, and drank.

“You know, Norman, you let me down something awful. That’s no way to treat your lawyer. You ought to have told me what you were going to do. Here I arrived in Vickley with the thing all settled--and when I called up your house Sunday afternoon, hell was popping. I had to think fast.”

“Gilbert--I know. I should have told you. I suppose I was afraid to. The truth is, I wasn’t capable of reasonable thought.”

“I gathered that something had gone wrong, so I went over to your house. And there I was, sweating blood while the thing came out bit by bit that evening.”

Norman felt uncomfortable. He had expected Gilbert to scold him. He had been prepared for that.... But he wasn’t prepared to hear all about just what had been happening in Vickley.... He really didn’t want to know.... But Gilbert would want to tell him. He would have to listen. There was no way of getting out of it....

“I didn’t know exactly what you’d done, Norman, but I knew you were running amuck somehow,” Gilbert went on, with a smile.

“You knew I had told Madge, at least,” said Norman unhappily.

“Not at first. In fact, when I arrived, all that was known was that you hadn’t come home to dinner, and that you had quarreled with your father at the breakfast table. If I hadn’t been on the inside of your affairs, I should have thought they were damned fools to be making so much fuss about nothing. And then they asked me if I had ever heard you mention a girl named Isabel!”

“But didn’t Madge--or her aunt--tell them anything about--about the engagement being broken?”

“I’ve no doubt they supposed your family knew. And a silly thing happened there. It seems that your sister Lucinda had called up the Ferris house three or four times that morning, asking for you--”

“I know--about a dog.”

“Yes. About a dog. I imagine that Madge made some reference to what had happened, but Lucinda didn’t take it in. She kept talking about the dog. And at last Madge said, ‘Oh, damn your dog!’ So Lucinda cried, and wouldn’t let your mother call up the Ferrises any more, even to ask about you. The first any of us in the house heard about the engagement being broken was when some kind neighbors came in to inquire if it were true. Your sister Lucinda seemed to rather hope it was, but she wouldn’t let your mother call up and ask. I was the only one who had any notion of what had happened. All they were worried about was that their darling boy hadn’t come home to dinner. Even when the neighbors said that Madge’s aunt had taken to bed with nervous prostration, they didn’t begin to suspect anything serious might be the matter--anything that would affect them. And there was I, knowing the dynamite you were carrying around, and surer every minute that you had set it off.”

Norman sighed. Must Gilbert go into all these painful details? Why not let the dead past be forgotten?

“I tell you,” said Gilbert, “I was sweating blood!”

“It didn’t occur to you, I suppose, to tell them the truth?” Norman asked with some asperity.

“There’s where you do me an injustice, my boy. I’m more versatile than you think. I figured it all out--and this seemed to be one of those rare situations in which the truth might be better than the best lie that the mind of man could invent. Of course, I didn’t want to do anything rash. If I gave the show away, and then you walked in with some other story--that _would_ be a pretty mess! But I had a hunch that you weren’t going to walk in. My hunches were mostly right, that day. I didn’t understand what you were up to, all at once--not, in fact, till next day, when I got an answer to my wire to Dr. Zerneke. But I wasn’t far wrong in my first guess.”

“What _was_ your first guess?” Norman asked, as patiently as he could. Of course, all this was interesting to Gilbert. The least he could do was to listen....

“I thought you had come back in good faith, intending to keep your mouth shut and preserve the status quo--but that your damned honesty had got the best of you, and you had told Madge about the baby, and then lit out for Chicago when she threw you over. Not a bad guess, either. And for my purposes it was as good as the whole story. The point was that you had probably spilled the beans. They say a good lawyer is one that can take advantage of a defeat. Well, I was defeated, all right. My plans were all smashed to hell--and there wasn’t any use trying to patch them up. So I made new plans then and there. This has been one of the most interesting cases I ever handled, Norman--and if it had been tried in court I’d have made a great reputation on it. I figured that the whole town was my jury, or would be in twenty-four hours. There was no use trying to frame up any more alibis for you. I had to get the truth before the jury, and get you off that way. That’s what I was thinking when the clock commenced to strike midnight. We all knew what time it was, but we sat still and listened--your mother and father, Lucinda and I. It finished striking. You hadn’t come. And then there was a ring at the bell. We knew you wouldn’t have rung, you’d have walked in. It might be anything--your dead body. Waiting under an emotional strain for somebody for a few hours will do that to people’s minds! Well, it was your special delivery letter. Your mother was afraid to open it. Your father opened it. In that atmosphere, you see, your words weren’t as cheerful as you intended them to be. News of you in two weeks!--Not news _from_ you, but news _of_ you. It sounded like grim death itself.”

Norman twisted uncomfortably in his chair.

“I never thought of that, Gilbert. But _you_ knew--”

“What did I know? Nothing. I didn’t guess until next day, when I heard from Dr. Zerneke about what you came home for. All I could think of then was that you were going to Chicago and make that girl marry you.”

“Of course--you didn’t know,” Norman murmured.

“But you were out of town--I knew that. And then we heard more about that. Somebody told the clerk at the cigar-store that your girl had jilted you. And he got worried, and confided to a policeman what he knew--the check, and the St. Louis train. And then some one recalled seeing a light in the Overbeck building. The police and the nightwatchman had gone to your office, and found cigarette stubs all over the floor. So along towards one o’clock we heard from the police. Then your father called up the Ferrises. Madge answered the telephone. Yes, she said, it was true that she’d broken the engagement that morning. No, she hadn’t seen you since. But she’d had a telephone call from you at about eleven o’clock. You’d said something about being sorry, and hung up. No, she’d prefer not to say why she had broken the engagement. She was cool enough about it.”

“Cool?” Norman asked in surprise.

“Your sister Lucinda called it heartless. She kept on talking about how heartless Madge Ferris was. Finally she came out with something about poor Norman possibly lying dead at this very moment. Your mother ssh’d her, and told her not to be silly. But the thing had been said--the thing that was in everybody’s mind. After all, when a man disappears like that, one of the possibilities _is_ suicide.”

“You keep harping on that, Gilbert. It’s not a pleasant thought.”

“I’m telling you just what happened.”

“Of course. Go on.”

“As a matter of fact, I was glad it had come to that. It put your family where I wanted them. It made the possibility of your being alive the only thing of any importance. And my mind was made up. You had told Madge about the baby, I was sure of that. The whole thing would come out. And now was the time to spring the truth. At the time, you see, I thought you were going to try to pull off a marriage with the other girl. It would be a sort of happy ending. But I looked at your sister Lucinda, and I thought again. I didn’t want my effect spoiled by any discordant notes. And I didn’t think she’d take so kindly to a happy ending that involved the mysterious Isabel. Your mother--it wouldn’t hurt her to do a little worrying. Your father--he was the one that had to be told. Only not in that house. There was something else, if it came to that, I was going to remind him of. So I suggested that he and I go down to the office where you had been camping all day. You might have left something there that the police hadn’t found--a letter, or something of the sort. He was glad to go. Norman, if you ever had any doubt whether your father loves you-- He was nearly crazy with anxiety. He had been trying to keep up a front with his women-folk, but alone with me in the office he was beginning to break down. He commenced to blame himself for a thousand things--including the way he had persuaded you against your wishes to go into the law.... Well, I told him the whole story.”

“So he knows....”

“Yes.” Gilbert looked into his empty glass, and poured himself another drink. “Everybody knows. That’s what I’m coming to. The whole damn town. And I’m the one that told them. Oh, I had good reasons. In the first place--you know what a lot of nonsense gets around--there was talk of your having embezzled some of the firm’s money. I wanted to put a stop to that. But that’s getting too far ahead. The next person I told the truth to was your fiancée.”

“Madge? But she knew!”

“She knew what you told her, which wasn’t much, I gather. Enough to give her the wrong slant on the whole thing. Well, somebody had to talk to her--and your sister Lucinda had taken to bed over what I had told your father the night before. Your mother was busy looking after her. And your father was pretty much shot to pieces. So that left me, to attend to all these little things. The impression your sister Lucinda got of what I had told your father was that you were eloping with an artist’s model. And, of course, with my connivance. The baby she simply didn’t believe in. She would have it that you had been victimized by some designing female. Well, I didn’t argue with her. I went to see Madge.”

He would rather not hear that part of it. But he felt obliged to ask:

“What did Madge say?”

“At first she practically told me it was none of my business why she had broken the engagement. I said I could guess why it was, and reminded her that I had been with you in Chicago. She said, if I knew, there was no use discussing it. I admit I was pretty much stumped by her coolness. I wondered if she were really heartless, as your sister Lucinda said. But that wasn’t it. She was really trying to be a good sport, as I found out afterward. She was trying not to hate the girl who had taken you away from her. She wasn’t thinking about a baby at all. In fact, she didn’t know about it.”

“But I told her about the baby!” he protested.

“You didn’t get it straight, Norman--or she didn’t hear it. Or maybe her aunt mixed her up about it. You seem to have talked to her, too.”

“Not about the baby, I think,” said Norman, making an effort to remember these things that seemed to have happened so many thousands of years ago.

“So Madge said. But between what you told the girl and what her aunt imagined, she got it wrong.”

“What in the world did she think I had told her?”

“She didn’t say in so many words. But I realized that I knew more about it than she did, so I started in to tell her the whole thing. And she was surprised from beginning to end. She was under the impression that you had been carrying on an affair with the other girl while being engaged to _her_.”

“I didn’t have a chance to go into details. But I’m sure I told her about the baby!”

“Not that the baby was already born. You neglected that detail. And so naturally she thought of a pregnant girl that you had to marry.”

“So--that’s what she meant.... She told me I was free--to go to her!”

“Exactly. I tell you, Norman, she’s a good sport!”

“I see that I blundered the thing frightfully.”

“You made it seem even worse than it was. But that’s a good way of breaking bad news. She’d already suffered the worst. And what I told her--it took the poison out of the wound, so to speak.”

“She’ll think a little more kindly of me, perhaps,” said Norman wistfully.

“She’s sorry for you. And she’s interested in your wanting the baby. I told her why you had come home--to see if your people would take it. I had learned that from Dr. Zerneke over the long-distance. ‘Well, Madge,’ I asked, ‘can you hate him for a thing like that?’ And she said: ‘How could I hate him? I feel very humble.’”

“Humble!”

“To tell the truth, Norman, she thinks of you as a kind of saint.”

“Gilbert, don’t razz me.”

“Women are queer, Norman. Of course, there’s some credit due me as your advocate. I didn’t neglect my opportunities. And it _is_ rather dramatic, you know--your throwing up a career and respectability, for the sake of your son. It’s the sort of thing women can understand.”

(Perhaps--but how did old Gilbert understand?)

“The only trouble is,” Gilbert went on, “it leaves her out. She’d rather be the other girl, I think. She can’t understand Isabel--why she won’t marry you. But then, as I told her, I don’t either.”

“You told her I had offered to marry Isabel?”

“Yes--and that you didn’t love her. That’s correct, I think?”

“Yes. How did Madge take that?”

“She seemed to understand it perfectly. It made you all the more saintlike.”

“Please lay off that, Gilbert.”

“If you depart from the beaten track, Norman, you have to take the consequences. You can’t do what you’ve done without being regarded either as a scoundrel or a saint.”

“I was prepared to be regarded as a scoundrel.”

“Well, I’ve fixed that up for you, too. A saint to the women.... All except your mother and sister, Norman. They both, in their different ways, regard you as a child.”

“You haven’t mentioned my kid sister--Doris. I was really trying to protect her.”

“So did we all. She was sent away to the neighbors or up to bed during all the family conferences, and told some sort of transparent fib about your being called out of town on business. But she strolled into our conference Monday night--I had just got through telling them my revised story about you--and announced with a bored air that we needn’t trouble to keep the secret from her any longer. She knew all about Norman’s baby, she said. As a matter of fact, she heard this new story before the family did. It appears that the news, coming from some girl friend of Madge’s, had spread like wildfire among the younger generation. They all knew it by evening.”

“Do you think it will--hurt her much?” Norman asked anxiously.

“Doris? On the contrary, she’s quite a heroine on account of it. Times are changing, Norman!”

“In Vickley!” said Norman incredulously.

Gilbert looked at him gravely.

“I haven’t intended to deceive you, Norman. You know perfectly well that you’ve cooked your goose, as far as the law business goes. If you wanted to set up as a romantic poet, it might be all right for you to come back. But not as a lawyer. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Thank God for that!”

“Well, be that as it may, Norman, your career in Vickley is gone completely and absolutely to smash. There’s not a moment’s doubt about that. And there’s not a thing I or anybody else can do about that. You had me beaten there. The only thing I could gain was what is called a moral victory. And since that’s all I have to boast of, Norman, I’m boasting of that. Let me go ahead and tell you about my speech to the jury!”

“All right.”

“But first I’ll help myself to another drink.”