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.