Jennie Gerhardt: A Novel

She was silent for a moment, biting her lips. She did not quite know how to begin. Finally she broke the spell with: "There was a man here yesterday – a Mr. O'Brien, of Cincinnati. Do you know him?"

"Yes, I know him. What did he want?"

"He came to talk to me about you and your father's will."

She paused, for his face clouded immediately. "Why the devil should he be talking to you about my father's will!" he exclaimed. "What did he have to say?"

"Please don't get angry, Lester," said Jennie calmly, for she realized that she must remain absolute mistress of herself if anything were to be accomplished toward the resolution of her problem. "He wanted to tell me what a sacrifice you are making," she went on. "He wished to show me that there was only a little time left before you would lose your inheritance. Don't you want to act pretty soon? Don't you want to leave me."

"Damn him!" said Lester fiercely. "What the devil does he mean by putting his nose in my private affairs? Can't they let me alone?" He shook himself angrily. "Damn them!" he exclaimed again. "This is some of Robert's work. Why should Knight, Keatley & O'Brien be meddling in my affairs? This whole business is getting to be a nuisance!" He was in a boiling rage in a moment, as was shown by his darkening skin and sulphurous eyes.

Jennie trembled before his anger. She did not know what to say.

He came to himself sufficiently after a time to add:

"Well. Just what did he tell you?"

"He said that if you married me you would only get ten thousand a year. That if you didn't and still lived with me you would get nothing at all. If you would leave me, or I would leave you, you would get all of a million and a half. Don't you think you had better leave me now?"

She had not intended to propound this leading question so quickly, but it came out as a natural climax to the situation. She realized instantly that if he were really in love with her he would answer with an emphatic "no." If he didn't care, he would hesitate, he would delay, he would seek to put off the evil day of reckoning.

"I don't see that," he retorted irritably. "I don't see that there's any need for either interference or hasty action. What I object to is their coming here and mixing in my private affairs."

Jennie was cut to the quick by his indifference, his wrath instead of affection. To her the main point at issue was her leaving him or his leaving her. To him this recent interference was obviously the chief matter for discussion and consideration. The meddling of others before he was ready to act was the terrible thing. She had hoped, in spite of what she had seen, that possibly, because of the long time they had lived together and the things which (in a way) they had endured together, he might have come to care for her deeply – that she had stirred some emotion in him which would never brook real separation, though some seeming separation might be necessary. He had not married her, of course, but then there had been so many things against them. Now, in this final hour, anyhow, he might have shown that he cared deeply, even if he had deemed it necessary to let her go. She felt for the time being as if, for all that she had lived with him so long, she did not understand him, and yet, in spite of this feeling, she knew also that she did. He cared, in his way. He could not care for any one enthusiastically and demonstratively. He could care enough to seize her and take her to himself as he had, but he could not care enough to keep her if something more important appeared. He was debating her fate now. She was in a quandary, hurt, bleeding, but for once in her life, determined. Whether he wanted to or not, she must not let him make this sacrifice. She must leave him – if he would not leave her. It was not important enough that she should stay. There might be but one answer. But might he not show affection?

"Don't you think you had better act soon?" she continued, hoping that some word of feeling would come from him. "There is only a little time left, isn't there?"

Jennie nervously pushed a book to and fro on the table, her fear that she would not be able to keep up appearances troubling her greatly. It was hard for her to know what to do or say. Lester was so terrible when he became angry. Still it ought not to be so hard for him to go, now that he had Mrs. Gerald, if he only wished to do so – and he ought to. His fortune was so much more important to him than anything she could be.

"Don't worry about that," he replied stubbornly, his wrath at his brother, and his family, and O'Brien still holding him. "There's time enough. I don't know what I want to do yet. I like the effrontery of these people! But I won't talk any more about it; isn't dinner nearly ready?" He was so injured in his pride that he scarcely took the trouble to be civil. He was forgetting all about her and what she was feeling. He hated his brother Robert for this affront. He would have enjoyed wringing the necks of Messrs. Knight, Keatley & O'Brien, singly and collectively.

The question could not be dropped for good and all, and it came up again at dinner, after Jennie had done her best to collect her thoughts and quiet her nerves. They could not talk very freely because of Vesta and Jeannette, but she managed to get in a word or two.

"I could take a little cottage somewhere," she suggested softly, hoping to find him in a modified mood. "I would not want to stay here. I would not know what to do with a big house like this alone."

"I wish you wouldn't discuss this business any longer, Jennie," he persisted. "I'm in no mood for it. I don't know that I'm going to do anything of the sort. I don't know what I'm going to do." He was so sour and obstinate, because of O'Brien, that she finally gave it up. Vesta was astonished to see her stepfather, usually so courteous, in so grim a mood.

Jennie felt a curious sense that she might hold him if she would, for he was doubting; but she knew also that she should not wish. It was not fair to him. It was not fair to herself, or kind, or decent.

"Oh yes, Lester, you must," she pleaded, at a later time. "I won't talk about it any more, but you must. I won't let you do anything else."

There were hours when it came up afterward – every day, in fact – in their boudoir, in the library, in the dining-room, at breakfast, but not always in words. Jennie was worried. She was looking the worry she felt. She was sure that he should be made to act. Since he was showing more kindly consideration for her, she was all the more certain that he should act soon. Just how to go about it she did not know, but she looked at him longingly, trying to help him make up his mind. She would be happy, she assured herself – she would be happy thinking that he was happy once she was away from him. He was a good man, most delightful in everything, perhaps, save his gift of love. He really did not love her – could not perhaps, after all that had happened, even though she loved him most earnestly. But his family had been most brutal in their opposition, and this had affected his attitude. She could understand that, too. She could see now how his big, strong brain might be working in a circle. He was too decent to be absolutely brutal about this thing and leave her, too really considerate to look sharply after his own interests as he should, or hers – but he ought to.

"You must decide, Lester," she kept saying to him, from time to time. "You must let me go. What difference does it make? I will be all right. Maybe, when this thing is all over you might want to come back to me. If you do, I will be there."

"I'm not ready to come to a decision," was his invariable reply. "I don't know that I want to leave you. This money is important, of course, but money isn't everything. I can live on ten thousand a year if necessary. I've done it in the past."

"Oh, but you're so much more placed in the world now, Lester," she argued. "You can't do it. Look how much it costs to run this house alone. And a million and a half of dollars – why, I wouldn't let you think of losing that. I'll go myself first."

"Where would you think of going if it came to that?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, I'd find some place. Do you remember that little town of Sandwood, this side of Kenosha? I have often thought it would be a pleasant place to live."

"I don't like to think of this," he said finally in an outburst of frankness. "It doesn't seem fair. The conditions have all been against this union of ours. I suppose I should have married you in the first place. I'm sorry now that I didn't."

Jennie choked in her throat, but said nothing.

"Anyhow, this won't be the last of it, if I can help it," he concluded. He was thinking that the storm might blow over; once he had the money, and then – but he hated compromises and subterfuges.

It came by degrees to be understood that, toward the end of February, she should look around at Sandwood and see what she could find. She was to have ample means, he told her, everything that she wanted. After a time he might come out and visit her occasionally. And he was determined in his heart that he would make some people pay for the trouble they had caused him. He decided to send for Mr. O'Brien shortly and talk things over. He wanted for his personal satisfaction to tell him what he thought of him.

At the same time, in the background of his mind, moved the shadowy figure of Mrs. Gerald – charming, sophisticated, well placed in every sense of the word. He did not want to give her the broad reality of full thought, but she was always there. He thought and thought. "Perhaps I'd better," he half concluded. When February came he was ready to act.

CHAPTER LIV

The little town of Sandwood, "this side of Kenosha," as Jennie had expressed it, was only a short distance from Chicago, an hour and fifteen minutes by the local train. It had a population of some three hundred families, dwelling in small cottages, which were scattered over a pleasant area of lake-shore property. They were not rich people. The houses were not worth more than from three to five thousand dollars each, but, in most cases, they were harmoniously constructed, and the surrounding trees, green for the entire year, gave them a pleasing summery appearance. Jennie, at the time they had passed by there – it was an outing taken behind a pair of fast horses – had admired the look of a little white church steeple, set down among green trees, and the gentle rocking of the boats upon the summer water.

"I should like to live in a place like this some time," she had said to Lester, and he had made the comment that it was a little too peaceful for him. "I can imagine getting to the place where I might like this, but not now. It's too withdrawn."

Jennie thought of that expression afterward. It came to her when she thought that the world was trying. If she had to be alone ever and could afford it she would like to live in a place like Sandwood. There she would have a little garden, some chickens, perhaps, a tall pole with a pretty bird-house on it, and flowers and trees and green grass everywhere about. If she could have a little cottage in a place like this which commanded a view of the lake she could sit of a summer evening and sew. Vesta could play about or come home from school. She might have a few friends, or not any. She was beginning to think that she could do very well living alone if it were not for Vesta's social needs. Books were pleasant things – she was finding that out – books like Irving's Sketch Book, Lamb's Elia, and Hawthorne's Twice Told Tales. Vesta was coming to be quite a musician in her way, having a keen sense of the delicate and refined in musical composition. She had a natural sense of harmony and a love for those songs and instrumental compositions which reflect sentimental and passionate moods; and she could sing and play quite well. Her voice was, of course, quite untrained – she was only fourteen – but it was pleasant to listen to. She was beginning to show the combined traits of her mother and father – Jennie's gentle, speculative turn of mind, combined with Brander's vivacity of spirit and innate executive capacity. She could talk to her mother in a sensible way about things, nature, books, dress, love, and from her developing tendencies Jennie caught keen glimpses of the new worlds which Vesta was to explore. The nature of modern school life, its consideration of various divisions of knowledge, music, science, all came to Jennie watching her daughter take up new themes. Vesta was evidently going to be a woman of considerable ability – not irritably aggressive, but self-constructive. She would be able to take care of herself. All this pleased Jennie and gave her great hopes for Vesta's future.

The cottage which was finally secured at Sandwood was only a story and a half in height, but it was raised upon red brick piers between which were set green lattices and about which ran a veranda. The house was long and narrow, its full length – some five rooms in a row – facing the lake. There was a dining-room with windows opening even with the floor, a large library with built-in shelves for books, and a parlor whose three large windows afforded air and sunshine at all times.

The plot of ground in which this cottage stood was one hundred feet square and ornamented with a few trees. The former owner had laid out flower-beds, and arranged green hardwood tubs for the reception of various hardy plants and vines. The house was painted white, with green shutters and green shingles.

It had been Lester's idea, since this thing must be, that Jennie might keep the house in Hyde Park just as it was, but she did not want to do that. She could not think of living there alone. The place was too full of memories. At first, she did not think she would take anything much with her, but she finally saw that it was advisable to do as Lester suggested – to fit out the new place with a selection of silverware, hangings, and furniture from the Hyde Park house.

"You have no idea what you will or may want," he said. "Take everything. I certainly don't want any of it."

A lease of the cottage was taken for two years, together with an option for an additional five years, including the privilege of purchase. So long as he was letting her go, Lester wanted to be generous. He could not think of her as wanting for anything, and he did not propose that she should. His one troublesome thought was, what explanation was to be made to Vesta. He liked her very much and wanted her "life kept free of complications.

"Why not send her off to a boarding-school until spring?" he suggested once; but owing to the lateness of the season this was abandoned as inadvisable. Later they agreed that business affairs made it necessary for him to travel and for Jennie to move. Later Vesta could be told that Jennie had left him for any reason she chose to give. It was a trying situation, all the more bitter to Jennie because she realized that in spite of the wisdom of it indifference to her was involved. He really did not care enough, as much as he cared.

The relationship of man and woman which we study so passionately in the hope of finding heaven knows what key to the mystery of existence holds no more difficult or trying situation than this of mutual compatibility broken or disrupted by untoward conditions which in themselves have so little to do with the real force and beauty of the relationship itself. These days of final dissolution in which this household, so charmingly arranged, the scene of so many pleasant activities, was literally going to pieces was a period of great trial to both Jennie and Lester. On her part it was one of intense suffering, for she was of that stable nature that rejoices to fix itself in a serviceable and harmonious relationship, and then stay so. For her life was made up of those mystic chords of sympathy and memory which bind up the transient elements of nature into a harmonious and enduring scene. One of those chords – this home was her home, united and made beautiful by her affection and consideration for each person and every object. Now the time had come when it must cease.

If she had ever had anything before in her life which had been like this it might have been easier to part with it now, though, as she had proved, Jennie's affections were not based in any way upon material considerations. Her love of life and of personality were free from the taint of selfishness. She went about among these various rooms selecting this rug, that set of furniture, this and that ornament, wishing all the time with all her heart and soul that it need not be. Just to think, in a little while Lester would not come any more of an evening! She would not need to get up first of a morning and see that coffee was made for her lord, that the table in the dining-room looked just so. It had been a habit of hers to arrange a bouquet for the table out of the richest blooming flowers of the conservatory, and she had always felt in doing it that it was particularly for him. Now it would not be necessary any more – not for him. When one is accustomed to wait for the sound of a certain carriage-wheel of an evening grating upon your carriage drive, when one is used to listen at eleven, twelve, and one, waking naturally and joyfully to the echo of a certain step on the stair, the separation, the ending of these things, is keen with pain. These were the thoughts that were running through Jennie's brain hour after hour and day after day.

Lester on his part was suffering in another fashion. His was not the sorrow of lacerated affection, of discarded and despised love, but of that painful sense of unfairness which comes to one who knows that he is making a sacrifice of the virtues – kindness, loyalty, affection – to policy. Policy was dictating a very splendid course of action from one point of view. Free of Jennie, providing for her admirably, he was free to go his way, taking to himself the mass of affairs which come naturally with great wealth. He could not help thinking of the thousand and one little things which Jennie had been accustomed to do for him, the hundred and one comfortable and pleasant and delightful things she meant to him. The virtues which she possessed were quite dear to his mind. He had gone over them time and again. Now he was compelled to go over them finally, to see that she was suffering without making a sign. Her manner and attitude toward him in these last days were quite the same as they had always been – no more, no less. She was not indulging in private hysterics, as another woman might have done; she was not pretending a fortitude in suffering she did not feel, showing him one face while wishing him to see another behind it. She was calm, gentle, considerate – thoughtful of him – where he would go and what he would do, without irritating him by her inquiries. He was struck quite favorably by her ability to take a large situation largely, and he admired her. There was something to this woman, let the world think what it might. It was a shame that her life was passed under such a troubled star. Still a great world was calling him. The sound of its voice was in his ears. It had on occasion shown him its bared teeth. Did he really dare to hesitate?

The last hour came, when having made excuses to this and that neighbor, when having spread the information that they were going abroad, when Lester had engaged rooms at the Auditorium, and the mass of furniture which could not be used had gone to storage, that it was necessary to say farewell to this Hyde Park domicile. Jennie had visited Sandwood in company with Lester several times. He had carefully examined the character of the place. He was satisfied that it was nice but lonely. Spring was at hand, the flowers would be something. She was going to keep a gardener and man of all work. Vesta would be with her.

"Very well," he said, "only I want you to be comfortable."

In the mean time Lester had been arranging his personal affairs. He had notified Messrs. Knight, Keatley & O'Brien through his own attorney, Mr. Watson, that he would expect them to deliver his share of his father's securities on a given date. He had made up his mind that as long as he was compelled by circumstances to do this thing he would do a number of other things equally ruthless. He would probably marry Mrs. Gerald. He would sit as a director in the United Carriage Company – with his share of the stock it would be impossible to keep him out. If he had Mrs. Gerald's money he would become a controlling factor in the United Traction of Cincinnati, in which his brother was heavily interested, and in the Western Steel Works, of which his brother was now the leading adviser. What a different figure he would be now from that which he had been during the past few years!

Jennie was depressed to the point of despair. She was tremendously lonely. This home had meant so much to her. When she first came here and neighbors had begun to drop in she had imagined herself on the threshold of a great career, that some day, possibly, Lester would marry her. Now, blow after blow had been delivered, and the home and dream were a ruin. Gerhardt was gone. Jeannette, Harry Ward, and Mrs. Frissell had been discharged, the furniture for a good part was in storage, and for her, practically, Lester was no more. She realized clearly that he would not come back. If he could do this thing now, even considerately, he could do much more when he was free and away later. Immersed in his great affairs, he would forget, of course. And why not? She did not fit in. Had not everything – everything illustrated that to her? Love was not enough in this world – that was so plain. One needed education, wealth, training, the ability to fight and scheme, She did not want to do that. She could not.

The day came when the house was finally closed and the old life was at an end. Lester traveled with Jennie to Sandwood. He spent some little while in the house trying to get her used to the idea of change – it was not so bad. He intimated that he would come again soon, but he went away, and all his words were as nothing against the fact of the actual and spiritual separation. When Jennie saw him going down the brick walk that afternoon, his solid, conservative figure clad in a new tweed suit, his overcoat on his arm, self-reliance and prosperity written all over him, she thought that she would die. She had kissed Lester good-by and had wished him joy, prosperity, peace; then she made an excuse to go to her bedroom. Vesta came after a time, to seek her, but now her eyes were quite dry; everything had subsided to a dull ache. The new life was actually begun for her – a life without Lester, without Gerhardt, without any one save Vesta.

"What curious things have happened to me!" she thought, as she went into the kitchen, for she had determined to do at least some of her own work. She needed the distraction. She did not want to think. If it were not for Vesta she would have sought some regular outside employment. Anything to keep from brooding, for in that direction lay madness.

CHAPTER LV

The social and business worlds of Chicago, Cincinnati, Cleveland, and other cities saw, during the year or two which followed the breaking of his relationship with Jennie, a curious rejuvenation in the social and business spirit of Lester Kane. He had become rather distant and indifferent to certain personages and affairs while he was living with her, but now he suddenly appeared again, armed with authority from a number of sources, looking into this and that matter with the air of one who has the privilege of power, and showing himself to be quite a personage from the point of view of finance and commerce. He was older of course. It must be admitted that he was in some respects a mentally altered Lester. Up to the time he had met Jennie he was full of the assurance of the man who has never known defeat. To have been reared in luxury as he had been, to have seen only the pleasant side of society, which is so persistent and so deluding where money is concerned, to have been in the run of big affairs not because one has created them, but because one is a part of them and because they are one's birthright, like the air one breathes, could not help but create one of those illusions of solidarity which is apt to befog the clearest brain. It is so hard for us to know what we have not seen. It is so difficult for us to feel what we have not experienced. Like this world of ours, which seems so solid and persistent solely because we have no knowledge of the power which creates it, Lester's world seemed solid and persistent and real enough to him. It was only when the storms set in and the winds of adversity blew and he found himself facing the armed forces of convention that he realized he might be mistaken as to the value of his personality, that his private desires and opinions were as nothing in the face of a public conviction; that he was wrong. The race spirit, or social avatar, the "Zeitgeist" as the Germans term it, manifested itself as something having a system in charge, and the organization of society began to show itself to him as something based on possibly a spiritual, or, at least, superhuman counterpart. He could not fly in the face of it. He could not deliberately ignore its mandates. The people of his time believed that some particular form of social arrangement was necessary, and unless he complied with that he could, as he saw, readily become a social outcast. His own father and mother had turned on him – his brother and sisters, society, his friends. Dear heaven, what a to-do this action of his had created! Why, even the fates seemed adverse. His real estate venture was one of the most fortuitously unlucky things he had ever heard of. Why? Were the gods battling on the side of a to him unimportant social arrangement? Apparently. Anyhow, he had been compelled to quit, and here he was, vigorous, determined, somewhat battered by the experience, but still forceful and worth while.