Produced by James Adcock. Special thanks to The Internet
Archive: American Libraries, and Project Gutenberg Australia

[Illustration] 




Jennie Gerhardt

A NOVEL

by Theodore Dreiser

AUTHOR OF “SISTER CARRIE”, etc.

Copyright, 1911, by Harper & Brothers

Copyright, 1911, by Boni & Liveright, Inc.

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

 Chapter I
 Chapter II
 Chapter III
 Chapter IV
 Chapter V
 Chapter VI
 Chapter VII
 Chapter VIII
 Chapter IX
 Chapter X
 Chapter XI
 Chapter XII
 Chapter XIII
 Chapter XIV
 Chapter XV
 Chapter XVI
 Chapter XVII
 Chapter XVIII
 Chapter XIX
 Chapter XX
 Chapter XXI
 Chapter XXII
 Chapter XXIII
 Chapter XXIV
 Chapter XXV
 Chapter XXVI
 Chapter XXVII
 Chapter XXVIII
 Chapter XXIX
 Chapter XXX
 Chapter XXXI
 Chapter XXXII
 Chapter XXXIII
 Chapter XXXIV
 Chapter XXXV
 Chapter XXXVI
 Chapter XXXVII
 Chapter XXXVIII
 Chapter XXXIX
 Chapter XL
 Chapter XLI
 Chapter XLII
 Chapter XLIII
 Chapter XLIV
 Chapter XLV
 Chapter XLVI
 Chapter XLVII
 Chapter XLVIII
 Chapter XLIX
 Chapter L
 Chapter LI
 Chapter LII
 Chapter LIII
 Chapter LIV
 Chapter LV
 Chapter LVI
 Chapter LVII
 Chapter LVIII
 Chapter LIX
 Chapter LX
 Chapter LXI
 Chapter LXII

[Illustration]




CHAPTER I


One morning, in the fall of 1880, a middle-aged woman, accompanied by a
young girl of eighteen, presented herself at the clerk’s desk of the
principal hotel in Columbus, Ohio, and made inquiry as to whether there
was anything about the place that she could do. She was of a helpless,
fleshy build, with a frank, open countenance and an innocent, diffident
manner. Her eyes were large and patient, and in them dwelt such a
shadow of distress as only those who have looked sympathetically into
the countenances of the distraught and helpless poor know anything
about. Any one could see where the daughter behind her got the timidity
and shamefacedness which now caused her to stand back and look
indifferently away. She was a product of the fancy, the feeling, the
innate affection of the untutored but poetic mind of her mother
combined with the gravity and poise which were characteristic of her
father. Poverty was driving them. Together they presented so appealing
a picture of honest necessity that even the clerk was affected.

“What is it you would like to do?” he said.

“Maybe you have some cleaning or scrubbing,” she replied, timidly. “I
could wash the floors.”

The daughter, hearing the statement, turned uneasily, not because it
irritated her to work, but because she hated people to guess at the
poverty that made it necessary. The clerk, manlike, was affected by the
evidence of beauty in distress. The innocent helplessness of the
daughter made their lot seem hard indeed.

“Wait a moment,” he said; and, stepping into a back office, he called
the head housekeeper.

There was work to be done. The main staircase and parlor hall were
unswept because of the absence of the regular scrub-woman.

“Is that her daughter with her?” asked the housekeeper, who could see
them from where she was standing.

“Yes, I believe so.”

“She might come this afternoon if she wants to. The girl helps her, I
suppose?”

“You go see the housekeeper,” said the clerk, pleasantly, as he came
back to the desk. “Right through there”—pointing to a near-by door.
“She’ll arrange with you about it.”

A succession of misfortunes, of which this little scene might have been
called the tragic culmination, had taken place in the life and family
of William Gerhardt, a glass-blower by trade. Having suffered the
reverses so common in the lower walks of life, this man was forced to
see his wife, his six children, and himself dependent for the
necessaries of life upon whatever windfall of fortune the morning of
each recurring day might bring. He himself was sick in bed. His oldest
boy, Sebastian, or “Bass,” as his associates transformed it, worked as
an apprentice to a local freight-car builder, but received only four
dollars a week. Genevieve, the oldest of the girls, was past eighteen,
but had not as yet been trained to any special work. The other
children, George, aged fourteen; Martha, twelve; William ten, and
Veronica, eight, were too young to do anything, and only made the
problem of existence the more complicated. Their one mainstay was the
home, which, barring a six-hundred-dollar mortgage, the father owned.
He had borrowed this money at a time when, having saved enough to buy
the house, he desired to add three rooms and a porch, and so make it
large enough for them to live in. A few years were still to run on the
mortgage, but times had been so bad that he had been forced to use up
not only the little he had saved to pay off the principal, but the
annual interest also. Gerhardt was helpless, and the consciousness of
his precarious situation—the doctor’s bill, the interest due upon the
mortgage, together with the sums owed butcher and baker, who, through
knowing him to be absolutely honest, had trusted him until they could
trust no longer—all these perplexities weighed upon his mind and racked
him so nervously as to delay his recovery.

Mrs. Gerhardt was no weakling. For a time she took in washing, what
little she could get, devoting the intermediate hours to dressing the
children, cooking, seeing that they got off to school, mending their
clothes, waiting on her husband, and occasionally weeping. Not
infrequently she went personally to some new grocer, each time farther
and farther away, and, starting an account with a little cash, would
receive credit until other grocers warned the philanthropist of his
folly. Corn was cheap. Sometimes she would make a kettle of lye hominy,
and this would last, with scarcely anything else, for an entire week.
Corn-meal also, when made into mush, was better than nothing, and this,
with a little milk, made almost a feast. Potatoes fried was the nearest
they ever came to luxurious food, and coffee was an infrequent treat.
Coal was got by picking it up in buckets and baskets along the maze of
tracks in the near-by railroad yard. Wood, by similar journeys to
surrounding lumber-yards. Thus they lived from day to day, each hour
hoping that the father would get well and that the glass-works would
soon start up. But as the winter approached Gerhardt began to feel
desperate.

“I must get out of this now pretty soon,” was the sturdy German’s
regular comment, and his anxiety found but weak expression in the
modest quality of his voice.

To add to all this trouble little Veronica took the measles, and, for a
few days, it was thought that she would die. The mother neglected
everything else to hover over her and pray for the best. Doctor
Ellwanger came every day, out of purely human sympathy, and gravely
examined the child. The Lutheran minister, Pastor Wundt, called to
offer the consolation of the Church. Both of these men brought an
atmosphere of grim ecclesiasticism into the house. They were the
black-garbed, sanctimonious emissaries of superior forces. Mrs.
Gerhardt felt as if she were going to lose her child, and watched
sorrowfully by the cot-side. After three days the worst was over, but
there was no bread in the house. Sebastian’s wages had been spent for
medicine. Only coal was free for the picking, and several times the
children had been scared from the railroad yards. Mrs. Gerhardt thought
of all the places to which she might apply, and despairingly hit upon
the hotel. Now, by a miracle, she had her chance.

“How much do you charge?” the housekeeper asked her.

Mrs. Gerhardt had not thought this would be left to her, but need
emboldened her.

“Would a dollar a day be too much?”

“No,” said the housekeeper; “there is only about three days’ work to do
every week. If you would come every afternoon you could do it.”

“Very well,” said the applicant. “Shall we start to-day?”

“Yes; if you’ll come with me now I’ll show you where the cleaning
things are.”

The hotel, into which they were thus summarily introduced, was a rather
remarkable specimen for the time and place. Columbus, being the State
capital, and having a population of fifty thousand and a fair passenger
traffic, was a good field for the hotel business, and the opportunity
had been improved; so at least the Columbus people proudly thought. The
structure, five stories in height, and of imposing proportions, stood
at one corner of the central public square, where were the Capitol
building and principal stores. The lobby was large and had been
recently redecorated. Both floor and wainscot were of white marble,
kept shiny by frequent polishing. There was an imposing staircase with
hand-rails of walnut and toe-strips of brass. An inviting corner was
devoted to a news and cigar-stand. Where the staircase curved upward
the clerk’s desk and offices had been located, all done in hardwood and
ornamented by novel gas-fixtures. One could see through a door at one
end of the lobby to the barbershop, with its chairs and array of
shaving-mugs. Outside were usually two or three buses, arriving or
departing, in accordance with the movement of the trains.

To this caravanserai came the best of the political and social
patronage of the State. Several Governors had made it their permanent
abiding place during their terms of office. The two United States
Senators, whenever business called them to Columbus, invariably
maintained parlor chambers at the hotel. One of them, Senator Brander,
was looked upon by the proprietor as more or less of a permanent guest,
because he was not only a resident of the city, but an otherwise
homeless bachelor. Other and more transient guests included
Congressmen, State legislators and lobbyists, merchants, professional
men, and, after them, the whole raft of indescribables who, coming and
going, make up the glow and stir of this kaleidoscopic world.

Mother and daughter, suddenly flung into this realm of superior
brightness, felt immeasurably overawed. They went about too timid to
touch anything for fear of giving offense. The great red-carpeted
hallway, which they were set to sweep, had for them all the
magnificence of a palace; they kept their eyes down and spoke in their
lowest tones. When it came to scrubbing the steps and polishing the
brass-work of the splendid stairs both needed to steel themselves, the
mother against her timidity, the daughter against the shame at so
public an exposure. Wide beneath lay the imposing lobby, and men,
lounging, smoking, passing constantly in and out, could see them both.

“Isn’t it fine?” whispered Genevieve, and started nervously at the
sound of her own voice.

“Yes,” returned her mother, who, upon her knees, was wringing out her
cloth with earnest but clumsy hands.

“It must cost a good deal to live here, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said her mother. “Don’t forget to rub into these little corners.
Look here what you’ve left.”

Jennie, mortified by this correction, fell earnestly to her task, and
polished vigorously, without again daring to lift her eyes.

With painstaking diligence they worked downward until about five
o’clock; it was dark outside, and all the lobby was brightly lighted.
Now they were very near the bottom of the stairway.

Through the big swinging doors there entered from the chilly world
without a tall, distinguished, middle-aged gentleman, whose silk hat
and loose military cape-coat marked him at once, among the crowd of
general idlers, as some one of importance. His face was of a dark and
solemn cast, but broad and sympathetic in its lines, and his bright
eyes were heavily shaded with thick, bushy, black eyebrows. Passing to
the desk he picked up the key that had already been laid out for him,
and coming to the staircase, started up.

The middle-aged woman, scrubbing at his feet, he acknowledged not only
by walking around her, but by graciously waving his hand, as much as to
say, “Don’t move for me.”

The daughter, however, caught his eye by standing up, her troubled
glance showing that she feared she was in his way.

He bowed and smiled pleasantly.

“You shouldn’t have troubled yourself,” he said.

Jennie only smiled.

When he had reached the upper landing an impulsive sidewise glance
assured him, more clearly than before, of her uncommonly prepossessing
appearance. He noted the high, white forehead, with its smoothly parted
and plaited hair. The eyes he saw were blue and the complexion fair. He
had even time to admire the mouth and the full cheeks—above all, the
well-rounded, graceful form, full of youth, health, and that hopeful
expectancy which to the middle-aged is so suggestive of all that is
worth begging of Providence. Without another look he went dignifiedly
upon his way, but the impression of her charming personality went with
him. This was the Hon. George Sylvester Brander, junior Senator.

“Wasn’t that a fine-looking man who went up just now?” observed Jennie
a few moments later.

“Yes, he was,” said her mother.

“He had a gold-headed cane.”

“You mustn’t stare at people when they pass,” cautioned her mother,
wisely. “It isn’t nice.”

“I didn’t stare at him,” returned Jennie, innocently. “He bowed to me.”

“Well, don’t you pay any attention to anybody,” said her mother. “They
may not like it.”

Jennie fell to her task in silence, but the glamor of the great world
was having its effect upon her senses. She could not help giving ear to
the sounds, the brightness, the buzz of conversation and laughter
surrounding her. In one section of the parlor floor was the
dining-room, and from the clink of dishes one could tell that supper
was being prepared. In another was the parlor proper, and there some
one came to play on the piano. That feeling of rest and relaxation
which comes before the evening meal pervaded the place. It touched the
heart of the innocent working-girl with hope, for hers were the years,
and poverty could not as yet fill her young mind with cares. She rubbed
diligently always, and sometimes forgot the troubled mother at her
side, whose kindly eyes were becoming invested with crows’ feet, and
whose lips half repeated the hundred cares of the day. She could only
think that all of this was very fascinating, and wish that a portion of
it might come to her.

At half-past five the housekeeper, remembering them, came and told them
that they might go. The fully finished stairway was relinquished by
both with a sigh of relief, and, after putting their implements away,
they hastened homeward, the mother, at least, pleased to think that at
last she had something to do.

As they passed several fine houses Jennie was again touched by that
half-defined emotion which the unwonted novelty of the hotel life had
engendered in her consciousness.

“Isn’t it fine to be rich?” she said.

“Yes,” answered her mother, who was thinking of the suffering Veronica.

“Did you see what a big dining-room they had there?”

“Yes.”

They went on past the low cottages and among the dead leaves of the
year.

“I wish we were rich,” murmured Jennie, half to herself.

“I don’t know just what to do,” confided her mother with a long-drawn
sigh. “I don’t believe there’s a thing to eat in the house.”

“Let’s stop and see Mr. Bauman again,” exclaimed Jennie, her natural
sympathies restored by the hopeless note in her mother’s voice.

“Do you think he would trust us any more?”

“Let’s tell him where we’re working. I will.”

“Well,” said her mother, wearily.

Into the small, dimly lighted grocery store, which was two blocks from
their house, they ventured nervously. Mrs. Gerhardt was about to begin,
but Jennie spoke first.

“Will you let us have some bread to-night, and a little bacon? We’re
working now at the Columbus House, and we’ll be sure to pay you
Saturday.”

“Yes,” added Mrs. Gerhardt, “I have something to do.”

Bauman, who had long supplied them before illness and trouble began,
knew that they told the truth.

“How long have you been working there?” he asked.

“Just this afternoon.”

“You know, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he said, “how it is with me. I don’t want to
refuse you. Mr. Gerhardt is good for it, but I am poor, too. Times are
hard,” he explained further, “I have my family to keep.”

“Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Gerhardt, weakly.

Her old shoddy shawl hid her rough hands, red from the day’s work, but
they were working nervously. Jennie stood by in strained silence.

“Well,” concluded Mr. Bauman, “I guess it’s all right this time. Do
what you can for me Saturday.”

He wrapped up the bread and bacon, and, handing Jennie the parcel, he
added, with a touch of cynicism:

“When you get money again I guess you’ll go and trade somewhere else.”

“No,” returned Mrs. Gerhardt; “you know better than that.” But she was
too nervous to parley long.

They went out into the shadowy street, and on past the low cottages to
their own home.

“I wonder,” said the mother, wearily, when they neared the door, “if
they’ve got any coal?”

“Don’t worry,” said Jennie. “If they haven’t I’ll go.”

“A man run us away,” was almost the first greeting that the perturbed
George offered when the mother made her inquiry about the coal. “I got
a little, though.” he added. “I threw it off a car.”

Mrs. Gerhardt only smiled, but Jennie laughed.

“How is Veronica?” she inquired.

“She seems to be sleeping,” said the father. “I gave her medicine again
at five.”

While the scanty meal was being prepared the mother went to the sick
child’s bedside, taking up another long night’s vigil quite as a matter
of course.

While the supper was being eaten Sebastian offered a suggestion, and
his larger experience in social and commercial matters made his
proposition worth considering. Though only a car-builder’s apprentice,
without any education except such as pertained to Lutheran doctrine, to
which he objected very strongly, he was imbued with American color and
energy. His transformed name of Bass suited him exactly. Tall,
athletic, and well-featured for his age, he was a typical stripling of
the town. Already he had formulated a philosophy of life. To succeed
one must do something—one must associate, or at least seem to
associate, with those who were foremost in the world of appearances.

For this reason the young boy loved to hang about the Columbus House.
It seemed to him that this hotel was the center and circumference of
all that was worth while in the social sense. He would go down-town
evenings, when he first secured money enough to buy a decent suit of
clothes, and stand around the hotel entrance with his friends, kicking
his heels, smoking a two-for-five-cent cigar, preening himself on his
stylish appearance, and looking after the girls. Others were there with
him—town dandies and nobodies, young men who came there to get shaved
or to drink a glass of whisky. And all of these he admired and sought
to emulate. Clothes were the main touchstone. If men wore nice clothes
and had rings and pins, whatever they did seemed appropriate. He wanted
to be like them and to act like them, and so his experience of the more
pointless forms of life rapidly broadened.

“Why don’t you get some of those hotel fellows to give you their
laundry?” he asked of Jennie after she had related the afternoon’s
experiences. “It would be better than scrubbing the stairs.”

“How do you get it?” she replied.

“Why, ask the clerk, of course.”

This plan struck Jennie as very much worth while.

“Don’t you ever speak to me if you meet me around there,” he cautioned
her a little later, privately. “Don’t you let on that you know me.”

“Why?” she asked, innocently.

“Well, you know why,” he answered, having indicated before that when
they looked so poor he did not want to be disgraced by having to own
them as relatives. “Just you go on by. Do you hear?”

“All right,” she returned, meekly, for although this youth was not much
over a year her senior, his superior will dominated.

The next day on their way to the hotel she spoke of it to her mother.

“Bass said we might get some of the laundry of the men at the hotel to
do.”

Mrs. Gerhardt, whose mind had been straining all night at the problem
of adding something to the three dollars which her six afternoons would
bring her, approved of the idea.

“So we might,” she said. “I’ll ask that clerk.”

When they reached the hotel, however, no immediate opportunity
presented itself. They worked on until late in the afternoon. Then, as
fortune would have it, the housekeeper sent them in to scrub up the
floor behind the clerk’s desk. That important individual felt very
kindly toward mother and daughter. He liked the former’s sweetly
troubled countenance and the latter’s pretty face. So he listened
graciously when Mrs. Gerhardt ventured meekly to put the question which
she had been revolving in her mind all the afternoon.

“Is there any gentleman here,” she said, “who would give me his washing
to do? I’d be so very much obliged for it.”

The clerk looked at her, and again recognized that absolute want was
written all over her anxious face.

“Let’s see,” he answered, thinking of Senator Brander and Marshall
Hopkins. Both were charitable men, who would be more than glad to aid a
poor woman. “You go up and see Senator Brander,” he continued. “He’s in
twenty-two. Here,” he added, writing out the number, “you go up and
tell him I sent you.”

Mrs. Gerhardt took the card with a tremor of gratefulness. Her eyes
looked the words she could not say.

“That’s all right,” said the clerk, observing her emotion. “You go
right up. You’ll find him in his room now.”

With the greatest diffidence Mrs. Gerhardt knocked at number
twenty-two. Jennie stood silently at her side.

After a moment the door was opened, and in the full radiance of the
bright room stood the Senator. Attired in a handsome smoking-coat, he
looked younger than at their first meeting.

“Well, madam,” he said, recognizing the couple, and particularly the
daughter, “what can I do for you?”

Very much abashed, the mother hesitated in her reply.

“We would like to know if you have any washing you could let us have to
do?”

“Washing?” he repeated after her, in a voice which had a peculiarly
resonant quality. “Washing? Come right in. Let me see.”

He stepped aside with much grace, waved them in and closed the door.
“Let me see,” he repeated, opening and closing drawer after drawer of
the massive black-walnut bureau. Jennie studied the room with interest.
Such an array of nicknacks and pretty things on mantel and
dressing-case she had never seen before. The Senator’s easy-chair, with
a green-shaded lamp beside it, the rich heavy carpet and the fine rugs
upon the floor—what comfort, what luxury!

“Sit down; take those two chairs there,” said the Senator, graciously,
disappearing into a closet.

Still overawed, mother and daughter thought it more polite to decline,
but now the Senator had completed his researches and he reiterated his
invitation. Very uncomfortably they yielded and took chairs.

“Is this your daughter?” he continued, with a smile at Jennie.

“Yes, sir,” said the mother; “she’s my oldest girl.”

“Is your husband alive?”

“What is his name?”

“Where does he live?”

To all of these questions Mrs. Gerhardt very humbly answered.

“How many children have you?” he went on.

“Six,” said Mrs. Gerhardt.

“Well,” he returned, “that’s quite a family. You’ve certainly done your
duty to the nation.”

“Yes, sir,” returned Mrs. Gerhardt, who was touched by his genial and
interesting manner.

“And you say this is your oldest daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What does your husband do?”

“He’s a glass-blower. But he’s sick now.”

During the colloquy Jennie’s large blue eyes were wide with interest.
Whenever he looked at her she turned upon him such a frank,
unsophisticated gaze, and smiled in such a vague, sweet way, that he
could not keep his eyes off of her for more than a minute of the time.

“Well,” he continued, sympathetically, “that is too bad! I have some
washing here not very much but you are welcome to it. Next week there
may be more.”

He went about now, stuffing articles of apparel into a blue cotton bag
with a pretty design on the side.

“Do you want these any certain day?” questioned Mrs. Gerhardt.

“No,” he said, reflectively; “any day next week will do.”

She thanked him with a simple phrase, and started to go.

“Let me see,” he said, stepping ahead of them and opening the door,
“you may bring them back Monday.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Gerhardt. “Thank you.”

They went out and the Senator returned to his reading, but it was with
a peculiarly disturbed mind.

“Too bad,” he said, closing his volume. “There’s something very
pathetic about those people.” Jennie’s spirit of wonder and
appreciation was abroad in the room.

Mrs. Gerhardt and Jennie made their way anew through the shadowy
streets. They felt immeasurably encouraged by this fortunate venture.

“Didn’t he have a fine room?” whispered Jennie.

“Yes,” answered the mother; “he’s a great man.”

“He’s a senator, isn’t he?” continued the daughter.

“Yes.”

“It must be nice to be famous,” said the girl, softly.




CHAPTER II


The spirit of Jennie—who shall express it? This daughter of poverty,
who was now to fetch and carry the laundry of this distinguished
citizen of Columbus, was a creature of a mellowness of temperament
which words can but vaguely suggest. There are natures born to the
inheritance of flesh that come without understanding, and that go again
without seeming to have wondered why. Life, so long as they endure it,
is a true wonderland, a thing of infinite beauty, which could they but
wander into it wonderingly, would be heaven enough. Opening their eyes,
they see a conformable and perfect world. Trees, flowers, the world of
sound and the world of color. These are the valued inheritance of their
state. If no one said to them “Mine,” they would wander radiantly
forth, singing the song which all the earth may some day hope to hear.
It is the song of goodness.

Caged in the world of the material, however, such a nature is almost
invariably an anomaly. That other world of flesh into which has been
woven pride and greed looks askance at the idealist, the dreamer. If
one says it is sweet to look at the clouds, the answer is a warning
against idleness. If one seeks to give ear to the winds, it shall be
well with his soul, but they will seize upon his possessions. If all
the world of the so-called inanimate delay one, calling with tenderness
in sounds that seem to be too perfect to be less than understanding, it
shall be ill with the body. The hands of the actual are forever
reaching toward such as these—forever seizing greedily upon them. It is
of such that the bond servants are made.

In the world of the actual, Jennie was such a spirit. From her earliest
youth goodness and mercy had molded her every impulse. Did Sebastian
fall and injure himself, it was she who struggled with straining
anxiety, carried him safely to his mother. Did George complain that he
was hungry, she gave him all of her bread. Many were the hours in which
she had rocked her younger brothers and sisters to sleep, singing
whole-heartedly betimes and dreaming far dreams. Since her earliest
walking period she had been as the right hand of her mother. What
scrubbing, baking, errand-running, and nursing there had been to do she
did. No one had ever heard her rudely complain, though she often
thought of the hardness of her lot. She knew that there were other
girls whose lives were infinitely freer and fuller, but, it never
occurred to her to be meanly envious; her heart might be lonely, but
her lips continued to sing. When the days were fair she looked out of
her kitchen window and longed to go where the meadows were. Nature’s
fine curves and shadows touched her as a song itself. There were times
when she had gone with George and the others, leading them away to
where a patch of hickory-trees flourished, because there were open
fields, with shade for comfort and a brook of living water. No artist
in the formulating of conceptions, her soul still responded to these
things, and every sound and every sigh were welcome to her because of
their beauty.

When the soft, low call or the wood-doves, those spirits of the summer,
came out of the distance, she would incline her head and listen, the
whole spiritual quality of it dropping like silver bubbles into her own
great heart.

Where the sunlight was warm and the shadows flecked with its splendid
radiance she delighted to wonder at the pattern of it, to walk where it
was most golden, and follow with instinctive appreciation the holy
corridors of the trees.

Color was not lost upon her. That wonderful radiance which fills the
western sky at evening touched and unburdened her heart.

“I wonder,” she said once with girlish simplicity, “how it would feel
to float away off there among those clouds.”

She had discovered a natural swing of a wild grape-vine, and was
sitting in it with Martha and George.

“Oh, wouldn’t it be nice if you had a boat up there,” said George.

She was looking with uplifted face at a far-off cloud, a red island in
a sea of silver.

“Just supposing,” she said, “people could live on an island like that.”

Her soul was already up there, and its elysian paths knew the lightness
of her feet.

“There goes a bee,” said George, noting a bumbler winging by.

“Yes,” she said, dreamily, “it’s going home.”

“Does everything have a home?” asked Martha.

“Nearly everything,” she answered.

“Do the birds go home?” questioned George.

“Yes,” she said, deeply feeling the poetry of it herself, “the birds go
home.”

“Do the bees go home?” urged Martha.

“Yes, the bees go home.”

“Do the dogs go home?” said George, who saw one traveling lonesomely
along the nearby road.

“Why, of course,” she said, “you know that dogs go home.”

“Do the gnats?” he persisted, seeing one of those curious spirals of
minute insects turning energetically in the waning light.

“Yes,” she said, half believing her remark. “Listen!”

“Oho,” exclaimed George, incredulously, “I wonder what kind of houses
they live in.”

“Listen!” she gently persisted, putting out her hand to still him.

It was that halcyon hour when the Angelus falls like a benediction upon
the waning day. Far off the notes were sounding gently, and nature, now
that she listened, seemed to have paused also. A scarlet-breasted robin
was hopping in short spaces upon the grass before her. A humming bee
hummed, a cow-bell tinkled, while some suspicious cracklings told of a
secretly reconnoitering squirrel. Keeping her pretty hand weighed in
the air, she listened until the long, soft notes spread and faded and
her heart could hold no more. Then she arose.

“Oh,” she said, clenching her fingers in an agony of poetic feeling.
There were crystal tears overflowing in her eyes. The wondrous sea of
feeling in her had stormed its banks. Of such was the spirit of Jennie.




CHAPTER III


The junior Senator, George Sylvester Brander, was a man of peculiar
mold. In him there were joined, to a remarkable degree, the wisdom of
the opportunist and the sympathetic nature of the true representative
of the people. Born a native of southern Ohio, he had been raised and
educated there, if one might except the two years in which he had
studied law at Columbia University. He knew common and criminal law,
perhaps, as well as any citizen of his State, but he had never
practised with that assiduity which makes for pre-eminent success at
the bar. He had made money, and had had splendid opportunities to make
a great deal more if he had been willing to stultify his conscience,
but that he had never been able to do. And yet his integrity had not
been at all times proof against the claims of friendship. Only in the
last presidential election he had thrown his support to a man for
Governor who, he well knew, had no claim which a strictly honorable
conscience could have recognized.

In the same way, he had been guilty of some very questionable, and one
or two actually unsavory, appointments. Whenever his conscience pricked
him too keenly he would endeavor to hearten himself with his pet
phrase, “All in a lifetime.” Thinking over things quite alone in his
easy-chair, he would sometimes rise up with these words on his lips,
and smile sheepishly as he did so. Conscience was not by any means dead
in him. His sympathies, if anything, were keener than ever.

This man, three times Congressman from the district of which Columbus
was a part, and twice United States Senator, had never married. In his
youth he had had a serious love affair, but there was nothing
discreditable to him in the fact that it came to nothing. The lady
found it inconvenient to wait for him. He was too long in earning a
competence upon which they might subsist.

Tall, straight-shouldered, neither lean nor stout, he was to-day an
imposing figure. Having received his hard knocks and endured his
losses, there was that about him which touched and awakened the
sympathies of the imaginative. People thought him naturally agreeable,
and his senatorial peers looked upon him as not any too heavy mentally,
but personally a fine man.

His presence in Columbus at this particular time was due to the fact
that his political fences needed careful repairing. The general
election had weakened his party in the State Legislature. There were
enough votes to re-elect him, but it would require the most careful
political manipulation to hold them together. Other men were ambitious.
There were a half-dozen available candidates, any one of whom would
have rejoiced to step into his shoes. He realized the exigencies of the
occasion. They could not well beat him, he thought; but even if this
should happen, surely the President could be induced to give him a
ministry abroad.

Yes, he might be called a successful man, but for all that Senator
Brander felt that he had missed something. He had wanted to do so many
things. Here he was, fifty-two years of age, clean, honorable, highly
distinguished, as the world takes it, but single. He could not help
looking about him now and then and speculating upon the fact that he
had no one to care for him. His chamber seemed strangely hollow at
times—his own personality exceedingly disagreeable.

“Fifty!” he often thought to himself. “Alone—absolutely alone.”

Sitting in his chamber that Saturday afternoon, a rap at his door
aroused him. He had been speculating upon the futility of his political
energy in the light of the impermanence of life and fame.

“What a great fight we make to sustain ourselves!” he thought. “How
little difference it will make to me a few years hence!”

He arose, and opening wide his door, perceived Jennie. She had come, as
she had suggested to her mother, at this time, instead of on Monday, in
order to give a more favorable impression of promptness.

“Come right in,” said the Senator; and, as on the first occasion, he
graciously made way for her.

Jennie passed in, momentarily expecting some compliment upon the
promptitude with which the washing had been done. The Senator never
noticed it at all.

“Well, my young lady,” he said when she had put the bundle down, “how
do you find yourself this evening?”

“Very well,” replied Jennie. “We thought we’d better bring your clothes
to-day instead of Monday.”

“Oh, that would not have made any difference,” replied Brander lightly.
“Just leave them on the chair.”

Jennie, without considering the fact that she had been offered no
payment for the service rendered, was about to retire, had not the
Senator detained her.

“How is your mother?” he asked pleasantly.

“She’s very well,” said Jennie simply.

“And your little sister? Is she any better?”

“The doctor thinks so,” she replied.

“Sit down,” he continued graciously. “I want to talk to you.”

Moving to a near-by chair, the young girl seated herself.

“Hem!” he went on, clearing his throat lightly, “What seems to be the
matter with her?”

“She has the measles,” returned Jennie. “We thought once that she was
going to die.”

Brander studied her face as she said this, and he thought he saw
something exceedingly pathetic there. The girl’s poor clothes and her
wondering admiration for his exalted station in life affected him. It
made him feel almost ashamed of the comfort and luxury that surrounded
him. How high up he was in the world, indeed!

“I am glad she is better now,” he said kindly. “How old is your
father?”

“Fifty-seven.”

“And is he any better?”

“Oh yes, sir; he’s around now, although he can’t go out just yet.”

“I believe your mother said he was a glass-blower by trade?”

“Yes, sir.”

Brander well knew the depressed local conditions in this branch of
manufacture. It had been part of the political issue in the last
campaign. They must be in a bad way truly.

“Do all of the children go to school?” he inquired.

“Why yes, sir,” returned Jennie, stammering. She was too shamefaced to
own that one of the children had been obliged to leave school for the
lack of shoes. The utterance of the falsehood troubled her.

He reflected awhile; then realizing that he had no good excuse for
further detaining her, he arose and came over to her. From his pocket
he took a thin layer of bills, and removing one, handed it to her.

“You take that,” he said, “and tell your mother that I said she should
use it for whatever she wants.”

Jennie accepted the money with mingled feelings; it did not occur to
her to look and see how much it was. The great man was so near her, the
wonderful chamber in which he dwelt so impressive, that she scarcely
realized what she was doing.

“Thank you,” she said. “Is there any day you want your washing called
for?” she added.

“Oh yes,” he answered; “Monday—Monday evenings.”

She went away, and in a half reverie he closed the door behind her. The
interest that he felt in these people was unusual. Poverty and beauty
certainly made up an affecting combination. He sat down in his chair
and gave himself over to the pleasant speculations which her coming had
aroused. Why should he not help them?

“I’ll find out where they live,” he finally resolved.

In the days that followed Jennie regularly came for the clothes.
Senator Brander found himself more and more interested in her, and in
time he managed to remove from her mind that timidity and fear which
had made her feel uncomfortable in his presence. One thing which helped
toward this was his calling her by her first name. This began with her
third visit, and thereafter he used it with almost unconscious
frequency.

It could scarcely be said that he did this in a fatherly spirit, for he
had little of that attitude toward any one. He felt exceedingly young
as he talked to this girl, and he often wondered whether it were not
possible for her to perceive and appreciate him on his youthful side.

As for Jennie, she was immensely taken with the comfort and luxury
surrounding this man, and subconsciously with the man himself, the most
attractive she had ever known. Everything he had was fine, everything
he did was gentle, distinguished, and considerate. From some far
source, perhaps some old German ancestors, she had inherited an
understanding and appreciation of all this. Life ought to be lived as
he lived it; the privilege of being generous particularly appealed to
her.

Part of her attitude was due to that of her mother, in whose mind
sympathy was always a more potent factor than reason. For instance,
when she brought to her the ten dollars Mrs. Gerhardt was transported
with joy.

“Oh,” said Jennie, “I didn’t know until I got outside that it was so
much. He said I should give it to you.”

Mrs. Gerhardt took it, and holding it loosely in her folded hands, saw
distinctly before her the tall Senator with his fine manners.

“What a fine man he is!” she said. “He has a good heart.”

Frequently throughout the evening and the next day Mrs. Gerhardt
commented upon this wonderful treasure-trove, repeating again and again
how good he must be or how large must be his heart. When it came to
washing his clothes she almost rubbed them to pieces, feeling that
whatever she did she could scarcely do enough. Gerhardt was not to
know. He had such stern views about accepting money without earning it
that even in their distress, she would have experienced some difficulty
in getting him to take it. Consequently she said nothing, but used it
to buy bread and meat, and going as it did such a little way, the
sudden windfall was never noticed.

Jennie, from now on, reflected this attitude toward the Senator, and,
feeling so grateful toward him, she began to talk more freely. They
came to be on such good terms that he gave her a little leather
picture-case from his dresser which he had observed her admiring. Every
time she came he found excuse to detain her, and soon discovered that,
for all her soft girlishness, there lay deep-seated in her a conscious
deprecation of poverty and a shame of having to own any need. He
honestly admired her for this, and, seeing that her clothes were poor
and her shoes worn, he began to wonder how he could help her without
offending.

Not infrequently he thought to follow her some evening, and see for
himself what the condition of the family might be. He was a United
States Senator, however. The neighborhood they lived in must be very
poor. He stopped to consider, and for the time the counsels of prudence
prevailed. Consequently the contemplated visit was put off.

Early in December Senator Brander returned to Washington for three
weeks, and both Mrs. Gerhardt and Jennie were surprised to learn one
day that he had gone. Never had he given them less than two dollars a
week for his washing, and several times it had been five. He had not
realized, perhaps, what a breach his absence would make in their
finances. But there was nothing to do about it; they managed to pinch
along. Gerhardt, now better, searched for work at the various mills,
and finding nothing, procured a saw-buck and saw, and going from door
to door, sought for the privilege of sawing wood. There was not a great
deal of this to do, but he managed, by the most earnest labor to earn
two, and sometimes three, dollars a week. This added to what his wife
earned and what Sebastian gave was enough to keep bread in their
mouths, but scarcely more.

It was at the opening of the joyous Christmas-time that the bitterness
of their poverty affected them most. The Germans love to make a great
display at Christmas. It is the one season of the year when the
fullness of their large family affection manifests itself. Warm in the
appreciation of the joys of childhood, they love to see the little ones
enjoy their toys and games. Father Gerhardt at his saw-buck during the
weeks before Christmas thought of this very often. What would little
Veronica not deserve after her long illness! How he would have liked to
give each of the children a stout pair of shoes, the boys a warm cap,
the girls a pretty hood. Toys and games and candy they always had had
before. He hated to think of the snow-covered Christmas morning and no
table richly piled with what their young hearts would most desire.

As for Mrs. Gerhardt, one could better imagine than describe her
feelings. She felt so keenly about it that she could hardly bring
herself to speak of the dreaded hour to her husband. She had managed to
lay aside three dollars in the hope of getting enough to buy a ton of
coal, and so put an end to poor George’s daily pilgrimage to the coal
yard, but now as the Christmas week drew near she decided to use it for
gifts. Father Gerhardt was also secreting two dollars without the
knowledge of his wife, thinking that on Christmas Eve he could produce
it at a critical moment, and so relieve her maternal anxiety.

When the actual time arrived, however, there was very little to be said
for the comfort that they got out of the occasion. The whole city was
rife with Christmas atmosphere. Grocery stores and meat markets were
strung with holly. The toy shops and candy stores were radiant with
fine displays of everything that a self-respecting Santa Claus should
have about him. Both parents and children observed it all—the former
with serious thoughts of need and anxiety, the latter with wild fancy
and only partially suppressed longings.

Frequently had Gerhardt said in their presence:

“Kriss Kringle is very poor this year. He hasn’t so very much to give.”

But no child, however poverty-stricken, could be made to believe this.
Every time after so saying he looked into their eyes, but in spite of
the warning, expectation flamed in them undiminished.

Christmas coming on Tuesday, the Monday before there was no school.
Before going to the hotel Mrs. Gerhardt had cautioned George that he
must bring enough coal from the yards to last over Christmas day. The
latter went at once with his two younger sisters, but there being a
dearth of good picking, it took them a long time to fill their baskets,
and by night they had gathered only a scanty supply.

“Did you go for the coal?” asked Mrs. Gerhardt the first thing when she
returned from the hotel that evening.

“Yes,” said George.

“Did you get enough for to-morrow?”

“Yes,” he replied, “I guess so.”

“Well, now, I’ll go and look,” she replied. Taking the lamp, they went
out into the woodshed where the coal was deposited.

“Oh, my!” she exclaimed when she saw it; “why, that isn’t near enough.
You must go right off and get some more.”

“Oh,” said George, pouting his lips, “I don’t want to go. Let Bass go.”

Bass, who had returned promptly at a quarter-past six, was already busy
in the back bedroom washing and dressing preparatory to going
down-town.

“No,” said Mrs. Gerhardt. “Bass has worked hard all day. You must go.”

“I don’t want to,” pouted George.

“All right,” said Mrs. Gerhardt, “maybe to-morrow you’ll be without a
fire, and then what?”

They went back to the house, but George’s conscience was too troubled
to allow him to consider the case as closed.

“Bass, you come, too,” he called to his elder brother when he was
inside.

“Go where?” said Bass.

“To get some coal.”

“No,” said the former, “I guess not. What do you take me for?”

“Well, then, I’ll not,” said George, with an obstinate jerk of his
head.

“Why didn’t you get it up this afternoon?” questioned his brother
sharply; “you’ve had all day to do it.”

“Aw, I did try,” said George. “We couldn’t find enough. I can’t get any
when there ain’t any, can I?”

“I guess you didn’t try very hard,” said the dandy.

“What’s the matter now?” asked Jennie, who, coming in after having
stopped at the grocer’s for her mother, saw George with a solemn pout
on his face.

“Oh, Bass won’t go with me to get any coal?”

“Didn’t you get any this afternoon?”

“Yes,” said George, “but ma says I didn’t get enough.”

“I’ll go with you,” said his sister. “Bass, will you come along?”

“No,” said the young man, indifferently, “I won’t.” He was adjusting
his necktie and felt irritated.

“There ain’t any,” said George, “unless we get it off the cars. There
wasn’t any cars where I was.”

“There are, too,” exclaimed Bass.

“There ain’t,” said George.

“Oh, don’t quarrel,” said Jennie. “Get the baskets and let’s go right
now before it gets too late.”

The other children, who had a fondness for their big sister, got out
the implements of supply—Veronica a basket, Martha and William buckets,
and George, a big clothes-basket, which he and Jennie were to fill and
carry between them. Bass, moved by his sister’s willingness and the
little regard he still maintained for her, now made a suggestion.

“I’ll tell you what you do, Jen,” he said. “You go over there with the
kids to Eighth Street and wait around those cars. I’ll be along in a
minute. When I come by don’t any of you pretend to know me. Just you
say, ‘Mister, won’t you please throw us some coal down?’ and then I’ll
get up on the cars and pitch off enough to fill the baskets. D’ye
understand?”

“All right,” said Jennie, very much pleased.

Out into the snowy night they went, and made their way to the railroad
tracks. At the intersection of the street and the broad railroad yard
were many heavily laden cars of bituminous coal newly backed in. All of
the children gathered within the shadow of one. While they were
standing there, waiting the arrival of their brother, the Washington
Special arrived, a long, fine train with several of the new style
drawing-room cars, the big plate-glass windows shining and the
passengers looking out from the depths of their comfortable chairs. The
children instinctively drew back as it thundered past.

“Oh, wasn’t it long?” said George.

“Wouldn’t I like to be a brakeman, though,” sighed William.

Jennie, alone, kept silent, but to her particularly the suggestion of
travel and comfort had appealed. How beautiful life must be for the
rich!

Sebastian now appeared in the distance, a mannish spring in his stride,
and with every evidence that he took himself seriously. He was of that
peculiar stubbornness and determination that had the children failed to
carry out his plan of procedure he would have gone deliberately by and
refused to help them at all.

Martha, however, took the situation as it needed to be taken, and piped
out childishly, “Mister, won’t you please throw us down some coal?”

Sebastian stopped abruptly, and looking sharply at them as though he
were really a stranger, exclaimed, “Why, certainly,” and proceeded to
climb up on the car, from whence he cast down with remarkable celerity
more than enough chunks to fill their baskets. Then as though not
caring to linger any longer amid such plebeian company, he hastened
across the network of tracks and was lost to view.

On their way home they encountered another gentleman, this time a real
one, with high hat and distinguished cape coat, whom Jennie immediately
recognized. This was the honorable Senator himself, newly returned from
Washington, and anticipating a very unprofitable Christmas. He had
arrived upon the express which had enlisted the attention of the
children, and was carrying his light grip for the pleasure of it to the
hotel. As he passed he thought that he recognized Jennie.

“Is that you, Jennie?” he said, and paused to be more certain.

The latter, who had discovered him even more quickly than he had her,
exclaimed, “Oh, there is Mr. Brander!” Then, dropping her end of the
basket, with a caution to the children to take it right home, she
hurried away in the opposite direction.

The Senator followed, vainly calling three or four times “Jennie!
Jennie!” Losing hope of overtaking her, and suddenly recognizing, and
thereupon respecting, her simple, girlish shame, he stopped, and
turning back, decided to follow the children. Again he felt that same
sensation which he seemed always to get from this girl—the far cry
between her estate and his. It was something to be a Senator to-night,
here where these children were picking coal. What could the joyous
holiday of the morrow hold for them? He tramped along sympathetically,
an honest lightness coming into his step, and soon he saw them enter
the gateway of the low cottage. Crossing the street, he stood in the
weak shade of the snow-laden trees. The light was burning with a yellow
glow in a rear window. All about was the white snow. In the woodshed he
could hear the voices of the children, and once he thought he detected
the form of Mrs. Gerhardt. After a time another form came shadow-like
through the side gate. He knew who it was. It touched him to the quick,
and he bit his lip sharply to suppress any further show of emotion.
Then he turned vigorously on his heel and walked away.

The chief grocery of the city was conducted by one Manning, a stanch
adherent of Brander, and one who felt honored by the Senator’s
acquaintance. To him at his busy desk came the Senator this same night.

“Manning,” he said, “could I get you to undertake a little work for me
this evening?”

“Why, certainly, Senator, certainly,” said the grocery-man. “When did
you get back? Glad to see you. Certainly.”

“I want you to get everything together that would make a nice Christmas
for a family of eight—father and mother and six children—Christmas
tree, groceries, toys—you know what I mean.”

“Certainly, certainly, Senator.”

“Never mind the cost now. Send plenty of everything. I’ll give you the
address,” and he picked up a note-book to write it.

“Why, I’ll be delighted, Senator,” went on Mr. Manning, rather affected
himself. “I’ll be delighted. You always were generous.”

“Here you are, Manning,” said the Senator, grimly, from the mere
necessity of preserving his senatorial dignity. “Send everything at
once, and the bill to me.”

“I’ll be delighted,” was all the astonished and approving grocery-man
could say.

The Senator passed out, but remembering the old people, visited a
clothier and shoe man, and, finding that he could only guess at what
sizes might be required, ordered the several articles with the
privilege of exchange. When his labors were over, he returned to his
room.

“Carrying coal,” he thought, over and over. “Really, it was very
thoughtless in me. I mustn’t forget them any more.”




CHAPTER IV


The desire to flee which Jennie experienced upon seeing the Senator
again was attributable to what she considered the disgrace of her
position. She was ashamed to think that he, who thought so well of her,
should discover her doing so common a thing. Girl-like, she was
inclined to imagine that his interest in her depended upon something
else than her mere personality.

When she reached home Mrs. Gerhardt had heard of her flight from the
other children.

“What was the matter with you, anyhow?” asked George, when she came in.

“Oh, nothing,” she answered, but immediately turned to her mother and
said, “Mr. Brander came by and saw us.”

“Oh, did he?” softly exclaimed her mother. “He’s back then. What made
you run, though, you foolish girl?”

“Well, I didn’t want him to see me.”

“Well, maybe he didn’t know you, anyhow,” she said, with a certain
sympathy for her daughter’s predicament.

“Oh yes, he did, too,” whispered Jennie. “He called after me three or
four times.”

Mrs. Gerhardt shook her head.

“What is it?” said Gerhardt, who had been hearing the conversation from
the adjoining room, and now came out.

“Oh, nothing,” said the mother, who hated to explain the significance
which the Senator’s personality had come to have in their lives. “A man
frightened them when they were bringing the coal.”

The arrival of the Christmas presents later in the evening threw the
household into an uproar of excitement. Neither Gerhardt nor the mother
could believe their eyes when a grocery wagon halted in front of their
cottage and a lusty clerk began to carry in the gifts. After failing to
persuade the clerk that he had made a mistake, the large assortment of
good things was looked over with very human glee.

“Just you never mind,” was the clerk’s authoritative words. “I know
what I’m about. Gerhardt, isn’t it? Well, you’re the people.”

Mrs. Gerhardt moved about, rubbing her hands in her excitement, and
giving vent to an occasional “Well, isn’t that nice now!”

Gerhardt himself was melted at the thought of the generosity of the
unknown benefactor, and was inclined to lay it all to the goodness of a
great local mill owner, who knew him and wished him well. Mrs. Gerhardt
tearfully suspected the source, but said nothing. Jennie knew, by
instinct, the author of it all.

The afternoon of the day after Christmas Brander encountered the mother
in the hotel, Jennie having been left at home to look after the house.

“How do you do, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he exclaimed genially extending his
hand. “How did you enjoy your Christmas?”

Poor Mrs. Gerhardt took it nervously; her eyes filled rapidly with
tears.

“There, there,” he said, patting her on the shoulder. “Don’t cry. You
mustn’t forget to get my laundry to-day.”

“Oh no, sir,” she returned, and would have said more had he not walked
away.

From this on, Gerhardt heard continually of the fine Senator at the
hotel, how pleasant he was, and how much he paid for his washing. With
the simplicity of a German workingman, he was easily persuaded that Mr.
Brander must be a very great and a very good man.

Jennie, whose feelings needed no encouragement in this direction, was
more than ever prejudiced in his favor.

There was developing in her that perfection of womanhood, the full mold
of form, which could not help but attract any man. Already she was well
built, and tall for a girl. Had she been dressed in the trailing skirts
of a woman of fashion she would have made a fitting companion for a man
the height of the Senator. Her eyes were wondrously clear and bright,
her skin fair, and her teeth white and even. She was clever, too, in a
sensible way, and by no means deficient in observation. All that she
lacked was training and the assurance of which the knowledge of utter
dependency despoils one. But the carrying of washing and the compulsion
to acknowledge almost anything as a favor put her at a disadvantage.

Nowadays when she came to the hotel upon her semi-weekly errand Senator
Brander took her presence with easy grace, and to this she responded.
He often gave her little presents for herself, or for her brothers and
sisters, and he talked to her so unaffectedly that finally the
overawing sense of the great difference between them was brushed away,
and she looked upon him more as a generous friend than as a
distinguished Senator. He asked her once how she would like to go to a
seminary, thinking all the while how attractive she would be when she
came out. Finally, one evening, he called her to his side.

“Come over here, Jennie,” he said, “and stand by me.”

She came, and, moved by a sudden impulse, he took her hand.

“Well, Jennie,” he said, studying her face in a quizzical,
interrogative way, “what do you think of me, anyhow?”

“Oh,” she answered, looking consciously away, “I don’t know. What makes
you ask me that?”

“Oh yes, you do,” he returned. “You have some opinion of me. Tell me
now, what is it?”

“No, I haven’t,” she said, innocently.

“Oh yes, you have,” he went on, pleasantly, interested by her
transparent evasiveness. “You must think something of me. Now, what is
it?”

“Do you mean do I like you?” she asked, frankly, looking down at the
big mop of black hair well streaked with gray which hung about his
forehead, and gave an almost lionine cast to his fine face.

“Well, yes,” he said, with a sense of disappointment. She was barren of
the art of the coquette.

“Why, of course I like you,” she replied, prettily.

“Haven’t you ever thought anything else about me?” he went on.

“I think you’re very kind,” she went on, even more bashfully; she
realized now that he was still holding her hand.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“Well,” she said, with fluttering eyelids, “isn’t that enough?”

He looked at her, and the playful, companionable directness of her
answering gaze thrilled him through and through. He studied her face in
silence while she turned and twisted, feeling, but scarcely
understanding, the deep import of his scrutiny.

“Well,” he said at last, “I think you’re a fine girl. Don’t you think
I’m a pretty nice man?”

“Yes,” said Jennie, promptly.

He leaned back in his chair and laughed at the unconscious drollery of
her reply. She looked at him curiously, and smiled.

“What made you laugh?” she inquired.

“Oh, your answer” he returned. “I really ought not to laugh, though.
You don’t appreciate me in the least. I don’t believe you like me at
all.”

“But I do, though,” she replied, earnestly. “I think you’re so good.”
Her eyes showed very plainly that she felt what she was saying.

“Well,” he said, drawing her gently down to him; then, at the same
instant, he pressed his lips to her cheek.

“Oh!” she cried, straightening up, at once startled and frightened.

It was a new note in their relationship. The senatorial quality
vanished in an instant. She recognized in him something that she had
not felt before. He seemed younger, too. She was a woman to him, and he
was playing the part of a lover. She hesitated, but not knowing just
what to do, did nothing at all.

“Well,” he said, “did I frighten you?”

She looked at him, but moved by her underlying respect for this great
man, she said, with a smile, “Yes, you did.”

“I did it because I like you so much.”

She meditated upon this a moment, and then said, “I think I’d better be
going.”

“Now then,” he pleaded, “are you going to run away because of that?”

“No,” she said, moved by a curious feeling of ingratitude; “but I ought
to be going. They’ll be wondering where I am.”

“You’re sure you’re not angry about it?”

“No,” she replied, and with more of a womanly air than she had ever
shown before. It was a novel experience to be in so authoritative a
position. It was so remarkable that it was somewhat confusing to both
of them.

“You’re my girl, anyhow,” the Senator said, rising. “I’m going to take
care of you in the future.”

Jennie heard this, and it pleased her. He was so well fitted, she
thought, to do wondrous things; he was nothing less than a veritable
magician. She looked about her and the thought of coming into such a
life and such an atmosphere was heavenly. Not that she fully understood
his meaning, however. He meant to be good and generous, and to give her
fine things. Naturally she was happy. She took up the package that she
had come for, not seeing or feeling the incongruity of her position,
while he felt it as a direct reproof.

“She ought not to carry that,” he thought. A great wave of sympathy
swept over him. He took her cheeks between his hands, this time in a
superior and more generous way. “Never mind, little girl,” he said.
“You won’t have to do this always. I’ll see what I can do.”

The outcome of this was simply a more sympathetic relationship between
them. He did not hesitate to ask her to sit beside him on the arm of
his chair the next time she came, and to question her intimately about
the family’s condition and her own desires. Several times he noticed
that she was evading his questions, particularly in regard to what her
father was doing. She was ashamed to own that he was sawing wood.
Fearing lest something more serious was impending, he decided to go out
some day and see for himself.

This he did when a convenient morning presented itself and his other
duties did not press upon him. It was three days before the great fight
in the Legislature began which ended in his defeat. Nothing could be
done in these few remaining days. So he took his cane and strolled
forth, coming to the cottage in the course of a half hour, and knocked
boldly at the door.

Mrs. Gerhardt opened it.

“Good-morning,” he said, cheerily; then, seeing her hesitate, he added,
“May I come in?”

The good mother, who was all but overcome by his astonishing presence,
wiped her hands furtively upon her much-mended apron, and, seeing that
he waited for a reply, said:

“Oh yes. Come right in.”

She hurried forward, forgetting to close the door, and, offering him a
chair, asked him to be seated.

Brander, feeling sorry that he was the occasion of so much confusion,
said: “Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Gerhardt. I was passing and thought
I’d come in. How is your husband?”

“He’s well, thank you,” returned the mother. “He’s out working to-day.”

“Then he has found employment?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Gerhardt, who hesitated, like Jennie, to say what
it was.

“The children are all well now, and in school, I hope?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Gerhardt. She had now unfastened her apron, and was
nervously turning it in her lap.

“That’s good, and where is Jennie?”

The latter, who had been ironing, had abandoned the board and had
concealed herself in the bedroom, where she was busy tidying herself in
the fear that her mother would not have the forethought to say that she
was out, and so let her have a chance for escape.

“She’s here,” returned the mother. “I’ll call her.”

“What did you tell him I was here for?” said Jennie, weakly.

“What could I do?” asked the mother.

Together they hesitated while the Senator surveyed the room. He felt
sorry to think that such deserving people must suffer so; he intended,
in a vague way, to ameliorate their condition if possible.

“Good-morning,” the Senator said to Jennie, when finally she came
hesitatingly into the room. “How do you do to-day?”

Jennie came forward, extending her hand and blushing. She found herself
so much disturbed by this visit that she could hardly find tongue to
answer his questions.

“I thought,” he said, “I’d come out and find where you live. This is a
quite comfortable house. How many rooms have you?”

“Five,” said Jennie. “You’ll have to excuse the looks this morning.
We’ve been ironing, and it’s all upset.”

“I know,” said Brander, gently. “Don’t you think I understand, Jennie?
You mustn’t feel nervous about me.”

She noticed the comforting, personal tone he always used with her when
she was at his room, and it helped to subdue her flustered senses.

“You mustn’t think it anything if I come here occasionally. I intend to
come. I want to meet your father.”

“Oh,” said Jennie, “he’s out to-day.”

While they were talking, however, the honest woodcutter was coming in
at the gate with his buck and saw. Brander saw him, and at once
recognized him by a slight resemblance to his daughter.

“There he is now, I believe,” he said.

“Oh, is he?” said Jennie, looking out.

Gerhardt, who was given to speculation these days, passed by the window
without looking up. He put his wooden buck down, and, hanging his saw
on a nail on the side of the house, came in.

“Mother,” he called, in German, and, then not seeing her, he came to
the door of the front room and looked in.

Brander arose and extended his hand. The knotted and weather-beaten
German came forward, and took it with a very questioning expression of
countenance.

“This is my father, Mr. Brander,” said Jennie, all her diffidence
dissolved by sympathy. “This is the gentleman from the hotel, papa, Mr.
Brander.”

“What’s the name?” said the German, turning his head.

“Brander,” said the Senator.

“Oh yes,” he said, with a considerable German accent.

“Since I had the fever I don’t hear good. My wife, she spoke to me of
you.”

“Yes,” said the Senator, “I thought I’d come out and make your
acquaintance. You have quite a family.”

“Yes,” said the father, who was conscious of his very poor garments and
anxious to get away. “I have six children—all young. She’s the oldest
girl.”

Mrs. Gerhardt now came back, and Gerhardt, seeing his chance, said
hurriedly:

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go. I broke my saw, and so I had to
stop work.”

“Certainly,” said Brander, graciously, realizing now why Jennie had
never wanted to explain. He half wished that she were courageous enough
not to conceal anything.

“Well, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he said, when the mother was stiffly seated, “I
want to tell you that you mustn’t look on me as a stranger. Hereafter I
want you to keep me informed of how things are going with you. Jennie
won’t always do it.”

Jennie smiled quietly. Mrs. Gerhardt only rubbed her hands.

“Yes,” she answered, humbly grateful.

They talked for a few minutes, and then the Senator rose.

“Tell your husband,” he said, “to come and see me next Monday at my
office in the hotel. I want to do something for him.”

“Thank you,” faltered Mrs. Gerhardt.

“I’ll not stay any longer now,” he added. “Don’t forget to have him
come.”

“Oh, he’ll come,” she returned.

Adjusting a glove on one hand, he extended the other to Jennie.

“Here is your finest treasure, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he said. “I think I’ll
take her.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said her mother, “whether I could spare her or
not.”

“Well,” said the Senator, going toward the door, and giving Mrs.
Gerhardt his hand, “good-morning.”

He nodded and walked out, while a half-dozen neighbors, who had
observed his entrance, peeked from behind curtains and drawn blinds at
the astonishing sight.

“Who can that be, anyhow?” was the general query.

“See what he gave me,” said the innocent mother to her daughter the
moment he had closed the door.

It was a ten-dollar bill. He had placed it softly in her hand as he
said good-by.




CHAPTER V


Having been led by circumstances into an attitude of obligation toward
the Senator, it was not unnatural that Jennie should become imbued with
a most generous spirit of appreciation for everything he had done and
now continued to do. The Senator gave her father a letter to a local
mill owner, who saw that he received something to do. It was not much,
to be sure, a mere job as night-watchman, but it helped, and old
Gerhardt’s gratitude was extravagant. Never was there such a great,
such a good man!

Nor was Mrs. Gerhardt overlooked. Once Brander sent her a dress, and at
another time a shawl. All these benefactions were made in a spirit of
mingled charity and self-gratification, but to Mrs. Gerhardt they
glowed with but one motive. Senator Brander was good-hearted.

As for Jennie, he drew nearer to her in every possible way, so that at
last she came to see him in a light which would require considerable
analysis to make clear. This fresh, young soul, however, had too much
innocence and buoyancy to consider for a moment the world’s point of
view. Since that one notable and halcyon visit upon which he had robbed
her her original shyness, and implanted a tender kiss upon her cheek,
they had lived in a different atmosphere. Jennie was his companion now,
and as he more and more unbended, and even joyously flung aside the
habiliments of his dignity, her perception of him grew clearer. They
laughed and chatted in a natural way, and he keenly enjoyed this new
entrance into the radiant world of youthful happiness.

One thing that disturbed him, however, was the occasional thought,
which he could not repress, that he was not doing right. Other people
must soon discover that he was not confining himself strictly to
conventional relations with this washer-woman’s daughter. He suspected
that the housekeeper was not without knowledge that Jennie almost
invariably lingered from a quarter to three-quarters of an hour
whenever she came for or returned his laundry. He knew that it might
come to the ears of the hotel clerks, and so, in a general way, get
about town and work serious injury, but the reflection did not cause
him to modify his conduct. Sometimes he consoled himself with the
thought that he was not doing her any actual harm, and at other times
he would argue that he could not put this one delightful tenderness out
of his life. Did he not wish honestly to do her much good?

He thought of these things occasionally, and decided that he could not
stop. The self-approval which such a resolution might bring him was
hardly worth the inevitable pain of the abnegation. He had not so very
many more years to live. Why die unsatisfied?

One evening he put his arm around her and strained her to his breast.
Another time he drew her to his knee, and told her of his life at
Washington. Always now he had a caress and a kiss for her, but it was
still in a tentative, uncertain way. He did not want to reach for her
soul too deeply.

Jennie enjoyed it all innocently. Elements of fancy and novelty entered
into her life. She was an unsophisticated creature, emotional, totally
inexperienced in the matter of the affections, and yet mature enough
mentally to enjoy the attentions of this great man who had thus bowed
from his high position to make friends with her.

One evening she pushed his hair back from his forehead as she stood by
his chair, and, finding nothing else to do, took out his watch. The
great man thrilled as he looked at her pretty innocence.

“Would you like to have a watch, too?” he asked.

“Yes, indeed, I would,” said Jennie, with a deep breath.

The next day he stopped as he was passing a jewelry store and bought
one. It was gold, and had pretty ornamented hands.

“Jennie,” he said, when she came the next time, “I want to show you
something. See what time it is by my watch.”

Jennie drew out the watch from his waistcoat pocket and started in
surprise.

“This isn’t your watch!” she exclaimed, her face full of innocent
wonder.

“No,” he said, delighted with his little deception. “It’s yours.”

“Mine!” exclaimed Jennie. “Mine! Oh, isn’t it lovely!”

“Do you think so?” he said.

Her delight touched and pleased him immensely. Her face shone with
light and her eyes fairly danced.

“That’s yours,” he said. “See that you wear it now, and don’t lose it.”

“You’re so good!” she exclaimed.

“No,” he said, but he held her at arm’s length by the waist, to make up
his mind what his reward should be. Slowly he drew her toward him
until, when very close, she put her arms about his neck, and laid her
cheek in gratitude against his own. This was the quintessence of
pleasure for him. He felt as he had been longing to feel for years.

The progress of his idyl suffered a check when the great senatorial
fight came on in the Legislature. Attacked by a combination of rivals,
Brander was given the fight of his life. To his amazement he discovered
that a great railroad corporation, which had always been friendly, was
secretly throwing its strength in behalf of an already too powerful
candidate. Shocked by this defection, he was thrown alternately into
the deepest gloom and into paroxysms of wrath. These slings of fortune,
however lightly he pretended to receive them, never failed to lacerate
him. It had been long since he had suffered a defeat—too long.

During this period Jennie received her earliest lesson in the vagaries
of men. For two weeks she did not even see him, and one evening, after
an extremely comfortless conference with his leader, he met her with
the most chilling formality. When she knocked at his door he only
troubled to open it a foot, exclaiming almost harshly: “I can’t bother
about the clothes to-night. Come tomorrow.”

Jennie retreated, shocked and surprised by this reception. She did not
know what to think of it. He was restored on the instant to his
far-off, mighty throne, and left to rule in peace. Why should he not
withdraw the light of his countenance if it pleased him. But why—

A day or two later he repented mildly, but had no time to readjust
matters. His washing was taken and delivered with considerable
formality, and he went on toiling forgetfully, until at last he was
miserably defeated by two votes. Astounded by this result, he lapsed
into gloomy dejection of soul. What was he to do now?

Into this atmosphere came Jennie, bringing with her the lightness and
comfort of her own hopeful disposition. Nagged to desperation by his
thoughts, Brander first talked to her to amuse himself; but soon his
distress imperceptibly took flight; he found himself actually smiling.

“Ah, Jennie,” he said, speaking to her as he might have done to a
child, “youth is on your side. You possess the most valuable thing in
life.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, but you don’t realize it. You never will until it is too late.”

“I love that girl,” he thought to himself that night. “I wish I could
have her with me always.”

But fortune had another fling for him to endure. It got about the hotel
that Jennie was, to use the mildest expression, conducting herself
strangely. A girl who carries washing must expect criticism if anything
not befitting her station is observed in her apparel. Jennie was seen
wearing the gold watch. Her mother was informed by the housekeeper of
the state of things.

“I thought I’d speak to you about it,” she said. “People are talking.
You’d better not let your daughter go to his room for the laundry.”

Mrs. Gerhardt was too astonished and hurt for utterance. Jennie had
told her nothing, but even now she did not believe there was anything
to tell. The watch had been both approved of and admired by her. She
had not thought that it was endangering her daughter’s reputation.

Going home she worried almost incessantly, and talked with Jennie about
it. The latter did not admit the implication that things had gone too
far. In fact, she did not look at it in that light. She did not own, it
is true, what really had happened while she was visiting the Senator.

“It’s so terrible that people should begin to talk!” said her mother.
“Did you really stay so long in the room?”

“I don’t know,” returned Jennie, compelled by her conscience to admit
at least part of the truth. “Perhaps I did.”

“He has never said anything out of the way to you, has he?”

“No,” answered her daughter, who did not attach any suspicion of evil
to what had passed between them.

If the mother had only gone a little bit further she might have learned
more, but she was only too glad, for her own peace of mind, to hush the
matter up. People were slandering a good man, that she knew. Jennie had
been the least bit indiscreet. People were always so ready to talk. How
could the poor girl, amid such unfortunate circumstances, do otherwise
than she did. It made her cry to think of it.

The result of it all was that she decided to get the washing herself.

She came to his door the next Monday after this decision. Brander, who
was expecting Jennie, was both surprised and disappointed.

“Why,” he said to her, “what has become of Jennie?”

Having hoped that he would not notice, or, at least, not comment upon
the change, Mrs. Gerhardt did not know what to say. She looked up at
him weakly in her innocent, motherly way, and said, “She couldn’t come
to-night.”

“Not ill, is she?” he inquired.

“No.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said resignedly. “How have you been?”

Mrs. Gerhardt answered his kindly inquiries and departed. After she had
gone he got to thinking the matter over, and wondered what could have
happened. It seemed rather odd that he should be wondering over it.

On Saturday, however, when she returned the clothes he felt that there
must be something wrong.

“What’s the matter, Mrs. Gerhardt?” he inquired. “Has anything happened
to your daughter?”

“No, sir,” she returned, too troubled to wish to deceive him.

“Isn’t she coming for the laundry any more?”

“I—I—” ventured the mother, stammering in her perturbation; “she—they
have been talking about her,” she at last forced herself to say.

“Who has been talking?” he asked gravely.

“The people here in the hotel.”

“Who, what people?” he interrupted, a touch of annoyance showing in his
voice.

“The housekeeper.”

“The housekeeper, eh!” he exclaimed. “What has she got to say?”

The mother related to him her experience.

“And she told you that, did she?” he remarked in wrath. “She ventures
to trouble herself about my affairs, does she? I wonder people can’t
mind their own business without interfering with mine. Your daughter,
Mrs. Gerhardt, is perfectly safe with me. I have no intention of doing
her an injury. It’s a shame,” he added indignantly, “that a girl can’t
come to my room in this hotel without having her motive questioned.
I’ll look into this matter.”

“I hope you don’t think that I have anything to do with it,” said the
mother apologetically. “I know you like Jennie and wouldn’t injure her.
You’ve done so much for her and all of us, Mr. Brander, I feel ashamed
to keep her away.”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Gerhardt,” he said quietly. “You did perfectly
right. I don’t blame you in the least. It is the lying accusation
passed about in this hotel that I object to. We’ll see about that.”

Mrs. Gerhardt stood there, pale with excitement. She was afraid she had
deeply offended this man who had done so much for them. If she could
only say something, she thought, that would clear this matter up and
make him feel that she was no tattler. Scandal was distressing to her.

“I thought I was doing everything for the best,” she said at last.

“So you were,” he replied. “I like Jennie very much. I have always
enjoyed her coming here. It is my intention to do well by her, but
perhaps it will be better to keep her away, at least for the present.”

Again that evening the Senator sat in his easy-chair and brooded over
this new development. Jennie was really much more precious to him than
he had thought. Now that he had no hope of seeing her there any more,
he began to realize how much these little visits of hers had meant. He
thought the matter over very carefully, realized instantly that there
was nothing to be done so far as the hotel gossip was concerned, and
concluded that he had really placed the girl in a very unsatisfactory
position.

“Perhaps I had better end this little affair,” he thought. “It isn’t a
wise thing to pursue.”

On the strength of this conclusion he went to Washington and finished
his term. Then he returned to Columbus to await the friendly
recognition from the President which was to send him upon some ministry
abroad. Jennie had not been forgotten in the least. The longer he
stayed away the more eager he was to get back. When he was again
permanently settled in his old quarters he took up his cane one morning
and strolled out in the direction of the cottage. Arriving there, he
made up his mind to go in, and knocking at the door, he was greeted by
Mrs. Gerhardt and her daughter with astonished and diffident smiles. He
explained vaguely that he had been away, and mentioned his laundry as
if that were the object of his visit. Then, when chance gave him a few
moments with Jennie alone, he plunged in boldly.

“How would you like to take a drive with me to-morrow evening?” he
asked.

“I’d like it,” said Jennie, to whom the proposition was a glorious
novelty.

He smiled and patted her cheek, foolishly happy to see her again. Every
day seemed to add to her beauty. Graced with her clean white apron, her
shapely head crowned by the glory of her simply plaited hair, she was a
pleasing sight for any man to look upon.

He waited until Mrs. Gerhardt returned, and then, having accomplished
the purpose of his visit, he arose.

“I’m going to take your daughter out riding to-morrow evening,” he
explained. “I want to talk to her about her future.”

“Won’t that be nice?” said the mother. She saw nothing incongruous in
the proposal. They parted with smiles and much handshaking.

“That man has the best heart,” commented Mrs. Gerhardt. “Doesn’t he
always speak so nicely of you? He may help you to an education. You
ought to be proud.”

“I am,” said Jennie frankly.

“I don’t know whether we had better tell your father or not,” concluded
Mrs. Gerhardt. “He doesn’t like for you to be out evenings.”

Finally they decided not to tell him. He might not understand.

Jennie was ready when he called. He could see by the weak-flamed,
unpretentious parlor-lamp that she was dressed for him, and that the
occasion had called out the best she had. A pale lavender gingham,
starched and ironed, until it was a model of laundering, set off her
pretty figure to perfection. There were little lace-edged cuffs and a
rather high collar attached to it. She had no gloves, nor any jewelry,
nor yet a jacket good enough to wear, but her hair was done up in such
a dainty way that it set off her well-shaped head better than any hat,
and the few ringlets that could escape crowned her as with a halo. When
Brander suggested that she should wear a jacket she hesitated a moment;
then she went in and borrowed her mother’s cape, a plain gray woolen
one. Brander realized now that she had no jacket, and suffered keenly
to think that she had contemplated going without one.

“She would have endured the raw night air,” he thought, “and said
nothing of it.”

He looked at her and shook his head reflectively. Then they started,
and he quickly forgot everything but the great fact that she was at his
side. She talked with freedom and with a gentle girlish enthusiasm that
he found irresistibly charming.

“Why, Jennie,” he said, when she had called upon him to notice how soft
the trees looked, where, outlined dimly against the new rising moon,
they were touched with its yellow light, “you’re a great one. I believe
you would write poetry if you were schooled a little.”

“Do you suppose I could?” she asked innocently.

“Do I suppose, little girl?” he said, taking her hand. “Do I suppose?
Why, I know. You’re the dearest little day-dreamer in the world. Of
course you could write poetry. You live it. You are poetry, my dear.
Don’t you worry about writing any.”

This eulogy touched her as nothing else possibly could have done. He
was always saying such nice things. No one ever seemed to like or to
appreciate her half as much as he did. And how good he was! Everybody
said that. Her own father.

They rode still farther, until suddenly remembering, he said: “I wonder
what time it is. Perhaps we had better be turning back. Have you your
watch?”

Jennie started, for this watch had been the one thing of which she had
hoped he would not speak. Ever since he had returned it had been on her
mind.

In his absence the family finances had become so strained that she had
been compelled to pawn it. Martha had got to that place in the matter
of apparel where she could no longer go to school unless something new
were provided for her. And so, after much discussion, it was decided
that the watch must go.

Bass took it, and after much argument with the local pawn broker, he
had been able to bring home ten dollars. Mrs. Gerhardt expended the
money upon her children, and heaved a sigh of relief. Martha looked
very much better. Naturally, Jennie was glad.

Now, however, when the Senator spoke of it, her hour of retribution
seemed at hand. She actually trembled, and he noticed her discomfiture.

“Why, Jennie,” he said gently, “what made you start like that?”

“Nothing,” she answered.

“Haven’t you your watch?”

She paused, for it seemed impossible to tell a deliberate falsehood.
There was a strained silence; then she said, with a voice that had too
much of a sob in it for him not to suspect the truth, “No, sir.” He
persisted, and she confessed everything.

“Well,” he said, “dearest, don’t feel badly about it. There never was
such another girl. I’ll get your watch for you. Hereafter when you need
anything I want you to come to me. Do you hear? I want you to promise
me that. If I’m not here, I want you to write me. I’ll always be in
touch with you from now on. You will have my address. Just let me know,
and I’ll help you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Jennie.

“You’ll promise to do that now, will you?’

“Yes,” she replied.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

“Jennie,” he said at last, the spring-like quality of the night moving
him to a burst of feeling, “I’ve about decided that I can’t do without
you. Do you think you could make up your mind to live with me from now
on?”

Jennie looked away, not clearly understanding his words as he meant
them.

“I don’t know,” she said vaguely.

“Well, you think about it,” he said pleasantly. “I’m serious. Would you
be willing to marry me, and let me put you away in a seminary for a few
years?”

“Go away to school?”

“Yes, after you marry me.”

“I guess so,” she replied. Her mother came into her mind. Maybe she
could help the family.

He looked around at her, and tried to make out the expression on her
face. It was not dark. The moon was now above the trees in the east,
and already the vast host of stars were paling before it.

“Don’t you care for me at all, Jennie?” he asked.

“Yes!”

“You never come for my laundry any more, though,” he returned
pathetically. It touched her to hear him say this.

“I didn’t do that,” she answered. “I couldn’t help it; Mother thought
it was best.”

“So it was,” he assented. “Don’t feel badly. I was only joking with
you. You’d be glad to come if you could, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would,” she answered frankly.

He took her hand and pressed it so feelingly that all his kindly words
seemed doubly emphasized to her. Reaching up impulsively, she put her
arms about him. “You’re so good to me,” she said with the loving tone
of a daughter.

“You’re my girl, Jennie,” he said with deep feeling. “I’d do anything
in the world for you.”




CHAPTER VI


The father of this unfortunate family, William Gerhardt, was a man of
considerable interest on his personal side. Born in the kingdom of
Saxony, he had had character enough to oppose the army conscription
iniquity, and to flee, in his eighteenth year, to Paris. From there he
had set forth for America, the land of promise.

Arrived in this country, he had made his way, by slow stages, from New
York to Philadelphia, and thence westward, working for a time in the
various glass factories in Pennsylvania. In one romantic village of
this new world he had found his heart’s ideal. With her, a simple
American girl of German extraction, he had removed to Youngstown, and
thence to Columbus, each time following a glass manufacturer by the
name of Hammond, whose business prospered and waned by turns.

Gerhardt was an honest man, and he liked to think that others
appreciated his integrity. “William,” his employer used to say to him,
“I want you because I can trust you,” and this, to him, was more than
silver and gold.

This honesty, like his religious convictions, was wholly due to
inheritance. He had never reasoned about it. Father and grandfather
before him were sturdy German artisans, who had never cheated anybody
out of a dollar, and this honesty of intention came into his veins
undiminished.

His Lutheran proclivities had been strengthened by years of
church-going and the religious observances of home life, In his
father’s cottage the influence of the Lutheran minister had been
all-powerful; he had inherited the feeling that the Lutheran Church was
a perfect institution, and that its teachings were of all-importance
when it came to the issue of the future life. His wife, nominally of
the Mennonite faith, was quite willing to accept her husband’s creed.
And so his household became a God-fearing one; wherever they went their
first public step was to ally themselves with the local Lutheran
church, and the minister was always a welcome guest in the Gerhardt
home.

Pastor Wundt, the shepherd of the Columbus church, was a sincere and
ardent Christian, but his bigotry and hard-and-fast orthodoxy made him
intolerant. He considered that the members of his flock were
jeopardizing their eternal salvation if they danced, played cards, or
went to theaters, and he did not hesitate to declare vociferously that
hell was yawning for those who disobeyed his injunctions. Drinking,
even temperately, was a sin. Smoking—well, he smoked himself. Right
conduct in marriage, however, and innocence before that state were
absolute essentials of Christian living. Let no one talk of salvation,
he had said, for a daughter who had failed to keep her chastity
unstained, or for the parents who, by negligence, had permitted her to
fall. Hell was yawning for all such. You must walk the straight and
narrow way if you would escape eternal punishment, and a just God was
angry with sinners every day.

Gerhardt and his wife, and also Jennie, accepted the doctrines of their
Church as expounded by Mr. Wundt without reserve. With Jennie, however,
the assent was little more than nominal. Religion had as yet no
striking hold upon her. It was a pleasant thing to know that there was
a heaven, a fearsome one to realize that there was a hell. Young girls
and boys ought to be good and obey their parents. Otherwise the whole
religious problem was badly jumbled in her mind.

Gerhardt was convinced that everything spoken from the pulpit of his
church was literally true. Death and the future life were realities to
him.

Now that the years were slipping away and the problem of the world was
becoming more and more inexplicable, he clung with pathetic anxiety to
the doctrines which contained a solution. Oh, if he could only be so
honest and upright that the Lord might have no excuse for ruling him
out. He trembled not only for himself, but for his wife and children.
Would he not some day be held responsible for them? Would not his own
laxity and lack of system in inculcating the laws of eternal life to
them end in his and their damnation? He pictured to himself the
torments of hell, and wondered how it would be with him and his in the
final hour.

Naturally, such a deep religious feeling made him stern with his
children. He was prone to scan with a narrow eye the pleasures and
foibles of youthful desire. Jennie was never to have a lover if her
father had any voice in the matter. Any flirtation with the youths she
might meet upon the streets of Columbus could have no continuation in
her home. Gerhardt forgot that he was once young himself, and looked
only to the welfare of her spirit. So the Senator was a novel factor in
her life.

When he first began to be a part of their family affairs the
conventional standards of Father Gerhardt proved untrustworthy. He had
no means of judging such a character. This was no ordinary person
coquetting with his pretty daughter. The manner in which the Senator
entered the family life was so original and so plausible that he became
an active part before any one thought anything about it. Gerhardt
himself was deceived, and, expecting nothing but honor and profit to
flow to the family from such a source, accepted the interest and the
service, and plodded peacefully on. His wife did not tell him of the
many presents which had come before and since the wonderful Christmas.

But one morning as Gerhardt was coming home from his night work a
neighbor named Otto Weaver accosted him.

“Gerhardt,” he said, “I want to speak a word with you. As a friend of
yours, I want to tell you what I hear. The neighbors, you know, they
talk now about the man who comes to see your daughter.”

“My daughter?” said Gerhardt, more puzzled and pained by this abrupt
attack than mere words could indicate. “Whom do you mean? I don’t know
of any one who comes to see my daughter.”

“No?” inquired Weaver, nearly as much astonished as the recipient of
his confidences. “The middle-aged man, with gray hair. He carries a
cane sometimes. You don’t know him?”

Gerhardt racked his memory with a puzzled face.

“They say he was a senator once,” went on Weaver, doubtful of what he
had got into; “I don’t know.”

“Ah,” returned Gerhardt, measurably relieved. “Senator Brander. Yes. He
has come sometimes—so. Well, what of it?”

“It is nothing,” returned the neighbor, “only they talk. He is no
longer a young man, you know. Your daughter, she goes out with him now
a few times. These people, they see that, and now they talk about her.
I thought you might want to know.”

Gerhardt was shocked to the depths of his being by these terrible
words. People must have a reason for saying such things. Jennie and her
mother were seriously at fault. Still he did not hesitate to defend his
daughter.

“He is a friend of the family,” he said confusedly. “People should not
talk until they know. My daughter has done nothing.”

“That is so. It is nothing,” continued Weaver. “People talk before they
have any grounds. You and I are old friends. I thought you might want
to know.”

Gerhardt stood there motionless another minute or so, his jaw fallen
and a strange helplessness upon him. The world was such a grim thing to
have antagonistic to you. Its opinions and good favor were so
essential. How hard he had tried to live up to its rules! Why should it
not be satisfied and let him alone?

“I am glad you told me,” he murmured as he started homeward. “I will
see about it. Good-by.”

Gerhardt took the first opportunity to question his wife.

“What is this about Senator Brander coming out to call on Jennie?” he
asked in German. “The neighbors are talking about it.”

“Why, nothing,” answered Mrs. Gerhardt, in the same language. She was
decidedly taken aback at his question. “He did call two or three
times.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” he returned, a sense of her frailty in
tolerating and shielding such weakness in one of their children
irritating him.

“No,” she replied, absolutely nonplussed. “He has only been here two or
three times.”

“Two or three times!” exclaimed Gerhardt, the German tendency to talk
loud coming upon him. “Two or three times! The whole neighborhood talks
about it. What is this, then?”

“He only called two or three times,” Mrs. Gerhardt repeated weakly.

“Weaver comes to me on the street,” continued Gerhardt, “and tells me
that my neighbors are talking of the man my daughter is going with. I
didn’t know anything about it. There I stood. I didn’t know what to
say. What kind of a way is that? What must the man think of me?”

“There is nothing the matter,” declared the mother, using an effective
German idiom. “Jennie has gone walking with him once or twice. He has
called here at the house. What is there now in that for the people to
talk about? Can’t the girl have any pleasure at all?”

“But he is an old man,” returned Gerhardt, voicing the words of Weaver.
“He is a public citizen. What should he want to call on a girl like
Jennie for?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Gerhardt, defensively. “He comes here to the
house. I don’t know anything but good about the man. Can I tell him not
to come?”

Gerhardt paused at this. All that he knew of the Senator was excellent.
What was there now that was so terrible about it?

“The neighbors are so ready to talk. They haven’t got anything else to
talk about now, so they talk about Jennie. You know whether she is a
good girl or not. Why should they say such things?” and tears came into
the soft little mother’s eyes.

“That is all right,” grumbled Gerhardt, “but he ought not to want to
come around and take a girl of her age out walking. It looks bad, even
if he don’t mean any harm.”

At this moment Jennie came in. She had heard the talking in the front
bedroom, where she slept with one of the children, but had not
suspected its import. Now her mother turned her back and bent over the
table where she was making biscuit, in order that her daughter might
not see her red eyes.

“What’s the matter?” she inquired, vaguely troubled by the tense
stillness in the attitude of both her parents.

“Nothing,” said Gerhardt firmly.

Mrs. Gerhardt made no sign, but her very immobility told something.
Jennie went over to her and quickly discovered that she had been
weeping.

“What’s the matter?” she repeated wonderingly, gazing at her father.

Gerhardt only stood there, his daughter’s innocence dominating his
terror of evil.

“What’s the matter?” she urged softly of her mother.

“Oh, it’s the neighbors,” returned the mother brokenly.

“They’re always ready to talk about something they don’t know anything
about.”

“Is it me again?” inquired Jennie, her face flushing faintly.

“You see,” observed Gerhardt, apparently addressing the world in
general, “she knows. Now, why didn’t you tell me that he was coming
here? The neighbors talk, and I hear nothing about it until to-day.
What kind of a way is that, anyhow?”

“Oh,” exclaimed Jennie, out of the purest sympathy for her mother,
“what difference does it make?”

“What difference?” cried Gerhardt, still talking in German, although
Jennie answered in English. “Is it no difference that men stop me on
the street and speak of it? You should be ashamed of yourself to say
that. I always thought well of this man, but now, since you don’t tell
me about him, and the neighbors talk, I don’t know what to think. Must
I get my knowledge of what is going on in my own home from my
neighbors?”

Mother and daughter paused. Jennie had already begun to think that
their error was serious.

“I didn’t keep anything from you because it was evil,” she said. “Why,
he only took me out riding once.”

“Yes, but you didn’t tell me that,” answered her father.

“You know you don’t like for me to go out after dark,” replied Jennie.
“That’s why I didn’t. There wasn’t anything else to hide about it.”

“He shouldn’t want you to go out after dark with him,” observed
Gerhardt, always mindful of the world outside. “What can he want with
you. Why does he come here? He is too old, anyhow. I don’t think you
ought to have anything to do with him—such a young girl as you are.”

“He doesn’t want to do anything except help me,” murmured Jennie. “He
wants to marry me.”

“Marry you? Ha! Why doesn’t he tell me that!” exclaimed Gerhardt. “I
shall look into this. I won’t have him running around with my daughter,
and the neighbors talking. Besides, he is too old. I shall tell him
that. He ought to know better than to put a girl where she gets talked
about. It is better he should stay away altogether.”

This threat of Gerhardt’s, that he would tell Brander to stay away,
seemed simply terrible to Jennie and to her mother. What good could
come of any such attitude? Why must they be degraded before him? Of
course Brander did call again, while Gerhardt was away at work, and
they trembled lest the father should hear of it. A few days later the
Senator came and took Jennie for a long walk. Neither she nor her
mother said anything to Gerhardt. But he was not to be put off the
scent for long.

“Has Jennie been out again with that man?” he inquired of Mrs. Gerhardt
the next evening.

“He was here last night,” returned the mother, evasively.

“Did she tell him he shouldn’t come any more?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Well, now, I will see for myself once whether this thing will be
stopped or not,” said the determined father. “I shall talk with him.
Wait till he comes again.”

In accordance with this, he took occasion to come up from his factory
on three different evenings, each time carefully surveying the house,
in order to discover whether any visitor was being entertained. On the
fourth evening Brander came, and inquiring for Jennie, who was
exceedingly nervous, he took her out for a walk. She was afraid of her
father, lest some unseemly things should happen, but did not know
exactly what to do.

Gerhardt, who was on his way to the house at the time, observed her
departure. That was enough for him. Walking deliberately in upon his
wife, he said:

“Where is Jennie?”

“She is out somewhere,” said her mother.

“Yes, I know where,” said Gerhardt. “I saw her. Now wait till she comes
home. I will tell him.”

He sat down calmly, reading a German paper and keeping an eye upon his
wife, until, at last, the gate clicked, and the front door opened. Then
he got up.

“Where have you been?” he exclaimed in German.

Brander, who had not suspected that any trouble of this character was
pending, felt irritated and uncomfortable. Jennie was covered with
confusion. Her mother was suffering an agony of torment in the kitchen.

“Why, I have been out for a walk,” she answered confusedly.

“Didn’t I tell you not to go out any more after dark?” said Gerhardt,
utterly ignoring Brander.

Jennie colored furiously, unable to speak a word.

“What is the trouble?” inquired Brander gravely. “Why should you talk
to her like that?”

“She should not go out after dark,” returned the father rudely. “I have
told her two or three times now. I don’t think you ought to come here
any more, either.”

“And why?” asked the Senator, pausing to consider and choose his words.
“Isn’t this rather peculiar? What has your daughter done?”

“What has she done!” exclaimed Gerhardt, his excitement growing under
the strain he was enduring, and speaking almost unaccented English in
consequence. “She is running around the streets at night when she
oughtn’t to be. I don’t want my daughter taken out after dark by a man
of your age. What do you want with her anyway? She is only a child
yet.”

“Want!” said the Senator, straining to regain his ruffled dignity. “I
want to talk with her, of course. She is old enough to be interesting
to me. I want to marry her if she will have me.”

“I want you to go out of here and stay out of here,” returned the
father, losing all sense of logic, and descending to the ordinary level
of parental compulsion. “I don’t want you to come around my house any
more. I have enough trouble without my daughter being taken out and
given a bad name.”

“I tell you frankly,” said the Senator, drawing himself up to his full
height, “that you will have to make clear your meaning. I have done
nothing that I am ashamed of. Your daughter has not come to any harm
through me. Now, I want to know what you mean by conducting yourself in
this manner.”

“I mean,” said Gerhardt, excitedly repeating himself, “I mean, I mean
that the whole neighborhood talks about how you come around here, and
have buggy-rides and walks with my daughter when I am not here—that’s
what I mean. I mean that you are no man of honorable intentions, or you
would not come taking up with a little girl who is only old enough to
be your daughter. People tell me well enough what you are. Just you go
and leave my daughter alone.”

“People!” said the Senator. “Well, I care nothing for your people. I
love your daughter, and I am here to see her because I do love her. It
is my intention to marry her, and if your neighbors have anything to
say to that, let them say it. There is no reason why you should conduct
yourself in this manner before you know what my intentions are.”

Unnerved by this unexpected and terrible altercation, Jennie had backed
away to the door leading out into the dining-room, and her mother,
seeing her, came forward.

“Oh,” said the latter, breathing excitedly, “he came home when you were
away. What shall we do?” They clung together, as women do, and wept
silently. The dispute continued.

“Marry, eh,” exclaimed the father. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” said the Senator, “marry, that is exactly it. Your daughter is
eighteen years of age and can decide for herself. You have insulted me
and outraged your daughter’s feelings. Now, I wish you to know that it
cannot stop here. If you have any cause to say anything against me
outside of mere hearsay I wish you to say it.”

The Senator stood before him, a very citadel of righteousness. He was
neither loud-voiced nor angry-mannered, but there was a tightness about
his lips which bespoke the man of force and determination.

“I don’t want to talk to you any more,” returned Gerhardt, who was
checked but not overawed. “My daughter is my daughter. I am the one who
will say whether she shall go out at night, or whether she shall marry
you, either. I know what you politicians are. When I first met you I
thought you were a fine man, but now, since I see the way you conduct
yourself with my daughter, I don’t want anything more to do with you.
Just you go and stay away from here. That’s all I ask of you.”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Gerhardt,” said Brander, turning deliberately away
from the angry father, “to have had such an argument in your home. I
had no idea that your husband was opposed to my visits. However, I will
leave the matter as it stands for the present. You must not take all
this as badly as it seems.”

Gerhardt looked on in astonishment at his coolness.

“I will go now,” he said, again addressing Gerhardt, “but you mustn’t
think that I am leaving this matter for good. You have made a serious
mistake this evening. I hope you will realize that. I bid you
goodnight.” He bowed slightly and went out.

Gerhardt closed the door firmly. “Now,” he said, turning to his
daughter and wife, “we will see whether we are rid of him or not. I
will show you how to go after night upon the streets when everybody is
talking already.”

In so far as words were concerned, the argument ceased, but looks and
feeling ran strong and deep, and for days thereafter scarcely a word
was spoken in the little cottage. Gerhardt began to brood over the fact
that he had accepted his place from the Senator and decided to give it
up. He made it known that no more of the Senator’s washing was to be
done in their house, and if he had not been sure that Mrs. Gerhardt’s
hotel work was due to her own efforts in finding it he would have
stopped that. No good would come out of it, anyway. If she had never
gone to the hotel all this talk would never have come upon them.

As for the Senator, he went away decidedly ruffled by this crude
occurrence. Neighborhood slanders are bad enough on their own plane,
but for a man of his standing to descend and become involved in one
struck him now as being a little bit unworthy. He did not know what to
do about the situation, and while he was trying to come to some
decision several days went by. Then he was called to Washington, and he
went away without having seen Jennie again.

In the mean time the Gerhardt family struggled along as before. They
were poor, indeed, but Gerhardt was willing to face poverty if only it
could be endured with honor. The grocery bills were of the same size,
however. The children’s clothing was steadily wearing out. Economy had
to be practised, and payments stopped on old bills that Gerhardt was
trying to adjust.

Then came a day when the annual interest on the mortgage was due, and
yet another when two different grocery-men met Gerhardt on the street
and asked about their little bills. He did not hesitate to explain just
what the situation was, and to tell them with convincing honesty that
he would try hard and do the best he could. But his spirit was unstrung
by his misfortunes. He prayed for the favor of Heaven while at his
labor, and did not hesitate to use the daylight hours that he should
have had for sleeping to go about—either looking for a more
remunerative position or to obtain such little jobs as he could now and
then pick up. One of them was that of cutting grass.

Mrs. Gerhardt protested that he was killing himself, but he explained
his procedure by pointing to their necessity.

“When people stop me on the street and ask me for money I have no time
to sleep.”

It was a distressing situation for all of them.

To cap it all, Sebastian got in jail. It was that old coal-stealing
ruse of his practised once too often. He got up on a car one evening
while Jennie and the children waited for him, and a railroad detective
arrested him. There had been a good deal of coal stealing during the
past two years, but so long as it was confined to moderate quantities
the railroad took no notice. When, however, customers of shippers
complained that cars from the Pennsylvania fields lost thousands of
pounds in transit to Cleveland, Cincinnati, Chicago, and other points,
detectives were set to work. Gerhardt’s children were not the only ones
who preyed upon the railroad in this way. Other families in
Columbus—many of them—were constantly doing the same thing, but
Sebastian happened to be seized upon as the Columbus example.

“You come off that car now,” said the detective, suddenly appearing out
of the shadow. Jennie and the other children dropped their baskets and
buckets and fled for their lives. Sebastian’s first impulse was to jump
and run, but when he tried it the detective grabbed him by the coat.

“Hold on here,” he exclaimed. “I want you.”

“Aw, let go,” said Sebastian savagely, for he was no weakling. There
was nerve and determination in him, as well as a keen sense of his
awkward predicament.

“Let go, I tell you,” he reiterated, and giving a jerk, he almost upset
his captor.

“Come here now,” said the detective, pulling him viciously in an effort
to establish his authority.

Sebastian came, but it was with a blow which staggered his adversary.

There was more struggling, and then a passing railroad hand came to the
detective’s assistance. Together they hurried him toward the depôt, and
there discovering the local officer, turned him over. It was with a
torn coat, scarred hands and face, and a black eye that Sebastian was
locked up for the night.

When the children came home they could not say what had happened to
their brother, but as nine o’clock struck, and then ten and eleven, and
Sebastian did not return, Mrs. Gerhardt was beside herself. He had
stayed out many a night as late as twelve and one, but his mother had a
foreboding of something terrible tonight. When half-past one arrived,
and no Sebastian, she began to cry.

“Some one ought to go up and tell your father,” she said. “He may be in
jail.”

Jennie volunteered, but George, who was soundly sleeping, was awakened
to go along with her.

“What!” said Gerhardt, astonished to see his two children.

“Bass hasn’t come yet,” said Jennie, and then told the story of the
evening’s adventure in explanation.

Gerhardt left his work at once, walking back with his two children to a
point where he could turn off to go to the jail. He guessed what had
happened, and his heart was troubled.

“Is that so, now!” he repeated nervously, rubbing his clumsy hands
across his wet forehead.

Arrived at the station-house, the sergeant in charge told him curtly
that Bass was under arrest.

“Sebastian Gerhardt?” he said, looking over his blotter; “yes, here he
is. Stealing coal and resisting an officer. Is he your boy?”

“Oh, my!” said Gerhardt, _“Ach Gott!”_ He actually wrung his hands in
distress.

“Want to see him?” asked the Sergeant.

“Yes, yes,” said the father.

“Take him back, Fred,” said the other to the old watchman in charge,
“and let him see the boy.”

When Gerhardt stood in the back room, and Sebastian was brought out all
marked and tousled, he broke down and began to cry. No word could cross
his lips because of his emotion.

“Don’t cry, pop,” said Sebastian bravely. “I couldn’t help it. It’s all
right. I’ll be out in the morning.”

Gerhardt only shook with his grief.

“Don’t cry,” continued Sebastian, doing his very best to restrain his
own tears. “I’ll be all right. What’s the use of crying?”

“I know, I know,” said the gray-headed parent brokenly, “but I can’t
help it. It is my fault that I should let you do that.”

“No, no, it isn’t,” said Sebastian. “You couldn’t help it. Does mother
know anything about it?”

“Yes, she knows,” he returned. “Jennie and George just came up where I
was and told me. I didn’t know anything about it until just now,” and
he began to cry again.

“Well, don’t you feel badly,” went on Bass, the finest part of his
nature coming to the surface. “I’ll be all right. Just you go back to
work now, and don’t worry. I’ll be all right.”

“How did you hurt your eye?” asked the father, looking at him with red
eyes.

“Oh, I had a little wrestling match with the man who nabbed me,” said
the boy, smiling bravely. “I thought I could get away.”

“You shouldn’t do that, Sebastian,” said the father. “It may go harder
with you on that account. When does your case come up?”

“In the morning, they told me,” said Bass. “Nine o’clock.”

Gerhardt stayed with his son for some time, and discussed the question
of bail, fine, and the dire possibility of a jail sentence without
arriving at any definite conclusion. Finally he was persuaded by Bass
to go away, but the departure was the occasion for another outburst of
feeling; he was led away shaking and broken with emotion.

“It’s pretty tough,” said Bass to himself as he was led back to his
cell. He was thinking solely of his father. “I wonder what ma will
think.”

The thought of this touched him tenderly. “I wish I’d knocked the dub
over the first crack,” he said. “What a fool I was not to get away.”




CHAPTER VII


Gerhardt was in despair; he did not know any one to whom he could
appeal between the hours of two and nine o’clock in the morning. He
went back to talk with his wife, and then to his post of duty. What was
to be done? He could think of only one friend who was able, or possibly
willing to do anything. This was the glass manufacturer, Hammond; but
he was not in the city. Gerhardt did not know this, however.

When nine o’clock came, he went alone to the court, for it was thought
advisable that the others should stay away. Mrs. Gerhardt was to hear
immediately what happened. He would come right back.

When Sebastian was lined up inside the dock he had to wait a long time,
for there were several prisoners ahead of him. Finally his name was
called, and the boy was pushed forward to the bar. “Stealing coal, Your
Honor, and resisting arrest,” explained the officer who had arrested
him.

The magistrate looked at Sebastian closely; he was unfavorably
impressed by the lad’s scratched and wounded face.

“Well, young man,” he said, “what have you to say for yourself? How did
you get your black eye?”

Sebastian looked at the judge, but did not answer.

“I arrested him,” said the detective. “He was on one of the company’s
cars. He tried to break away from me, and when I held him he assaulted
me. This man here was a witness,” he added, turning to the railroad
hand who had helped him.

“Is that where he struck you?” asked the Court, observing the
detective’s swollen jaw.

“Yes, sir,” he returned, glad of an opportunity to be further revenged.

“If you please,” put in Gerhardt, leaning forward, “he is my boy. He
was sent to get the coal. He—”

“We don’t mind what they pick up around the yard,” interrupted the
detective, “but he was throwing it off the cars to half a dozen
others.”

“Can’t you earn enough to keep from taking coal off the coal cars?”
asked the Court; but before either father or son had time to answer he
added, “What is your business?”

“Car builder,” said Sebastian.

“And what do you do?” he questioned, addressing Gerhardt.

“I am watchman at Miller’s furniture factory.”

“Um,” said the court, feeling that Sebastian’s attitude remained sullen
and contentious. “Well, this young man might be let off on the
coal-stealing charge, but he seems to be somewhat too free with his
fists. Columbus is altogether too rich in that sort of thing. Ten
dollars.”

“If you please,” began Gerhardt, but the court officer was already
pushing him away.

“I don’t want to hear any more about it,” said the judge. “He’s
stubborn, anyhow. What’s the next case?”

Gerhardt made his way over to his boy, abashed and yet very glad it was
no worse. Somehow, he thought, he could raise the money. Sebastian
looked at him solicitously as he came forward.

“It’s all right,” said Bass soothingly. “He didn’t give me half a
chance to say anything.”

“I’m only glad it wasn’t more,” said Gerhardt nervously. “We will try
and get the money.”

Going home to his wife, Gerhardt informed the troubled household of the
result. Mrs. Gerhardt stood white and yet relieved, for ten dollars
seemed something that might be had. Jennie heard the whole story with
open mouth and wide eyes. It was a terrible blow to her. Poor Bass! He
was always so lively and good-natured. It seemed awful that he should
be in jail.

Gerhardt went hurriedly to Hammond’s fine residence, but he was not in
the city. He thought then of a lawyer by the name of Jenkins, whom he
knew in a casual way, but Jenkins was not at his office. There were
several grocers and coal merchants whom he knew well enough, but he
owed them money. Pastor Wundt might let him have it, but the agony such
a disclosure to that worthy would entail held him back. He did call on
one or two acquaintances, but these, surprised at the unusual and
peculiar request, excused themselves. At four o’clock he returned home,
weary and exhausted.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said despairingly. “If I could only
think.”

Jennie thought of Brander, but the situation had not accentuated her
desperation to the point where she could brave her father’s opposition
and his terrible insult to the Senator, so keenly remembered, to go and
ask. Her watch had been pawned a second time, and she had no other
means of obtaining money.

The family council lasted until half-past ten, but still there was
nothing decided. Mrs. Gerhardt persistently and monotonously turned one
hand over in the other and stared at the floor. Gerhardt ran his hand
through his reddish brown hair distractedly. “It’s no use,” he said at
last. “I can’t think of anything.”

“Go to bed, Jennie,” said her mother solicitously; “get the others to
go. There’s no use their sitting up I may think of something. You go to
bed.”

Jennie went to her room, but the very thought of repose was
insupportable. She had read in the paper, shortly after her father’s
quarrel with the Senator, that the latter had departed for Washington.
There had been no notice of his return. Still he might be in the city.
She stood before a short, narrow mirror that surmounted a shabby
bureau, thinking. Her sister Veronica, with whom she slept, was already
composing herself to dreams. Finally a grim resolution fixed itself in
her consciousness. She would go and see Senator Brander. If _he_ were
in town he would help Bass. Why shouldn’t she—he loved her. He had
asked over and over to marry her. Why should she not go and ask him for
help?

She hesitated a little while, then hearing Veronica breathing
regularly, she put on her hat and jacket, and noiselessly opened the
door into the sitting-room to see if any one were stirring.

There was no sound save that of Gerhardt rocking nervously to and fro
in the kitchen. There was no light save that of her own small room-lamp
and a gleam from under the kitchen door. She turned and blew the former
out—then slipped quietly to the front door, opened it and stepped out
into the night.

A waning moon was shining, and a hushed sense of growing life filled
the air, for it was nearing spring again. As Jennie hurried along the
shadowy streets—the arc light had not yet been invented—she had a
sinking sense of fear; what was this rash thing she was about to do?
How would the Senator receive her? What would he think? She stood
stock-still, wavering and doubtful; then the recollection of Bass in
his night cell came over her again, and she hurried on.

The character of the Capitol Hotel was such that it was not difficult
for a woman to find ingress through the ladies’ entrance to the various
floors of the hotel at any hour of the night. The hotel, not unlike
many others of the time, was in no sense loosely conducted, but its
method of supervision in places was lax. Any person could enter, and,
by applying at a rear entrance to the lobby, gain the attention of the
clerk. Otherwise not much notice was taken of those who came and went.

When she came to the door it was dark save for a low light burning in
the entry-way. The distance to the Senator’s room was only a short way
along the hall of the second floor. She hurried up the steps, nervous
and pale, but giving no other outward sign of the storm that was
surging within her. When she came to his familiar door she paused; she
feared that she might not find him in his room; she trembled again to
think that he might be there. A light shone through the transom, and,
summoning all her courage, she knocked. A man coughed and bestirred
himself.

His surprise as he opened the door knew no bounds. “Why, Jennie!” he
exclaimed. “How delightful! I was thinking of you. Come in—come in.”

He welcomed her with an eager embrace.

“I was coming out to see you, believe me, I was. I was thinking all
along how I could straighten this matter out. And now you come. But
what’s the trouble?”

He held her at arm’s length and studied her distressed face. The fresh
beauty of her seemed to him like cut lilies wet with dew.

He felt a great surge of tenderness.

“I have something to ask you,” she at last brought herself to say. “My
brother is in jail. We need ten dollars to get him out, and I didn’t
know where else to go.”

“My poor child!” he said, chafing her hands. “Where else should you go?
Haven’t I told you always to come to me? Don’t you know, Jennie, I
would do anything in the world for you?”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Well, then, don’t worry about that any more. But won’t fate ever cease
striking at you, poor child? How did your brother come to get in jail?”

“They caught him throwing coal down from the cars,” she replied.

“Ah!” he replied, his sympathies touched and awakened. Here was this
boy arrested and fined for what fate was practically driving him to do.
Here was this girl pleading with him at night, in his room, for what to
her was a great necessity—ten dollars; to him, a mere nothing. “I will
arrange about your brother,” he said quickly. “Don’t worry. I can get
him out in half an hour. You sit here now and be comfortable until I
return.”

He waved her to his easy-chair beside a large lamp, and hurried out of
the room.

Brander knew the sheriff who had personal supervision of the county
jail. He knew the judge who had administered the fine. It was but a
five minutes’ task to write a note to the judge asking him to revoke
the fine, for the sake of the boy’s character, and send it by a
messenger to his home. Another ten minutes’ task to go personally to
the jail and ask his friend, the sheriff, to release the boy then and
there.

“Here is the money,” he said. “If the fine is revoked you can return it
to me. Let him go now.”

The sheriff was only too glad to comply. He hastened below to
personally supervise the task, and Bass, a very much astonished boy,
was set free. No explanations were vouchsafed him.

“That’s all right now,” said the turnkey. “You’re at liberty. Run along
home and don’t let them catch you at anything like that again.”

Bass went his way wondering, and the ex-Senator returned to his hotel
trying to decide just how this delicate situation should be handled.
Obviously Jennie had not told her father of her mission. She had come
as a last resource. She was now waiting for him in his room.

There are crises in all men’s lives when they waver between the strict
fulfilment of justice and duty and the great possibilities for personal
happiness which another line of conduct seems to assure. And the
dividing line is not always marked and clear. He knew that the issue of
taking her, even as his wife, was made difficult by the senseless
opposition of her father. The opinion of the world brought up still
another complication. Supposing he should take her openly, what would
the world say? She was a significant type emotionally, that he knew.
There was something there—artistically, temperamentally, which was far
and beyond the keenest suspicion of the herd. He did not know himself
quite what it was, but he felt a largeness of feeling not altogether
squared with intellect, or perhaps better yet, experience, which was
worthy of any man’s desire. “This remarkable girl,” he thought, seeing
her clearly in his mind’s eye.

Meditating as to what he should do, he returned to his hotel, and the
room. As he entered he was struck anew with her beauty, and with the
irresistible appeal of her personality. In the glow of the shaded lamp
she seemed a figure of marvelous potentiality.

“Well,” he said, endeavoring to appear calm, “I have looked after your
brother. He is out.”

She rose.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands and stretching her arms out
toward him. There were tears of gratefulness in her eyes.

He saw them and stepped close to her. “Jennie, for heaven’s sake don’t
cry,” he entreated. “You angel! You sister of mercy! To think you
should have to add tears to your other sacrifices.”

He drew her to him, and then all the caution of years deserted him.
There was a sense both of need and of fulfilment in his mood. At last,
in spite of other losses, fate had brought him what he most
desired—love, a woman whom he could love. He took her in his arms, and
kissed her again and again.

The English Jefferies has told us that it requires a hundred and fifty
years to make a perfect maiden. “From all enchanted things of earth and
air, this preciousness has been drawn. From the south wind that
breathed a century and a half over the green wheat; from the perfume of
the growing grasses waving over heavy-laden clover and laughing
veronica, hiding the green finches, baffling the bee; from rose-lined
hedge, woodbine, and cornflower, azure blue, where yellowing wheat
stalks crowd up under the shadow of green firs. All the devious
brooklets’ sweetness where the iris stays the sunlight; all the wild
woods hold of beauty; all the broad hills of thyme and freedom thrice a
hundred years repeated.

“A hundred years of cowslips, bluebells, violets; purple spring and
golden autumn; sunshine, shower, and dewy mornings; the night immortal;
all the rhythm of time unrolling. A chronicle unwritten and past all
power of writing; who shall preserve a record of the petals that fell
from the roses a century ago? The swallows to the house-tops three
hundred—times think of that! Thence she sprang, and the world yearns
toward her beauty as to flowers that are past. The loveliness of
seventeen is centuries old. That is why passion is almost sad.”

If you have understood and appreciated the beauty of harebells three
hundred times repeated; if the quality of the roses, of the music, of
the ruddy mornings and evenings of the world has ever touched your
heart; if all beauty were passing, and you were given these things to
hold in your arms before the world slipped away, would you give them
up?




CHAPTER VIII


The significance of the material and spiritual changes which sometimes
overtake us are not very clear at the time. A sense of shock, a sense
of danger, and then apparently we subside to old ways, but the change
has come. Never again, here or elsewhere, will we be the same. Jennie
pondering after the subtle emotional turn which her evening’s
sympathetic expedition had taken, was lost in a vague confusion of
emotions. She had no definite realization of what social and physical
changes this new relationship to the Senator might entail. She was not
conscious as yet of that shock which the possibility of maternity, even
under the most favorable conditions, must bring to the average woman.
Her present attitude was one of surprise, wonder, uncertainty; and at
the same time she experienced a genuine feeling of quiet happiness.
Brander was a good man; now he was closer to her than ever. He loved
her. Because of this new relationship a change in her social condition
was to inevitably follow. Life was to be radically different from now
on—was different at this moment. Brander assured her over and over of
his enduring affection.

“I tell you, Jennie,” he repeated, as she was leaving, “I don’t want
you to worry. This emotion of mine got the best of me, but I’ll marry
you. I’ve been carried off my feet, but I’ll make it up to you. Go home
and say nothing at all. Caution your brother, if it isn’t too late.
Keep your own counsel, and I will marry you and take you away. I can’t
do it right now. I don’t want to do it here. But I’m going to
Washington, and I’ll send for you. And here”—he reached for his purse
and took from it a hundred dollars, practically all he had with him,
“take that. I’ll send you more tomorrow. You’re my girl now—remember
that. You belong to me.”

He embraced her tenderly.

She went out into the night, thinking. No doubt he would do as he said.
She dwelt, in imagination, upon the possibilities of a new and
fascinating existence. Of course he would marry her. Think of it! She
would go to Washington—that far-off place. And her father and
mother—they would not need to work so hard any more. And Bass, and
Martha—she fairly glowed as she recounted to herself the many ways in
which she could help them all.

A block away she waited for Brander, who accompanied her to her own
gate, and waited while she made a cautious reconnaissance. She slipped
up the steps and tried the door. It was open. She paused a moment to
indicate to her lover that she was safe, and entered. All was silent
within. She slipped to her own room and heard Veronica breathing. She
went quietly to where Bass slept with George. He was in bed, stretched
out as if asleep. When she entered he asked, “Is that you, Jennie?”

“Yes.”

“Where have you been?”

“Listen,” she whispered. “Have you seen papa and mamma?”

“Yes.”

“Did they know I had gone out?”

“Ma did. She told me not to ask after you. Where have you been?”

“I went to see Senator Brander for you.”

“Oh, that was it. They didn’t say why they let me out.”

“Don’t tell any one,” she pleaded. “I don’t want any one to know. You
know how papa feels about him.”

“All right,” he replied. But he was curious as to what the ex-Senator
thought, what he had done, and how she had appealed to him. She
explained briefly, then she heard her mother come to the door.

“Jennie,” she whispered.

Jennie went out.

“Oh, why did you go?” she asked.

“I couldn’t help it, ma,” she replied. “I thought I must do something.”

“Why did you stay so long?”

“He wanted to talk to me,” she answered evasively.

Her mother looked at her nervously, wanly.

“I have been so afraid, oh, so afraid. Your father went to your room,
but I said you were asleep. He locked the front door, but I opened it
again. When Bass came in he wanted to call you, but I persuaded him to
wait until morning.”

Again she looked wistfully at her daughter.

“I’m all right, mamma,” said Jennie encouragingly. “I’ll tell you all
about it to-morrow. Go to bed. How does he think Bass got out?”

“He doesn’t know. He thought maybe they just let him go because he
couldn’t pay the fine.”

Jennie laid her hand lovingly on her mother’s shoulder.

“Go to bed,” she said.

She was already years older in thought and act. She felt as though she
must help her mother now as well as herself.

The days which followed were ones of dreamy uncertainty to Jennie. She
went over in her mind these dramatic events time and time and time and
again. It was not such a difficult matter to tell her mother that the
Senator had talked again of marriage, that he proposed to come and get
her after his next trip to Washington, that he had given her a hundred
dollars and intended to give her more, but of that other matter—the one
all-important thing, she could not bring herself to speak. It was too
sacred. The balance of the money that he had promised her arrived by
messenger the following day, four hundred dollars in bills, with the
admonition that she should put it in a local bank. The ex-Senator
explained that he was already on his way to Washington, but that he
would come back or send for her. “Keep a stout heart,” he wrote. “There
are better days in store for you.”

Brander was gone, and Jennie’s fate was really in the balance. But her
mind still retained all of the heart-innocence, and unsophistication of
her youth; a certain gentle wistfulness was the only outward change in
her demeanor. He would surely send for her. There was the mirage of a
distant country and wondrous scenes looming up in her mind. She had a
little fortune in the bank, more than she had ever dreamed of, with
which to help her mother. There were natural, girlish anticipations of
good still holding over, which made her less apprehensive than she
could otherwise possibly have been. All nature, life, possibility was
in the balance. It might turn good, or ill, but with so inexperienced a
soul it would not be entirely evil until it was so.

How a mind under such uncertain circumstances could retain so
comparatively placid a vein is one of those marvels which find their
explanation in the inherent trustfulness of the spirit of youth. It is
not often that the minds of men retain the perceptions of their younger
days. The marvel is not that one should thus retain, but that any
should ever lose them Go the world over, and after you have put away
the wonder and tenderness of youth what is there left? The few sprigs
of green that sometimes invade the barrenness of your materialism, the
few glimpses of summer which flash past the eye of the wintry soul, the
half hours off during the long tedium of burrowing, these reveal to the
hardened earth-seeker the universe which the youthful mind has with it
always. No fear and no favor; the open fields and the light upon the
hills; morning, noon, night; stars, the bird-calls, the water’s
purl—these are the natural inheritance of the mind of the child. Men
call it poetic, those who are hardened fanciful. In the days of their
youth it was natural, but the receptiveness of youth has departed, and
they cannot see.

How this worked out in her personal actions was to be seen only in a
slightly accentuated wistfulness, a touch of which was in every task.
Sometimes she would wonder that no letter came, but at the same time
she would recall the fact that he had specified a few weeks, and hence
the six that actually elapsed did not seem so long.

In the meanwhile the distinguished ex-Senator had gone light-heartedly
to his conference with the President, he had joined in a pleasant round
of social calls, and he was about to pay a short country visit to some
friends in Maryland, when he was seized with a slight attack of fever,
which confined him to his room for a few days. He felt a little
irritated that he should be laid up just at this time, but never
suspected that there was anything serious in his indisposition. Then
the doctor discovered that he was suffering from a virulent form of
typhoid, the ravages of which took away his senses for a time and left
him very weak. He was thought to be convalescing, however, when just
six weeks after he had last parted with Jennie, he was seized with a
sudden attack of heart failure and never regained consciousness. Jennie
remained blissfully ignorant of his illness and did not even see the
heavy-typed headlines of the announcement of his death until Bass came
home that evening.

“Look here, Jennie,” he said excitedly, “Brander’s dead!”

He held up the newspaper, on the first column of Which was printed in
heavy block type:

DEATH OF EX-SENATOR BRANDER

Sudden Passing of Ohio’s Distinguished Son. Succumbs to Heart Failure
at the Arlington, in Washington.

Recent attack of typhoid, from which he was thought to be recovering,
proves fatal. Notable phases of a remarkable career.


Jennie looked at it in blank amazement. “Dead?” she exclaimed.

“There it is in the paper,” returned Bass, his tone being that of one
who is imparting a very interesting piece of news. “He died at ten
o’clock this morning.”




CHAPTER IX


Jennie took the paper with but ill-concealed trembling and went into
the adjoining room. There she stood by the front window and looked at
it again, a sickening sensation of dread holding her as though in a
trance.

“He is dead,” was all that her mind could formulate for the time, and
as she stood there the voice of Bass recounting the fact to Gerhardt in
the adjoining room sounded in her ears. “Yes, he is dead,” she heard
him say; and once again she tried to get some conception of what it
meant to her. But her mind seemed a blank.

A moment later Mrs. Gerhardt joined her. She had heard Bass’s
announcement and had seen Jennie leave the room, but her trouble with
Gerhardt over the Senator had caused her to be careful of any display
of emotion. No conception of the real state of affairs ever having
crossed her mind, she was only interested in seeing how Jennie would
take this sudden annihilation of her hopes.

“Isn’t it too bad?” she said, with real sorrow. “To think that he
should have to die just when he was going to do so much for you—for us
all.”

She paused, expecting some word of agreement, but Jennie remained
unwontedly dumb.

“I wouldn’t feel badly,” continued Mrs. Gerhardt. “It can’t be helped.
He meant to do a good deal, but you mustn’t think of that now. It’s all
over, and it can’t be helped, you know.”

She paused again, and still Jennie remained motionless and mute. Mrs.
Gerhardt, seeing how useless her words were, concluded that Jennie
wished to be alone, and she went away.

Still Jennie stood there, and now, as the real significance of the news
began to formulate itself into consecutive thought, she began to
realize the wretchedness of her position, its helplessness. She went
into her bedroom and sat down upon the side of the bed, from which
position she saw a very pale, distraught face staring at her from out
of the small mirror. She looked at it uncertainly; could that really be
her own countenance? “I’ll have to go away,” she thought, and began,
with the courage of despair, to wonder what refuge would be open to
her.

In the mean time the evening meal was announced, and, to maintain
appearances, she went out and joined the family; the naturalness of her
part was very difficult to sustain. Gerhardt observed her subdued
condition without guessing the depth of emotion which it covered. Bass
was too much interested in his own affairs to pay particular attention
to anybody.

During the days that followed Jennie pondered over the difficulties of
her position and wondered what she should do. Money she had, it was
true; but no friends, no experience, no place to go. She had always
lived with her family. She began to feel unaccountable sinkings of
spirit, nameless and formless fears seemed to surround and haunt her.
Once when she arose in the morning she felt an uncontrollable desire to
cry, and frequently thereafter this feeling would seize upon her at the
most inopportune times. Mrs. Gerhardt began to note her moods, and one
afternoon she resolved to question her daughter.

“Now you must tell me what’s the matter with you,” she said quietly.
“Jennie, you must tell your mother everything.”

Jennie, to whom confession had seemed impossible, under the sympathetic
persistence of her mother broke down at last and made the fatal
confession. Mrs. Gerhardt stood there, too dumb with misery to give
vent to a word.

“Oh!” she said at last, a great wave of self-accusation sweeping over
her, “it is all my fault. I might have known. But we’ll do what we
can.” She broke down and sobbed aloud.

After a time she went back to the washing she had to do, and stood over
her tub rubbing and crying. The tears ran down her cheeks and dropped
into the suds. Once in a while she stopped and tried to dry her eyes
with her apron, but they soon filled again.

Now that the first shock had passed, there came the vivid consciousness
of ever-present danger. What would Gerhardt do if he learned the truth?
He had often said that if ever one of his daughters should act like
some of those he knew he would turn her out of doors. “She should not
stay under my roof!” he had exclaimed.

“I’m so afraid of your father,” Mrs. Gerhardt often said to Jennie in
this intermediate period. “I don’t know what he’ll say.”

“Perhaps I’d better go away,” suggested her daughter.

“No,” she said; “he needn’t know just yet. Wait awhile.” But in her
heart of hearts she knew that the evil day could not be long postponed.

One day, when her own suspense had reached such a pitch that it could
no longer be endured, Mrs. Gerhardt sent Jennie away with the children,
hoping to be able to tell her husband before they returned. All the
morning she fidgeted about, dreading the opportune moment and letting
him retire to his slumber without speaking. When afternoon came she did
not go out to work, because she could not leave with her painful duty
unfulfilled. Gerhardt arose at four, and still she hesitated, knowing
full well that Jennie would soon return and that the specially prepared
occasion would then be lost. It is almost certain that she would not
have had the courage to say anything if he himself had not brought up
the subject of Jennie’s appearance.

“She doesn’t look well,” he said. “There seems to be something the
matter with her.”

“Oh,” began Mrs. Gerhardt, visibly struggling with her fears, and moved
to make an end of it at any cost, “Jennie is in trouble. I don’t know
what to do. She—”

Gerhardt, who had unscrewed a door-lock and was trying to mend it,
looked up sharply from his work.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Mrs. Gerhardt had her apron in her hands at the time, her nervous
tendency to roll it coming upon her. She tried to summon sufficient
courage to explain, but fear mastered her completely; she lifted the
apron to her eyes and began to cry.

Gerhardt looked at her and rose. He was a man with the Calvin type of
face, rather spare, with skin sallow and discolored as the result of
age and work in the wind and rain. When he was surprised or angry
sparks of light glittered in his eyes. He frequently pushed his hair
back when he was troubled, and almost invariably walked the floor; just
now he looked alert and dangerous.

“What is that you say?” he inquired in German, his voice straining to a
hard note. “In trouble—has some one—” He paused and flung his hand
upward. “Why don’t you speak?” he demanded.

“I never thought,” went on Mrs. Gerhardt, frightened, and yet following
her own train of thought, “that anything like that would happen to her.
She was such a good girl. Oh!” she concluded, “to think he should ruin
Jennie.”

“By thunder!” shouted Gerhardt, giving way to a fury of feeling, “I
thought so! Brander! Ha! Your fine man! That comes of letting her go
running around at nights, buggy-riding, walking the streets. I thought
so. God in heaven!—”

He broke from his dramatic attitude and struck out in a fierce stride
across the narrow chamber, turning like a caged animal.

“Ruined!” he exclaimed. “Ruined! Ha! So he has ruined her, has he?”

Suddenly he stopped like an image jerked by a string. He was directly
in front of Mrs. Gerhardt, who had retired to the table at the side of
the wall, and was standing there pale with fear.

“He is dead now!” he shouted, as if this fact had now first occurred to
him. “He is dead!”

He put both hands to his temples, as if he feared his brain would give
way, and stood looking at her, the mocking irony of the situation
seeming to burn in his brain like fire.

“Dead!” he repeated, and Mrs. Gerhardt, fearing for the reason of the
man, shrank still farther away, her wits taken up rather with the
tragedy of the figure he presented than with the actual substance of
his woe.

“He intended to marry her,” she pleaded nervously. “He would have
married her if he had not died.”

“Would have!” shouted Gerhardt, coming out of his trance at the sound
of her voice. “Would have! That’s a fine thing to talk about now. Would
have! The hound! May his soul burn in hell—the dog! Ah, God, I hope—I
hope—If I were not a Christian—” He clenched his hands, the awfulness
of his passion shaking him like a leaf.

Mrs. Gerhardt burst into tears, and her husband turned away, his own
feelings far too intense for him to have any sympathy with her. He
walked to and fro, his heavy step shaking the kitchen floor. After a
time he came back, a new phase of the dread calamity having offered
itself to his mind.

“When did this happen?” he demanded

“I don’t know,” returned Mrs. Gerhardt, too terror-stricken to tell the
truth. “I only found it out the other day.”

“You lie!” he exclaimed in his excitement. “You were always shielding
her. It is your fault that she is where she is. If you had let me have
my way there would have been no cause for our trouble to-night.

“A fine ending,” he went on to himself. “A fine ending. My boy gets
into jail; my daughter walks the streets and gets herself talked about;
the neighbors come to me with open remarks about my children; and now
this scoundrel ruins her. By the God in heaven, I don’t know what has
got into my children!

“I don’t know how it is,” he went on, unconsciously commiserating
himself. “I try, I try! Every night I pray that the Lord will let me do
right, but it is no use. I might work and work. My hands—look at
them—are rough with work. All my life I have tried to be an honest man.
Now—now—” His voice broke, and it seemed for a moment as if he would
give way to tears. Suddenly he turned on his wife, the major passion of
anger possessing him.

“You are the cause of this,” he exclaimed. “You are the sole cause. If
you had done as I told you to do this would not have happened. No, you
wouldn’t do that. She must go out! out!! out!!! She has become a
street-walker, that’s what she has become. She has set herself right to
go to hell. Let her go. I wash my hands of the whole thing. This is
enough for me.”

He made as if to go off to his little bedroom, but he had no sooner
reached the door than he came back.

“She shall get out!” he said electrically. “She shall not stay under my
roof! To-night! At once! I will not let her enter my door again. I will
show her whether she will disgrace me or not!”

“You mustn’t turn her out on the streets to-night,” pleaded Mrs.
Gerhardt. “She has no place to go.”

“To-night!” he repeated. “This very minute! Let her find a home. She
did not want this one. Let her get out now. We will see how the world
treats her.” He walked out of the room, inflexible resolution fixed
upon his rugged features.

At half-past five, when Mrs. Gerhardt was tearfully going about the
duty of getting supper, Jennie returned. Her mother started when she
heard the door open, for now she knew the storm would burst afresh. Her
father met her on the threshold.

“Get out of my sight!” he said savagely. “You shall not stay another
hour in my house. I don’t want to see you any more. Get out!”

Jennie stood before him, pale, trembling a little, and silent. The
children she had brought home with her crowded about in frightened
amazement. Veronica and Martha, who loved her dearly, began to cry.

“What’s the matter?” George asked, his mouth open in wonder.

“She shall get out,” reiterated Gerhardt. “I don’t want her under my
roof. If she wants to be a street-walker, let her be one, but she shall
not stay here. Pack your things,” he added, staring at her.

Jennie had no word to say, but the children cried loudly.

“Be still,” said Gerhardt. “Go into the kitchen.”

He drove them all out and followed stubbornly himself.

Jennie went quietly to her room. She gathered up her few little
belongings and began, with tears, to put them into a valise her mother
brought her. The little girlish trinkets that she had accumulated from
time to time she did not take. She saw them, but thought of her younger
sisters, and let them stay. Martha and Veronica would have assisted
her, but their father forbade them to go.

At six o’clock Bass came in, and seeing the nervous assembly in the
kitchen, inquired what the trouble was.

Gerhardt looked at him grimly, but did not answer.

“What’s the trouble?” insisted Bass. “What are you all sitting around
for?”

“He is driving Jennie away,” whispered Mrs. Gerhardt tearfully.

“What for?” asked Bass, opening his eyes in astonishment.

“I shall tell you what for,” broke in Gerhardt, still speaking in
German. “Because she’s a street-walker, that’s what for. She goes and
gets herself ruined by a man thirty years older than she is, a man old
enough to be her father. Let her get out of this. She shall not stay
here another minute.”

Bass looked about him, and the children opened their eyes. All felt
clearly that something terrible had happened, even the little ones.
None but Bass understood.

“What do you want to send her out to-night for?” he inquired. “This is
no time to send a girl out on the streets. Can’t she stay here until
morning?”

“No,” said Gerhardt.

“He oughtn’t to do that,” put in the mother.

“She goes now,” said Gerhardt. “Let that be an end of it.”

“Where is she going to go?” insisted Bass.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Gerhardt interpolated weakly.

Bass looked around, but did nothing until Mrs. Gerhardt motioned him
toward the front door when her husband was not looking.

“Go in! Go in!” was the import of her gesture.

Bass went in, and then Mrs. Gerhardt dared to leave her work and
follow. The children stayed awhile, but, one by one, even they slipped
away, leaving Gerhardt alone. When he thought that time enough had
elapsed he arose.

In the interval Jennie had been hastily coached by her mother.

Jennie should go to a private boarding-house somewhere, and send back
her address. Bass should not accompany her, but she should wait a
little way up the street, and he would follow. When her father was away
the mother might get to see her, or Jennie could come home. All else
must be postponed until they could meet again.

While the discussion was still going on, Gerhardt came in.

“Is she going?” he asked harshly.

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Gerhardt, with her first and only note of
defiance.

Bass said, “What’s the hurry?” But Gerhardt frowned too mightily for
him to venture on any further remonstrance.

Jennie entered, wearing her one good dress and carrying her valise.
There was fear in her eyes, for she was passing through a fiery ordeal,
but she had become a woman. The strength of love was with her, the
support of patience and the ruling sweetness of sacrifice. Silently she
kissed her mother, while tears fell fast. Then she turned, and the door
closed upon her as she went forth to a new life.




CHAPTER X


The world into which Jennie was thus unduly thrust forth was that in
which virtue has always vainly struggled since time immemorial; for
virtue is the wishing well and the doing well unto others. Virtue is
that quality of generosity which offers itself willingly for another’s
service, and, being this, it is held by society to be nearly worthless.
Sell yourself cheaply and you shall be used lightly and trampled under
foot. Hold yourself dearly, however unworthily, and you will be
respected. Society, in the mass, lacks woefully in the matter of
discrimination. Its one criterion is the opinion of others. Its one
test that of self-preservation. Has he preserved his fortune? Has she
preserved her purity? Only in rare instances and with rare individuals
does there seem to be any guiding light from within.

Jennie had not sought to hold herself dear. Innate feeling in her made
for self-sacrifice. She could not be readily corrupted by the world’s
selfish lessons on how to preserve oneself from the evil to come.

It is in such supreme moments that growth is greatest. It comes as with
a vast surge, this feeling of strength and sufficiency. We may still
tremble, the fear of doing wretchedly may linger, but we grow. Flashes
of inspiration come to guide the soul. In nature there is no outside.
When we are cast from a group or a condition we have still the
companionship of all that is. Nature is not ungenerous. Its winds and
stars are fellows with you. Let the soul be but gentle and receptive,
and this vast truth will come home—not in set phrases, perhaps, but as
a feeling, a comfort, which, after all, is the last essence of
knowledge. In the universe peace is wisdom.

Jennie had hardly turned from the door when she was overtaken by Bass.
“Give me your grip,” he said; and then seeing that she was dumb with
unutterable feeling, he added, “I think I know where I can get you a
room.”

He led the way to the southern part of the city, where they were not
known, and up to the door of an old lady whose parlor clock had been
recently purchased from the instalment firm by whom he was now
employed. She was not well off, he knew, and had a room to rent.

“Is that room of yours still vacant?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, looking at Jennie.

“I wish you’d let my sister have it. We’re moving away, and she can’t
go yet.”

The old lady expressed her willingness, and Jennie was soon temporarily
installed.

“Don’t worry now,” said Bass, who felt rather sorry for her. “This’ll
blow over. Ma said I should tell you not to worry. Come up to-morrow
when he’s gone.”

Jennie said she would, and, after giving her further oral
encouragement, he arranged with the old lady about board, and took his
leave.

“It’s all right now,” he said encouragingly as he went out. “You’ll
come out all right. Don’t worry. I’ve got to go back, but I’ll come
around in the morning.”

He went away, and the bitter stress of it blew lightly over his head,
for he was thinking that Jennie had made a mistake. This was shown by
the manner in which he had asked her questions as they had walked
together, and that in the face of her sad and doubtful mood.

“What’d you want to do that for?” and “Didn’t you ever think what you
were doing?” he persisted.

“Please don’t ask me to-night,” Jennie had said, which put an end to
the sharpest form of his queries. She had no excuse to offer and no
complaint to make. If any blame attached, very likely it was hers. His
own misfortune and the family’s and her sacrifice were alike forgotten.

Left alone in her strange abode, Jennie gave way to her saddened
feelings. The shock and shame of being banished from her home overcame
her, and she wept. Although of a naturally long-suffering and
uncomplaining disposition, the catastrophic wind-up of all her hopes
was too much for her. What was this element in life that could seize
and overwhelm one as does a great wind? Why this sudden intrusion of
death to shatter all that had seemed most promising in life?

As she thought over the past, a very clear recollection of the details
of her long relationship with Brander came back to her, and for all her
suffering she could only feel a loving affection for him. After all, he
had not deliberately willed her any harm. His kindness, his
generosity—these things had been real. He had been essentially a good
man, and she was sorry—more for his sake than for her own that his end
had been so untimely.

These cogitations, while not at all reassuring, at least served to pass
the night away, and the next morning Bass stopped on his way to work to
say that Mrs. Gerhardt wished her to come home that same evening.
Gerhardt would not be present, and they could talk it over. She spent
the day lonesomely enough, but when night fell her spirits brightened,
and at a quarter of eight she set out.

There was not much of comforting news to tell her. Gerhardt was still
in a direfully angry and outraged mood. He had already decided to throw
up his place on the following Saturday and go to Youngstown. Any place
was better than Columbus after this; he could never expect to hold up
his head here again. Its memories were odious. He would go away now,
and if he succeeded in finding work the family should follow, a
decision which meant the abandoning of the little home. He was not
going to try to meet the mortgage on the house—he could not hope to.

At the end of the week Gerhardt took his leave, Jennie returned home,
and for a time at least there was a restoration of the old order, a
condition which, of course, could not endure.

Bass saw it. Jennie’s trouble and its possible consequences weighed
upon him disagreeably. Columbus was no place to stay. Youngstown was no
place to go. If they should all move away to some larger city it would
be much better.

He pondered over the situation, and hearing that a manufacturing boom
was on in Cleveland, he thought it might be wise to try his luck there.
If he succeeded, the others might follow. If Gerhardt still worked on
in Youngstown, as he was now doing, and the family came to Cleveland,
it would save Jennie from being turned out in the streets.

Bass waited a little while before making up his mind, but finally
announced his purpose.

“I believe I’ll go up to Cleveland,” he said to his mother one evening
as she was getting supper.

“Why?” she asked, looking up uncertainly. She was rather afraid that
Bass would desert her.

“I think I can get work there,” he returned. “We oughtn’t to stay in
this darned old town.”

“Don’t swear,” she returned reprovingly.

“Oh, I know,” he said, “but it’s enough to make any one swear. We’ve
never had anything but rotten luck here. I’m going to go, and maybe if
I get anything we can all move. We’d be better off if we’d get some
place where people don’t know us. We can’t be anything here.”

Mrs. Gerhardt listened with a strong hope for a betterment of their
miserable life creeping into her heart. If Bass would only do this. If
he would go and get work, and come to her rescue, as a strong bright
young son might, what a thing it would be! They were in the rapids of a
life which was moving toward a dreadful calamity. If only something
would happen.

“Do you think you could get something to do?” she asked interestedly.

“I ought to,” he said. “I’ve never looked for a place yet that I didn’t
get it. Other fellows have gone up there and done all right. Look at
the Millers.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked out the window.

“Do you think you could get along until I try my hand up there?” he
asked.

“I guess we could,” she replied. “Papa’s at work now and we have some
money that, that—” she hesitated, to name the source, so ashamed was
she of their predicament.

“Yes, I know,” said Bass, grimly.

“We won’t have to pay any rent here before fall and then we’ll have to
give it up anyhow,” she added.

She was referring to the mortgage on the house, which fell due the next
September and which unquestionably could not be met. “If we could move
away from here before then, I guess we could get along.”

“I’ll do it,” said Bass determinedly. “I’ll go.”

Accordingly, he threw up his place at the end of the month, and the day
after he left for Cleveland.




CHAPTER XI


The incidents of the days that followed, relating as they did
peculiarly to Jennie, were of an order which the morality of our day
has agreed to taboo.

Certain processes of the all-mother, the great artificing wisdom of the
power that works and weaves in silence and in darkness, when viewed in
the light of the established opinion of some of the little individuals
created by it, are considered very vile. We turn our faces away from
the creation of life as if that were the last thing that man should
dare to interest himself in, openly.

It is curious that a feeling of this sort should spring up in a world
whose very essence is generative, the vast process dual, and where
wind, water, soil, and light alike minister to the fruition of that
which is all that we are. Although the whole earth, not we alone, is
moved by passions hymeneal, and everything terrestrial has come into
being by the one common road, yet there is that ridiculous tendency to
close the eyes and turn away the head as if there were something
unclean in nature itself. “Conceived in iniquity and born in sin,” is
the unnatural interpretation put upon the process by the extreme
religionist, and the world, by its silence, gives assent to a judgment
so marvelously warped.

Surely there is something radically wrong in this attitude. The
teachings of philosophy and the deductions of biology should find more
practical application in the daily reasoning of man. No process is
vile, no condition is unnatural. The accidental variation from a given
social practice does not necessarily entail sin. No poor little
earthling, caught in the enormous grip of chance, and so swerved from
the established customs of men, could possibly be guilty of that depth
of vileness which the attitude of the world would seem to predicate so
inevitably.

Jennie was now to witness the unjust interpretation of that wonder of
nature, which, but for Brander’s death, might have been consecrated and
hallowed as one of the ideal functions of life. Although herself unable
to distinguish the separateness of this from every other normal process
of life, yet was she made to feel, by the actions of all about her,
that degradation was her portion and sin the foundation as well as the
condition of her state. Almost, not quite, it was sought to extinguish
the affection, the consideration, the care which, afterward, the world
would demand of her, for her child. Almost, not quite, was the budding
and essential love looked upon as evil. Although her punishment was
neither the gibbet nor the jail of a few hundred years before, yet the
ignorance and immobility of the human beings about her made it
impossible for them to see anything in her present condition but a vile
and premeditated infraction of the social code, the punishment of which
was ostracism. All she could do now was to shun the scornful gaze of
men, and to bear in silence the great change that was coming upon her.
Strangely enough, she felt no useless remorse, no vain regrets. Her
heart was pure, and she was conscious that it was filled with peace.
Sorrow there was, it is true, but only a mellow phase of it, a vague
uncertainty and wonder, which would sometimes cause her eyes to fill
with tears.

You have heard the wood-dove calling in the lone stillness of the
summertime; you have found the unheeded brooklet singing and babbling
where no ear comes to hear. Under dead leaves and snow-banks the
delicate arbutus unfolds its simple blossom, answering some heavenly
call for color. So, too, this other flower of womanhood.

Jennie was left alone, but, like the wood-dove, she was a voice of
sweetness in the summer-time. Going about her household duties, she was
content to wait, without a murmur, the fulfilment of that process for
which, after all, she was but the sacrificial implement. When her
duties were lightest she was content to sit in quiet meditation, the
marvel of life holding her as in a trance. When she was hardest pressed
to aid her mother, she would sometimes find herself quietly singing,
the pleasure of work lifting her out of herself. Always she was content
to face the future with a serene and unfaltering courage. It is not so
with all women. Nature is unkind in permitting the minor type to bear a
child at all. The larger natures in their maturity welcome motherhood,
see in it the immense possibilities of racial fulfilment, and find joy
and satisfaction in being the hand-maiden of so immense a purpose.

Jennie, a child in years, was potentially a woman physically and
mentally, but not yet come into rounded conclusions as to life and her
place in it. The great situation which had forced her into this
anomalous position was from one point of view a tribute to her
individual capacity. It proved her courage, the largeness of her
sympathy, her willingness to sacrifice for what she considered a worthy
cause. That it resulted in an unexpected consequence, which placed upon
her a larger and more complicated burden, was due to the fact that her
sense of self-protection had not been commensurate with her emotions.
There were times when the prospective coming of the child gave her a
sense of fear and confusion, because she did not know but that the
child might eventually reproach her; but there was always that saving
sense of eternal justice in life which would not permit her to be
utterly crushed. To her way of thinking, people were not intentionally
cruel. Vague thoughts of sympathy and divine goodness permeated her
soul. Life at worst or best was beautiful—had always been so.

These thoughts did not come to her all at once, but through the months
during which she watched and waited. It was a wonderful thing to be a
mother, even under these untoward conditions. She felt that she would
love this child, would be a good mother to it if life permitted. That
was the problem—what would life permit?

There were many things to be done—clothes to be made; certain
provisions of hygiene and diet to be observed. One of her fears was
that Gerhardt might unexpectedly return, but he did not. The old family
doctor who had nursed the various members of the Gerhardt family
through their multitudinous ailments—Doctor Ellwanger—was taken into
consultation, and he gave sound and practical advice. Despite his
Lutheran upbringing, the practice of medicine in a large and kindly way
had led him to the conclusion that there are more things in heaven and
earth than are dreamed of in our philosophies and in our small
neighborhood relationships. “So it is,” he observed to Mrs. Gerhardt
when she confided to him nervously what the trouble was. “Well, you
mustn’t worry. These things happen in more places than you think. If
you knew as much about life as I do, and about your neighbors, you
would not cry. Your girl will be all right. She is very healthy. She
can go away somewhere afterward, and people will never know. Why should
you worry about what your neighbors think. It is not so uncommon as you
imagine.”

Mrs. Gerhardt marveled. He was such a wise man. It gave her a little
courage. As for Jennie, she listened to his advice with interest and
without fear. She wanted things not so much for herself as for her
child, and she was anxious to do whatever she was told. The doctor was
curious to know who the father was; when informed he lifted his eyes.
“Indeed,” he commented. “That ought to be a bright baby.”

There came the final hour when the child was ushered into the world. It
was Doctor Ellwanger who presided, assisted by the mother, who, having
brought forth six herself, knew exactly what to do. There was no
difficulty, and at the first cry of the new-born infant there awakened
in Jennie a tremendous yearning toward it. This was _her_ child! It was
weak and feeble—a little girl, and it needed her care. She took it to
her breast, when it had been bathed and swaddled, with a tremendous
sense of satisfaction and joy. This was her child, her little girl. She
wanted to live to be able to work for it, and rejoiced, even in her
weakness, that she was so strong. Doctor Ellwanger predicted a quick
recovery. He thought two weeks would be the outside limit of her need
to stay in bed. As a matter of fact, in ten days she was up and about,
as vigorous and healthy as ever. She had been born with strength and
with that nurturing quality which makes the ideal mother.

The great crisis had passed, and now life went on much as before. The
children, outside of Bass, were too young to understand fully, and had
been deceived by the story that Jennie was married to Senator Brander,
who had died. They did not know that a child was coming until it was
there. The neighbors were feared by Mrs. Gerhardt, for they were ever
watchful and really knew all. Jennie would never have braved this local
atmosphere except for the advice of Bass, who, having secured a place
in Cleveland some time before, had written that he thought when she was
well enough it would be advisable for the whole family to seek a new
start in Cleveland. Things were flourishing there. Once away they would
never hear of their present neighbors and Jennie could find something
to do. So she stayed at home.




CHAPTER XII


Bass was no sooner in Cleveland than the marvel of that growing city
was sufficient to completely restore his equanimity of soul and to stir
up new illusions as to the possibility of rehabilitation for himself
and his family. “If only they could come here,” he thought. “If only
they could all get work and do right.” Here was no evidence of any of
their recent troubles, no acquaintances who could suggest by their mere
presence the troubles of the past. All was business, all activity. The
very turning of the corner seemed to rid one of old times and crimes.
It was as if a new world existed in every block.

He soon found a place in a cigar store, and, after working a few weeks,
he began to write home the cheering ideas he had in mind. Jennie ought
to come as soon as she was able, and then, if she found something to
do, the others might follow. There was plenty of work for girls of her
age. She could live in the same house with him temporarily; or maybe
they could take one of the fifteen-dollar-a-month cottages that were
for rent. There were big general furnishing houses, where one could buy
everything needful for a small house on very easy monthly terms. His
mother could come and keep house for them. They would be in a clean,
new atmosphere, unknown and untalked about. They could start life all
over again; they could be decent, honorable, prosperous.

Filled with this hope and the glamor which new scenes and new
environment invariably throw over the unsophisticated mind, he wrote a
final letter, in which he suggested that Jennie should come at once.
This was when the baby was six months old. There were theaters here, he
said, and beautiful streets. Vessels from the lakes came into the heart
of the city. It was a wonderful city, and growing very fast. It was
thus that the new life appealed to him.

The effect which all this had upon Mrs. Gerhardt, Jennie, and the rest
of the family was phenomenal. Mrs. Gerhardt, long weighed upon by the
misery which Jennie’s error had entailed, was for taking measures for
carrying out this plan at once. So buoyant was her natural temperament
that she was completely carried away by the glory of Cleveland, and
already saw fulfilled therein not only her own desires for a nice home,
but the prosperous advancement of her children. “Of course they could
get work,” she said. Bass was right. She had always wanted Gerhardt to
go to some large city, but he would not. Now it was necessary, and they
would go and become better off than they ever had been.

And Gerhardt did take this view of the situation. In answer to his
wife’s letter he wrote that it was not advisable for him to leave his
place, but if Bass saw a way for them, it might be a good thing to go.
He was the more ready to acquiesce in the plan for the simple reason
that he was half distracted with the worry of supporting the family and
of paying the debts already outstanding. Every week he laid by five
dollars out of his salary, which he sent in the form of a postal order
to Mrs. Gerhardt. Three dollars he paid for board, and fifty cents he
kept for spending money, church dues, a little tobacco and occasionally
a glass of beer. Every week he put a dollar and a half in a little iron
bank against a rainy day. His room was a bare corner in the topmost
loft of the mill. To this he would ascend after sitting alone on the
doorstep of the mill in this lonely, foresaken neighborhood, until nine
o’clock of an evening; and here, amid the odor of machinery wafted up
from the floor below, by the light of a single tallow candle, he would
conclude his solitary day, reading his German paper, folding his hands
and thinking, kneeling by an open window in the shadow of the night to
say his prayers, and silently stretching himself to rest. Long were the
days, dreary the prospect. Still he lifted his hands in utmost faith to
God, praying that his sins might be forgiven and that he might be
vouchsafed a few more years of comfort and of happy family life.

So the momentous question was finally decided. There was the greatest
longing and impatience among the children, and Mrs. Gerhardt shared
their emotions in a suppressed way. Jennie was to go first, as Bass had
suggested; later on they would all follow.

When the hour came for Jennie’s departure there was great excitement in
the household.

“How long you going to be ’fore you send for us?” was Martha’s inquiry,
several times repeated.

“Tell Bass to hurry up,” said the eager George.

“I want to go to Cleveland, I want to go to Cleveland,” Veronica was
caught singing to herself.

“Listen to her,” exclaimed George, sarcastically.

“Aw, you hush up,” was her displeased rejoinder.

When the final hour came, however, it required all of Jennie’s strength
to go through with the farewells. Though everything was being done in
order to bring them together again under better conditions, she could
not help feeling depressed. Her little one, now six months old, was
being left behind. The great world was to her one undiscovered bourne.
It frightened her.

“You mustn’t worry, Ma,” she found courage enough to say. “I’ll be all
right. I’ll write you just as soon as I get there. It won’t be so very
long.”

But when it came to bending over her baby for the last time her courage
went out like a blown lamp. Stooping over the cradle in which the
little one was resting, she looked into its face with passionate,
motherly yearning.

“Is it going to be a good little girl?” she cooed.

Then she caught it up into her arms, and hugging it closely to her neck
and bosom, she buried her face against its little body. Mrs. Gerhardt
saw that she was trembling.

“Come now,” she said, coaxingly, “you mustn’t carry on so. She will be
all right with me. I’ll take care of her. If you’re going to act this
way, you’d better not try to go at all.”

Jennie lifted her head, her blue eyes wet with tears, and handed the
little one to her mother.

“I can’t help it,” she said, half crying, half smiling.

Quickly she kissed her mother and the children; then she hurried out.

As she went down the street with George she looked back and bravely
waved her hand. Mrs. Gerhardt responded, noticing how much more like a
woman she looked. It had been necessary to invest some of her money in
new clothes to wear on the train. She had selected a neat, ready-made
suit of brown, which fitted her nicely. She wore the skirt of this with
a white shirt-waist, and a sailor hat with a white veil wound around it
in such fashion that it could be easily drawn over her face. As she
went farther and farther away Mrs. Gerhardt followed her lovingly with
her glance; and when she disappeared from view she said tenderly,
through her own tears:

“I’m glad she looked so nice, anyhow.”




CHAPTER XIII


Bass met Jennie at the depôt in Cleveland and talked hopefully of the
prospects. “The first thing is to get work,” he began, while the
jingling sounds and the changing odors which the city thrust upon her
were confusing and almost benumbing her senses. “Get something to do.
It doesn’t matter what, so long as you get something. If you don’t get
more than three or four dollars a week, it will pay the rent. Then,
with what George can earn, when he comes, and what Pop sends, we can
get along all right. It’ll be better than being down in that hole,” he
concluded.

“Yes,” said Jennie, vaguely, her mind so hypnotized by the new display
of life about her that she could not bring it forcibly to bear upon the
topic under discussion. “I know what you mean. I’ll get something.”

She was much older now, in understanding if not in years. The ordeal
through which she had so recently passed had aroused in her a clearer
conception of the responsibilities of life. Her mother was always in
her mind, her mother and the children. In particular Martha and
Veronica must have a better opportunity to do for themselves than she
had had. They should be dressed better; they ought to be kept longer in
school; they must have more companionship, more opportunity to broaden
their lives.

Cleveland, like every other growing city at this time, was crowded with
those who were seeking employment. New enterprises were constantly
springing up, but those who were seeking to fulfil the duties they
provided were invariably in excess of the demand. A stranger coming to
the city might walk into a small position of almost any kind on the
very day he arrived; and he might as readily wander in search of
employment for weeks and even months. Bass suggested the shops and
department stores as a first field in which to inquire. The factories
and other avenues of employment were to be her second choice.

“Don’t pass a place, though,” he had cautioned her, “if you think
there’s any chance of getting anything to do. Go right in.”

“What must I say?” asked Jennie, nervously.

“Tell them you want work. You don’t care what you do to begin with.”

In compliance with this advice, Jennie set out the very first day, and
was rewarded by some very chilly experiences. Wherever she went, no one
seemed to want any help. She applied at the stores, the factories, the
little shops that lined the outlying thoroughfares, but was always met
by a rebuff. As a last resource she turned to housework, although she
had hoped to avoid that; and, studying the want columns, she selected
four which seemed more promising than the others. To these she decided
to apply. One had already been filled when she arrived, but the lady
who came to the door was so taken by her appearance that she invited
her in and questioned her as to her ability.

“I wish you had come a little earlier,” she said. “I like you better
than I do the girl I have taken. Leave me your address, anyhow.”

Jennie went away, smiling at her reception. She was not quite so
youthful looking as she had been before her recent trouble, but the
thinner cheeks and the slightly deeper eyes added to the pensiveness
and delicacy of her countenance. She was a model of neatness. Her
clothes, all newly cleaned and ironed before leaving home, gave her a
fresh and inviting appearance. There was growth coming to her in the
matter of height, but already in appearance and intelligence she looked
to be a young woman of twenty. Best of all, she was of that naturally
sunny disposition, which, in spite of toil and privation, kept her
always cheerful. Any one in need of a servant-girl or house companion
would have been delighted to have had her.

The second place at which she applied was a large residence in Euclid
Avenue; it seemed far too imposing for anything she might have to offer
in the way of services, but having come so far she decided to make the
attempt. The servant who met her at the door directed her to wait a few
moments, and finally ushered her into the boudoir of the mistress of
the house on the second floor. The latter, a Mrs. Bracebridge, a
prepossessing brunette of the conventionally fashionable type, had a
keen eye for feminine values and was impressed rather favorably with
Jennie. She talked with her a little while, and finally decided to try
her in the general capacity of maid.

“I will give you four dollars a week, and you can sleep here if you
wish,” said Mrs. Bracebridge.

Jennie explained that she was living with her brother, and would soon
have her family with her.

“Oh, very well,” replied her mistress. “Do as you like about that. Only
I expect you to be here promptly.”

She wished her to remain for the day and to begin her duties at once,
and Jennie agreed. Mrs. Bracebridge provided her a dainty cap and
apron, and then spent some little time in instructing her in her
duties. Her principal work would be to wait on her mistress, to brush
her hair and to help her dress. She was also to answer the bell, wait
on the table if need be, and do any other errand which her mistress
might indicate. Mrs. Bracebridge seemed a little hard and formal to her
prospective servant, but for all that Jennie admired the dash and go
and the obvious executive capacity of her employer.

At eight o’clock that evening Jennie was dismissed for the day. She
wondered if she could be of any use in such a household, and marveled
that she had got along as well as she had. Her mistress had set her to
cleaning her jewelry and boudoir ornaments as an opening task, and
though she had worked steadily and diligently, she had not finished by
the time she left. She hurried away to her brother’s apartment,
delighted to be able to report that she had found a situation. Now her
mother could come to Cleveland. Now she could have her baby with her.
Now they could really begin that new life which was to be so much
better and finer and sweeter than anything they had ever had before.

At Bass’s suggestion Jennie wrote her mother to come at once, and a
week or so later a suitable house was found and rented. Mrs. Gerhardt,
with the aid of the children, packed up the simple belongings of the
family, including a single vanload of furniture, and at the end of a
fortnight they were on their way to the new home.

Mrs. Gerhardt always had had a keen desire for a really comfortable
home. Solid furniture, upholstered and trimmed, a thick, soft carpet of
some warm, pleasing color, plenty of chairs, settees, pictures, a
lounge, and a piano—she had wanted these nice things all her life, but
her circumstances had never been good enough for her hopes to be
realized. Still she did not despair. Some day, maybe, before she died
these things would be added to her, and she would be happy. Perhaps her
chance was coming now.

Arrived at Cleveland, this feeling of optimism was encouraged by the
sight of Jennie’s cheerful face. Bass assured her that they would get
along all right. He took them out to the house, and George was shown
the way to go back to the depôt and have the freight looked after. Mrs.
Gerhardt had still fifty dollars left out of the money which Senator
Brander had sent to Jennie, and with this a way of getting a little
extra furniture on the instalment plan was provided. Bass had already
paid the first month’s rent, and Jennie had spent her evenings for the
last few days in washing the windows and floors of this new house and
in getting it into a state of perfect cleanliness. Now, when the first
night fell, they had two new mattresses and comfortables spread upon a
clean floor; a new lamp, purchased from one of the nearby stores, a
single box, borrowed by Jennie from a grocery store, for cleaning
purposes, upon which Mrs. Gerhardt could sit, and some sausages and
bread to stay them until morning. They talked and planned for the
future until nine o’clock came, when all but Jennie and her mother
retired. These two talked on, the burden of responsibilities resting on
the daughter. Mrs. Gerhardt had come to feel in a way dependent upon
her.

In the course of a week the entire cottage was in order, with a
half-dozen pieces of new furniture, a new carpet, and some necessary
kitchen utensils. The most disturbing thing was the need of a new
cooking-stove, the cost of which added greatly to the bill. The younger
children were entered at the public school, but it was decided that
George must find some employment. Both Jennie and her mother felt the
injustice of this keenly, but knew no way of preventing the sacrifice.

“We will let him go to school next year if we can,” said Jennie.

Auspiciously as the new life seemed to have begun, the closeness with
which their expenses were matching their income was an ever-present
menace. Bass, originally very generous in his propositions, soon
announced that he felt four dollars a week for his room and board to be
a sufficient contribution from himself. Jennie gave everything she
earned, and protested that she did not stand in need of anything, so
long as the baby was properly taken care of. George secured a place as
an overgrown cash-boy, and brought in two dollars and fifty cents a
week, all of which, at first, he gladly contributed. Later on he was
allowed the fifty cents for himself as being meet and just. Gerhardt,
from his lonely post of labor, contributed five dollars by mail, always
arguing that a little money ought to be saved in order that his honest
debts back in Columbus might be paid. Out of this total income of
fifteen dollars a week all of these individuals had to be fed and
clothed, the rent paid, coal purchased, and the regular monthly
instalment of three dollars paid on the outstanding furniture bill of
fifty dollars.

How it was done, those comfortable individuals, who frequently discuss
the social aspects of poverty, might well trouble to inform themselves.
Rent, coal, and light alone consumed the goodly sum of twenty dollars a
month; food, another unfortunately necessary item, used up twenty-five
more; clothes, instalments, dues, occasional items of medicine and the
like, were met out of the remaining eleven dollars—how, the ardent
imagination of the comfortable reader can guess. It was done, however,
and for a time the hopeful members considered that they were doing
fairly well.

During this period the little family presented a picture of honorable
and patient toil, which was interesting to contemplate. Every day Mrs.
Gerhardt, who worked like a servant and who received absolutely no
compensation either in clothes, amusements, or anything else, arose in
the morning while the others slept, and built the fire. Then she took
up the task of getting the breakfast. Often as she moved about
noiselessly in her thin, worn slippers, cushioned with pieces of
newspaper to make them fit, she looked in on Jennie, Bass, and George,
wrapped in their heavy slumbers, and with that divine sympathy which is
born in heaven she wished that they did not need to rise so early or to
work so hard. Sometimes she would pause before touching her beloved
Jennie, gaze at her white face, so calm in sleep, and lament that life
had not dealt more kindly with her. Then she would lay her hand gently
upon her shoulder and whisper, “Jennie, Jennie,” until the weary
sleeper would wake.

When they arose breakfast was always ready. When they returned at night
supper was waiting. Each of the children received a due share of Mrs.
Gerhardt’s attention. The little baby was closely looked after by her.
She protested that she needed neither clothes nor shoes so long as one
of the children would run errands for her.

Jennie, of all the children, fully understood her mother; she alone
strove, with the fullness of a perfect affection, to ease her burden.

“Ma, you let me do this.”

“Now, ma, I’ll ’tend to that.”

“You go sit down, ma.”

These were the every-day expressions of the enduring affection that
existed between them. Always there was perfect understanding between
Jennie and her mother, and as the days passed this naturally widened
and deepened. Jennie could not bear to think of her as being always
confined to the house. Daily she thought as she worked of that humble
home where her mother was watching and waiting. How she longed to give
her those comforts which she had always craved!




CHAPTER XIV


The days spent in the employ of the Bracebridge household were of a
broadening character. This great house was a school to Jennie, not only
in the matter of dress and manners, but as formulating a theory of
existence. Mrs. Bracebridge and her husband were the last word in the
matter of self-sufficiency, taste in the matter of appointments, care
in the matter of dress, good form in the matter of reception,
entertainment, and the various usages of social life. Now and then,
apropos of nothing save her own mood, Mrs. Bracebridge would indicate
her philosophy of life in an epigram.

“Life is a battle, my dear. If you gain anything you will have to fight
for it.”

“In my judgment it is silly not to take advantage of any aid which will
help you to be what you want to be.” (This while applying a faint
suggestion of rouge.)

“Most people are born silly. They are exactly what they are capable of
being. I despise lack of taste; it is the worst crime.”

Most of these worldly-wise counsels were not given directly to Jennie.
She overheard them, but to her quiet and reflective mind they had their
import. Like seeds fallen upon good ground, they took root and grew.
She began to get a faint perception of hierarchies and powers. They
were not for her, perhaps, but they were in the world, and if fortune
were kind one might better one’s state. She worked on, wondering,
however, just how better fortune might come to her. Who would have her
to wife knowing her history? How could she ever explain the existence
of her child?

Her child, her child, the one transcendent, gripping theme of joy and
fear. If she could only do something for it—sometime, somehow!

For the first winter things went smoothly enough. By the closest
economy the children were clothed and kept in school, the rent paid,
and the instalments met. Once it looked as though there might be some
difficulty about the continuance of the home life, and that was when
Gerhardt wrote that he would be home for Christmas. The mill was to
close down for a short period at that time. He was naturally anxious to
see what the new life of his family at Cleveland was like.

Mrs. Gerhardt would have welcomed his return with unalloyed pleasure
had it not been for the fear she entertained of his creating a scene.
Jennie talked it over with her mother, and Mrs. Gerhardt in turn spoke
of it to Bass, whose advice was to brave it out.

“Don’t worry,” he said; “he won’t do anything about it. I’ll talk to
him if he says anything.”

The scene did occur, but it was not so unpleasant as Mrs. Gerhardt had
feared. Gerhardt came home during the afternoon, while Bass, Jennie,
and George were at work. Two of the younger children went to the train
to meet him. When he entered Mrs. Gerhardt greeted him affectionately,
but she trembled for the discovery which was sure to come. Her suspense
was not for long. Gerhardt opened the front bedroom door only a few
minutes after he arrived. On the white counterpane of the bed was a
pretty child, sleeping. He could not but know on the instant whose it
was, but he pretended ignorance.

“Whose child is that?” he questioned.

“It’s Jennie’s,” said Mrs. Gerhardt, weakly.

“When did that come here?”

“Not so very long ago,” answered the mother, nervously.

“I guess she is here, too,” he declared, contemptuously, refusing to
pronounce her name, a fact which he had already anticipated.

“She’s working in a family,” returned his wife in a pleading tone.
“She’s doing so well now. She had no place to go. Let her alone.”

Gerhardt had received a light since he had been away. Certain
inexplicable thoughts and feelings had come to him in his religious
meditations. In his prayers he had admitted to the All-seeing that he
might have done differently by his daughter. Yet he could not make up
his mind how to treat her for the future. She had committed a great
sin; it was impossible to get away from that.

When Jennie came home that night a meeting was unavoidable. Gerhardt
saw her coming, and pretended to be deeply engaged in a newspaper. Mrs.
Gerhardt, who had begged him not to ignore Jennie entirely, trembled
for fear he would say or do something which would hurt her feelings.

“She is coming now,” she said, crossing to the door of the front room,
where he was sitting; but Gerhardt refused to look up. “Speak to her,
anyhow,” was her last appeal before the door opened; but he made no
reply.

When Jennie came in her mother whispered, “He is in the front room.”

Jennie paled, put her thumb to her lip and stood irresolute, not
knowing how to meet the situation.

“Has he seen?”

Jennie paused as she realized from her mother’s face and nod that
Gerhardt knew of the child’s existence.

“Go ahead,” said Mrs. Gerhardt; “it’s all right. He won’t say
anything.”

Jennie finally went to the door, and, seeing her father, his brow
wrinkled as if in serious but not unkindly thought, she hesitated, but
made her way forward.

“Papa,” she said, unable to formulate a definite sentence.

Gerhardt looked up, his grayish-brown eyes a study under their heavy
sandy lashes. At the sight of his daughter he weakened internally; but
with the self-adjusted armor of resolve about him he showed no sign of
pleasure at seeing her. All the forces of his conventional
understanding of morality and his naturally sympathetic and fatherly
disposition were battling within him, but, as in so many cases where
the average mind is concerned, convention was temporarily the victor.

“Yes,” he said.

“Won’t you forgive me, Papa?”

“I do,” he returned grimly.

She hesitated a moment, and then stepped forward, for what purpose he
well understood.

“There,” he said, pushing her gently away, as her lips barely touched
his grizzled cheek.

It had been a frigid meeting.

When Jennie went out into the kitchen after this very trying ordeal she
lifted her eyes to her waiting mother and tried to make it seem as
though all had been well, but her emotional disposition got the better
of her.

“Did he make up to you?” her mother was about to ask; but the words
were only half out of her mouth before her daughter sank down into one
of the chairs close to the kitchen table and, laying her head on her
arm, burst forth into soft, convulsive, inaudible sobs.

“Now, now,” said Mrs. Gerhardt. “There now, don’t cry. What did he
say?”

It was some time before Jennie recovered herself sufficiently to
answer. Her mother tried to treat the situation lightly.

“I wouldn’t feel bad,” she said. “He’ll get over it. It’s his way.”




CHAPTER XV


The return of Gerhardt brought forward the child question in all its
bearings. He could not help considering it from the standpoint of a
grandparent, particularly since it was a human being possessed of a
soul. He wondered if it had been baptized. Then he inquired.

“No, not yet,” said his wife, who had not forgotten this duty, but had
been uncertain whether the little one would be welcome in the faith.

“No, of course not,” sneered Gerhardt, whose opinion of his wife’s
religious devotion was not any too great. “Such carelessness! Such
irreligion! That is a fine thing.”

He thought it over a few moments, and felt that this evil should be
corrected at once.

“It should be baptized,” he said. “Why don’t she take it and have it
baptized?”

Mrs. Gerhardt reminded him that some one would have to stand godfather
to the child, and there was no way to have the ceremony performed
without confessing the fact that it was without a legitimate father.

Gerhardt listened to this, and it quieted him for a few moments, but
his religion was something which he could not see put in the background
by any such difficulty. How would the Lord look upon quibbling like
this? It was not Christian, and it was his duty to attend to the
matter. It must be taken, forthwith, to the church, Jennie, himself,
and his wife accompanying it as sponsors; or, if he did not choose to
condescend thus far to his daughter, he must see that it was baptized
when she was not present. He brooded over this difficulty, and finally
decided that the ceremony should take place on one of these week-days
between Christmas and New Year’s, when Jennie would be at her work.
This proposal he broached to his wife, and, receiving her approval, he
made his next announcement. “It has no name,” he said.

Jennie and her mother had talked over this very matter, and Jennie had
expressed a preference for Vesta. Now her mother made bold to suggest
it as her own choice.

“How would Vesta do?”

Gerhardt heard this with indifference. Secretly he had settled the
question in his own mind. He had a name in store, left over from the
halcyon period of his youth, and never opportunely available in the
case of his own children—Wilhelmina. Of course he had no idea of
unbending in the least toward his small granddaughter. He merely liked
the name, and the child ought to be grateful to get it. With a far-off,
gingery air he brought forward this first offering upon the altar of
natural affection, for offering it was, after all.

“That is nice,” he said, forgetting his indifference. “But how would
Wilhelmina do?”

Mrs. Gerhardt did not dare cross him when he was thus unconsciously
weakening. Her woman’s tact came to the rescue.

“We might give her both names,” she compromised.

“It makes no difference to me,” he replied, drawing back into the shell
of opposition from which he had been inadvertently drawn. “Just so she
is baptized.”

Jennie heard of this with pleasure, for she was anxious that the child
should have every advantage, religious or otherwise, that it was
possible to obtain. She took great pains to starch and iron the clothes
it was to wear on the appointed day.

Gerhardt sought out the minister of the nearest Lutheran church, a
round-headed, thick-set theologian of the most formal type, to whom he
stated his errand.

“Your grandchild?” inquired the minister.

“Yes,” said Gerhardt, “her father is not here.”

“So,” replied the minister, looking at him curiously.

Gerhardt was not to be disturbed in his purpose. He explained that he
and his wife would bring her. The minister, realizing the probable
difficulty, did not question him further.

“The church cannot refuse to baptize her so long as you, as
grandparent, are willing to stand sponsor for her,” he said.

Gerhardt came away, hurt by the shadow of disgrace in which he felt
himself involved, but satisfied that he had done his duty. Now he would
take the child and have it baptized, and when that was over his present
responsibility would cease.

When it came to the hour of the baptism, however, he found that another
influence was working to guide him into greater interest and
responsibility. The stern religion with which he was enraptured, its
insistence upon a higher law, was there, and he heard again the
precepts which had helped to bind him to his own children.

“Is it your intention to educate this child in the knowledge and love
of the gospel?” asked the black-gowned minister, as they stood before
him in the silent little church whither they had brought the infant; he
was reading from the form provided for such occasions. Gerhardt
answered “Yes,” and Mrs. Gerhardt added her affirmative.

“Do you engage to use all necessary care and diligence, by prayerful
instruction, admonition, example, and discipline that this child may
renounce and avoid everything that is evil and that she may keep God’s
will and commandments as declared in His sacred word?”

A thought flashed through Gerhardt’s mind as the words were uttered of
how it had fared with his own children. They, too, had been thus
sponsored. They too, had heard his solemn pledge to care for their
spiritual welfare. He was silent.

“We do,” prompted the minister.

“We do,” repeated Gerhardt and his wife weakly.

“Do you now dedicate this child by the rite of baptism unto the Lord,
who brought it?”

“We do.”

“And, finally, if you can conscientiously declare before God that the
faith to which you have assented is your faith, and that the solemn
promises you have made are the serious resolutions of your heart,
please to announce the same in the presence of God, by saying ‘Yes.’”

“Yes,” they replied.

“I baptize thee, Wilhelmina Vesta,” concluded the minister, stretching
out his hand over her, “in the name of the Father and of the Son and of
the Holy Ghost. Let us pray.”

Gerhardt bent his gray head and followed with humble reverence the
beautiful invocation which followed:

“Almighty and everlasting God! we adore Thee as the great Parent of the
children of men, as the Father of our spirits and the Former of our
bodies. We praise Thee for giving existence to this infant and for
preserving her until this day. We bless Thee that she is called to
virtue and glory, that she has now been dedicated to Thee, and brought
within-the pale of the Christian Church. We thank Thee that by the
Gospel of the Son she is furnished with everything necessary to her
spiritual happiness; that it supplies light for her mind and comfort
for her heart, encouragement and power to discharge her duty, and the
precious hope of mercy and immortality to sustain and make her
faithful. And we beseech Thee, O most merciful God, that this child may
be enlightened and sanctified from her early years by the Holy Spirit,
and be everlastingly saved by Thy mercy. Direct and bless Thy servants
who are intrusted with the care of her in the momentous work of her
education. Inspire them with just conception of the absolute necessity
of religious instruction and principles. Forbid that they should ever
forget that this offspring belongs to Thee, and that, if through their
criminal neglect or bad example Thy reasonable creature be lost, Thou
wilt require it at their hands. Give them a deep sense of the divinity
of her nature, of the worth of her soul, of the dangers to which she
will be exposed, of the honor and felicity to which she is capable of
ascending with Thy blessing, and of the ruin in this world and the
misery in the world to come which springs from wicked passion and
conduct. Give them grace to check the first risings of forbidden
inclinations in her breast, to be her defense against the temptations
incident to childhood and youth, and, as she grows up, to enlarge her
understanding and to lead her to an acquaintance with Thee and with
Jesus Christ, whom Thou hast sent. Give them grace to cultivate in her
heart a supreme reverence and love for Thee, a grateful attachment to
the Gospel of Thy Son, her Saviour, a due regard for all its ordinances
and institutions, a temper of kindness and goodwill to all mankind, and
an invincible love of sincerity and truth. Help them to watch
continually over her with tender solicitude, to be studious, that by
their conversation and deportment her heart may not be corrupted, and
at all times to set before her such an example that she may safely
tread in their footsteps. If it please Thee to prolong her days on
earth, grant that she may prove an honor and a comfort to her parents
and friends, be useful in the world, and find in Thy Providence an
unfailing defense and support. Whether she live, let her live to Thee;
or whether she die, let her die to Thee. And, at the great day of
account, may she and her parents meet each other with rapture and
rejoice together in Thy redeeming love, through Jesus Christ, forever
and ever, Amen.”

As this solemn admonition was read a feeling of obligation descended
upon the grandfather of this little outcast; a feeling that he was
bound to give the tiny creature lying on his wife’s arm the care and
attention which God in His sacrament had commanded. He bowed his head
in utmost reverence, and when the service was concluded and they left
the silent church he was without words to express his feelings.
Religion was a consuming thing with him. God was a person, a dominant
reality. Religion was not a thing of mere words or of interesting ideas
to be listened to on Sunday, but a strong, vital expression of the
Divine Will handed down from a time when men were in personal contact
with God. Its fulfilment was a matter of joy and salvation with him,
the one consolation of a creature sent to wander in a vale whose
explanation was not here but in heaven. Slowly Gerhardt walked on, and
as he brooded on the words and the duties which the sacrament involved
the shade of lingering disgust that had possessed him when he had taken
the child to church disappeared and a feeling of natural affection took
its place. However much the daughter had sinned, the infant was not to
blame. It was a helpless, puling, tender thing, demanding his sympathy
and his love. Gerhardt felt his heart go out to the little child, and
yet he could not yield his position all in a moment.

“That is a nice man,” he said of the minister to his wife as they
walked along, rapidly softening in his conception of his duty.

“Yes, he was,” agreed Mrs. Gerhardt timidly.

“It’s a good-sized little church,” he continued.

“Yes.”

Gerhardt looked around him, at the street, the houses, the show of
brisk life on this sunshiny, winter’s day, and then finally at the
child that his wife was carrying.

“She must be heavy,” he said, in his characteristic German. “Let me
take her.”

Mrs. Gerhardt, who was rather weary, did not refuse.

“There!” he said, as he looked at her and then fixed her comfortably
upon his shoulder. “Let us hope she proves worthy of all that has been
done to-day.”

Mrs. Gerhardt listened, and the meaning in his voice interpreted itself
plainly enough. The presence of the child in the house might be the
cause of recurring spells of depression and unkind words, but there
would be another and greater influence restraining him. There would
always be her soul to consider. He would never again be utterly
unconscious of her soul.




CHAPTER XVI


During the remainder of Gerhardt’s stay he was shy in Jennie’s presence
and endeavored to act as though he were unconscious of her existence.
When the time came for parting he even went away without bidding her
good-by, telling his wife she might do that for him; but after he was
actually on his way back to Youngstown he regretted the omission. “I
might have bade her good-by,” he thought to himself as the train
rumbled heavily along. But it was too late.

For the time being the affairs of the Gerhardt family drifted. Jennie
continued her work with Mrs. Bracebridge. Sebastian fixed himself
firmly in his clerkship in the cigar store. George was promoted to the
noble sum of three dollars, and then three-fifty. It was a narrow,
humdrum life the family led. Coal, groceries, shoes, and clothing were
the uppermost topics of their conversation; every one felt the stress
and strain of trying to make ends meet.

That which worried Jennie most, and there were many things which
weighed upon her sensitive soul, was the outcome of her own life—not so
much for herself as for her baby and the family. She could not really
see where she fitted in. “Who would have me?” she asked herself over
and over. “How was she to dispose of Vesta in the event of a new love
affair?” Such a contingency was quite possible. She was young,
good-looking, and men were inclined to flirt with her, or rather to
attempt it. The Bracebridges entertained many masculine guests, and
some of them had made unpleasant overtures to her.

“My dear, you’re a very pretty girl,” said one old rake of fifty-odd
when she knocked at his door one morning to give him a message from his
hostess.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, confusedly, and colored.

“Indeed, you’re quite sweet. And you needn’t beg my pardon. I’d like to
talk to you some time.”

He attempted to chuck her under the chin, but Jennie hurried away. She
would have reported the matter to her mistress but a nervous shame
deterred her. “Why would men always be doing this?” she thought. Could
it be because there was something innately bad about her, an inward
corruption that attracted its like?

It is a curious characteristic of the non-defensive disposition that it
is like a honey-jar to flies. Nothing is brought to it and much is
taken away. Around a soft, yielding, unselfish disposition men swarm
naturally. They sense this generosity, this non-protective attitude
from afar. A girl like Jennie is like a comfortable fire to the average
masculine mind; they gravitate to it, seek its sympathy, yearn to
possess it. Hence she was annoyed by many unwelcome attentions.

One day there arrived from Cincinnati a certain Lester Kane, the son of
a wholesale carriage builder of great trade distinction in that city
and elsewhere throughout the country, who was wont to visit this house
frequently in a social way. He was a friend of Mrs. Bracebridge more
than of her husband, for the former had been raised in Cincinnati and
as a girl had visited at his father’s house. She knew his mother, his
brother and sisters and to all intents and purposes socially had always
been considered one of the family.

“Lester’s coming to-morrow, Henry,” Jennie heard Mrs. Bracebridge tell
her husband. “I had a wire from him this noon. He’s such a scamp. I’m
going to give him the big east front room up-stairs. Be sociable and
pay him some attention. His father was so good to me.”

“I know it,” said her husband calmly. “I like Lester. He’s the biggest
one in that family. But he’s too indifferent. He doesn’t care enough.”

“I know; but he’s so nice. I do think he’s one of the nicest men I ever
knew.”

“I’ll be decent to him. Don’t I always do pretty well by your people?”

“Yes, pretty well.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he replied, dryly.

When this notable person arrived Jennie was prepared to see some one of
more than ordinary importance, and she was not disappointed. There came
into the reception-hall to greet her mistress a man of perhaps
thirty-six years of age, above the medium in height, clear-eyed,
firm-jawed, athletic, direct, and vigorous. He had a deep, resonant
voice that carried clearly everywhere; people somehow used to stop and
listen whether they knew him or not. He was simple and abrupt in his
speech.

“Oh, there you are,” he began. “I’m glad to see you again. How’s Mr.
Bracebridge? How’s Fannie?”

He asked his questions forcefully, whole-heartedly, and his hostess
answered with an equal warmth. “I’m glad to see you, Lester,” she said.
“George will take your things up-stairs. Come up into my room. It’s
more comfy. How are grandpa and Louise?”

He followed her up the stairs, and Jennie, who had been standing at the
head of the stairs listening, felt the magnetic charm of his
personality. It seemed, why she could hardly say, that a real personage
had arrived. The house was cheerier. The attitude of her mistress was
much more complaisant. Everybody seemed to feel that something must be
done for this man.

Jennie went about her work, but the impression persisted; his name ran
in her mind. Lester Kane. And he was from Cincinnati. She looked at him
now and then on the sly, and felt, for the first time in her life, an
interest in a man on his own account. He was so big, so handsome, so
forceful. She wondered what his business was. At the same time she felt
a little dread of him. Once she caught him looking at her with a
steady, incisive stare. She quailed inwardly, and took the first
opportunity to get out of his presence. Another time he tried to
address a few remarks to her, but she pretended that her duties called
her away. She knew that often his eyes were on her when her back was
turned, and it made her nervous. She wanted to run away from him,
although there was no very definite reason why she should do so.

As a matter of fact, this man, so superior to Jennie in wealth,
education, and social position, felt an instinctive interest in her
unusual personality. Like the others, he was attracted by the peculiar
softness of her disposition and her pre-eminent femininity. There was
that about her which suggested the luxury of love. He felt as if
somehow she could be reached why, he could not have said. She did not
bear any outward marks of her previous experience. There were no
evidences of coquetry about her, but still he “felt that he might.” He
was inclined to make the venture on his first visit, but business
called him away; he left after four days and was absent from Cleveland
for three weeks. Jennie thought he was gone for good, and she
experienced a queer sense of relief as well as of regret. Then,
suddenly, he returned. He came apparently unexpectedly, explaining to
Mrs. Bracebridge that business interests again demanded his presence in
Cleveland. As he spoke he looked at Jennie sharply, and she felt as if
somehow his presence might also concern her a little.

On this second visit she had various opportunities of seeing him, at
breakfast, where she sometimes served, at dinner, when she could see
the guests at the table from the parlor or sitting-room, and at odd
times when he came to Mrs. Bracebridge’s boudoir to talk things over.
They were very friendly.

“Why don’t you settle down, Lester, and get married?” Jennie heard her
say to him the second day he was there. “You know it’s time.”

“I know,” he replied, “but I’m in no mood for that. I want to browse
around a little while yet.”

“Yes, I know about your browsing. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
Your father is really worried.”

He chuckled amusedly. “Father doesn’t worry much about me. He has got
all he can attend to to look after the business.”

Jennie looked at him curiously. She scarcely understood what she was
thinking, but this man drew her. If she had realized in what way she
would have fled his presence then and there.

Now he was more insistent in his observation of her—addressed an
occasional remark to her—engaged her in brief, magnetic conversations.
She could not help answering him—he was pleasing to her. Once he came
across her in the hall on the second floor searching in a locker for
some linen. They were all alone, Mrs. Bracebridge having gone out to do
some morning shopping and the other servants being below stairs. On
this occasion he made short work of the business. He approached her in
a commanding, unhesitating, and thoroughly determined way.

“I want to talk to you,” he said. “Where do you live?”

“I—I—” she stammered, and blanched perceptibly. “I live out on Lorrie
Street.”

“What number?” he questioned, as though she were compelled to tell him.

She quailed and shook inwardly. “Thirteen fourteen,” she replied
mechanically.

He looked into her big, soft-blue eyes with his dark, vigorous brown
ones. A flash that was hypnotic, significant, insistent passed between
them.

“You belong to me,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you. When can I see
you?”

“Oh, you mustn’t,” she said, her fingers going nervously to her lips.
“I can’t see you—I—I—”

“Oh, I mustn’t, mustn’t I? Look here”—he took her arm and drew her
slightly closer—“you and I might as well understand each other right
now. I like you. Do you like me? Say?”

She looked at him, her eyes wide, filled with wonder, with fear, with a
growing terror.

“I don’t know,” she gasped, her lips dry.

“Do you?” He fixed her grimly, firmly with his eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“Look at me,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied.

He pulled her to him quickly. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said, and
put his lips masterfully to hers.

She was horrified, stunned, like a bird in the grasp of a cat; but
through it all something tremendously vital and insistent was speaking
to her. He released her with a short laugh. “We won’t do any more of
this here, but, remember, you belong to me,” he said, as he turned and
walked nonchalantly down the hall. Jennie, in sheer panic, ran to her
mistress’s room and locked the door behind her.




CHAPTER XVII


The shock of this sudden encounter was so great to Jennie that she was
hours in recovering herself. At first she did not understand clearly
just what had happened. Out of clear sky, as it were, this astonishing
thing had taken place. She had yielded herself to another man. Why?
Why? she asked herself, and yet within her own consciousness there was
an answer. Though she could not explain her own emotions, she belonged
to him temperamentally and he belonged to her.

There is a fate in love and a fate in fight. This strong, intellectual
bear of a man, son of a wealthy manufacturer, stationed, so far as
material conditions were concerned, in a world immensely superior to
that in which Jennie moved, was, nevertheless, instinctively,
magnetically, and chemically drawn to this poor serving-maid. She was
his natural affinity, though he did not know it—the one woman who
answered somehow the biggest need of his nature. Lester Kane had known
all sorts of women, rich and poor, the highly bred maidens of his own
class, the daughters of the proletariat, but he had never yet found one
who seemed to combine for him the traits of an ideal woman—sympathy,
kindliness of judgment, youth, and beauty. Yet this ideal remained
fixedly seated in the back of his brain—when the right woman appeared
he intended to take her. He had the notion that, for purposes of
marriage, he ought perhaps to find this woman on his own plane. For
purposes of temporary happiness he might take her from anywhere,
leaving marriage, of course, out of the question. He had no idea of
making anything like a serious proposal to a servant-girl. But Jennie
was different. He had never seen a servant quite like her. And she was
lady-like and lovely without appearing to know it. Why, this girl was a
rare flower. Why shouldn’t he try to seize her? Let us be just to
Lester Kane; let us try to understand him and his position. Not every
mind is to be estimated by the weight of a single folly; not every
personality is to be judged by the drag of a single passion. We live in
an age in which the impact of materialized forces is well-nigh
irresistible; the spiritual nature is overwhelmed by the shock. The
tremendous and complicated development of our material civilization,
the multiplicity, and variety of our social forms, the depth, subtlety,
and sophistry of our imaginative impressions, gathered, remultiplied,
and disseminated by such agencies as the railroad, the express and the
post-office, the telephone, the telegraph, the newspaper, and, in
short, the whole machinery of social intercourse—these elements of
existence combine to produce what may be termed a kaleidoscopic
glitter, a dazzling and confusing phantasmagoria of life that wearies
and stultifies the mental and moral nature. It induces a sort of
intellectual fatigue through which we see the ranks of the victims of
insomnia, melancholia, and insanity constantly recruited. Our modern
brain-pan does not seem capable as yet of receiving, sorting, and
storing the vast army of facts and impressions which present themselves
daily. The white light of publicity is too white. We are weighed upon
by too many things. It is as if the wisdom of the infinite were
struggling to beat itself into finite and cup-big minds.

Lester Kane was the natural product of these untoward conditions. His
was a naturally observing mind, Rabelaisian in its strength and
tendencies, but confused by the multiplicity of things, the vastness of
the panorama of life, the glitter of its details, the unsubstantial
nature of its forms, the uncertainty of their justification. Born a
Catholic, he was no longer a believer in the divine inspiration of
Catholicism; raised a member of the social elect, he had ceased to
accept the fetish that birth and station presuppose any innate
superiority; brought up as the heir to a comfortable fortune and
expected to marry in his own sphere, he was by no means sure that he
wanted marriage on any terms. Of course the conjugal state was an
institution. It was established. Yes, certainly. But what of it? The
whole nation believed in it. True, but other nations believed in
polygamy. There were other questions that bothered him—such questions
as the belief in a single deity or ruler of the universe, and whether a
republican, monarchial, or aristocratic form of government were best.
In short, the whole body of things material, social, and spiritual had
come under the knife of his mental surgery and been left but half
dissected. Life was not proved to him. Not a single idea of his, unless
it were the need of being honest, was finally settled. In all other
things he wavered, questioned, procrastinated, leaving to time and to
the powers back of the universe the solution of the problems that vexed
him. Yes, Lester Kane was the natural product of a combination of
elements—religious, commercial, social—modified by that pervading
atmosphere of liberty in our national life which is productive of
almost uncounted freedom of thought and action. Thirty-six years of
age, and apparently a man of vigorous, aggressive, and sound
personality, he was, nevertheless, an essentially animal-man,
pleasantly veneered by education and environment. Like the hundreds of
thousands of Irishmen who in his father’s day had worked on the
railroad tracks, dug in the mines, picked and shoveled in the ditches,
and carried up bricks and mortar on the endless structures of a new
land, he was strong, hairy, axiomatic, and witty.

“Do you want me to come back here next year?” he had asked of Brother
Ambrose, when, in his seventeenth year, that ecclesiastical member was
about to chastise him for some school-boy misdemeanor.

The other stared at him in astonishment. “Your father will have to look
after that,” he replied.

“Well, my father won’t look after it,” Lester returned. “If you touch
me with that whip I’ll take things into my own hands. I’m not
committing any punishable offenses, and I’m not going to be knocked
around any more.”

Words, unfortunately, did not avail in this case, but a good, vigorous
Irish-American wrestle did, in which the whip was broken and the
discipline of the school so far impaired that he was compelled to take
his clothes and leave. After that he looked his father in the eye and
told him that he was not going to school any more.

“I’m perfectly willing to jump in and work,” he explained. “There’s
nothing in a classical education for me. Let me go into the office, and
I guess I’ll pick up enough to carry me through.”

Old Archibald Kane, keen, single-minded, of unsullied commercial honor,
admired his son’s determination, and did not attempt to coerce him.

“Come down to the office,” he said; “perhaps there is something you can
do.”

Entering upon a business life at the age of eighteen, Lester had worked
faithfully, rising in his father’s estimation, until now he had come to
be, in a way, his personal representative. Whenever there was a
contract to be entered upon, an important move to be decided, or a
representative of the manufactory to be sent anywhere to consummate a
deal, Lester was the agent selected. His father trusted him implicitly,
and so diplomatic and earnest was he in the fulfilment of his duties
that this trust had never been impaired.

“Business is business,” was a favorite axiom with him and the very tone
in which he pronounced the words was a reflex of his character and
personality.

There were molten forces in him, flames which burst forth now and then
in spite of the fact that he was sure that he had them under control.
One of these impulses was a taste for liquor, of which he was perfectly
sure he had the upper hand. He drank but very little, he thought, and
only, in a social way, among friends; never to excess. Another weakness
lay in his sensual nature; but here again he believed that he was the
master. If he chose to have irregular relations with women, he was
capable of deciding where the danger point lay. If men were only guided
by a sense of the brevity inherent in all such relationships there
would not be so many troublesome consequences growing out of them.
Finally, he flattered himself that he had a grasp upon a right method
of living, a method which was nothing more than a quiet acceptance of
social conditions as they were, tempered by a little personal judgment
as to the right and wrong of individual conduct. Not to fuss and fume,
not to cry out about anything, not to be mawkishly sentimental; to be
vigorous and sustain your personality intact—such was his theory of
life, and he was satisfied that it was a good one.

As to Jennie, his original object in approaching her had been purely
selfish. But now that he had asserted his masculine prerogatives, and
she had yielded, at least in part, he began to realize that she was no
common girl, no toy of the passing hour.

There is a time in some men’s lives when they unconsciously begin to
view feminine youth and beauty not so much in relation to the ideal of
happiness, but rather with regard to the social conventions by which
they are environed.

“Must it be?” they ask themselves, in speculating concerning the
possibility of taking a maiden to wife, “that I shall be compelled to
swallow the whole social code, make a covenant with society, sign a
pledge of abstinence, and give to another a life interest in all my
affairs, when I know too well that I am but taking to my arms a
variable creature like myself, whose wishes are apt to become insistent
and burdensome in proportion to the decrease of her beauty and
interest?” These are the men, who, unwilling to risk the manifold
contingencies of an authorized connection, are led to consider the
advantages of a less-binding union, a temporary companionship. They
seek to seize the happiness of life without paying the cost of their
indulgence. Later on, they think, the more definite and conventional
relationship may be established without reproach or the necessity of
radical readjustment.

Lester Kane was past the youthful love period, and he knew it. The
innocence and unsophistication of younger ideals had gone. He wanted
the comfort of feminine companionship, but he was more and more
disinclined to give up his personal liberty in order to obtain it. He
would not wear the social shackles if it were possible to satisfy the
needs of his heart and nature and still remain free and unfettered. Of
course he must find the right woman, and in Jennie he believed that he
had discovered her. She appealed to him on every side; he had never
known anybody quite like her. Marriage was not only impossible but
unnecessary. He had only to say “Come” and she must obey; it was her
destiny.

Lester thought the matter over calmly, dispassionately. He strolled out
to the shabby street where she lived; he looked at the humble roof that
sheltered her. Her poverty, her narrow and straitened environment
touched his heart. Ought he not to treat her generously, fairly,
honorably? Then the remembrance of her marvelous beauty swept over him
and changed his mood. No, he must possess her if he could—to-day,
quickly, as soon as possible. It was in that frame of mind that he
returned to Mrs. Bracebridge’s home from his visit to Lorrie Street.




CHAPTER XVIII


Jennie was now going through the agony of one who has a varied and
complicated problem to confront. Her baby, her father, her brothers,
and sisters all rose up to confront her. What was this thing that she
was doing? Was she allowing herself to slip into another wretched,
unsanctified relationship? How was she to explain to her family about
this man? He would not marry her, that was sure, if he knew all about
her. He would not marry her, anyhow, a man of his station and position.
Yet here she was parleying with him. What ought she to do? She pondered
over the problem until evening, deciding first that it was best to run
away, but remembering painfully that she had told him where she lived.
Then she resolved that she would summon up her courage and refuse
him—tell him she couldn’t, wouldn’t have anything to do with him. This
last solution of the difficulty seemed simple enough—in his absence.
And she would find work where he could not follow her up so easily. It
all seemed simple enough as she put on her things in the evening to go
home.

Her aggressive lover, however, was not without his own conclusion in
this matter. Since leaving Jennie he had thought concisely and to the
point. He came to the decision that he must act at once. She might tell
her family, she might tell Mrs. Bracebridge, she might leave the city.
He wanted to know more of the conditions which surrounded her, and
there was only one way to do that—talk to her. He must persuade her to
come and live with him. She would, he thought. She admitted that she
liked him. That soft, yielding note in her character which had
originally attracted him seemed to presage that he could win her
without much difficulty, if he wished to try. He decided to do so,
anyhow, for truly he desired her greatly.

At half-past five he returned to the Bracebridge home to see if she
were still there. At six he had an opportunity to say to her,
unobserved, “I am going to walk home with you. Wait for me at the next
corner, will you?”

“Yes,” she said, a sense of compulsion to do his bidding seizing her.
She explained to herself afterward that she ought to talk to him, that
she must tell him finally of her decision not to see him again, and
this was as good an opportunity as any. At half-past six he left the
house on a pretext—a forgotten engagement—and a little after seven he
was waiting for her in a closed carriage near the appointed spot. He
was calm, absolutely satisfied as to the result, and curiously elated
beneath a sturdy, shock-proof exterior. It was as if he breathed some
fragrant perfume, soft, grateful, entrancing.

A few minutes after eight he saw Jennie coming along. The flare of the
gas-lamp was not strong, but it gave sufficient light for his eyes to
make her out. A wave of sympathy passed over him, for there was a great
appeal in her personality. He stepped out as she neared the corner and
confronted her. “Come,” he said, “and get in this carriage with me.
I’ll take you home.”

“No,” she replied. “I don’t think I ought to.”

“Come with me. I’ll take you home. It’s a better way to talk.”

Once more that sense of dominance on his part, that power of
compulsion. She yielded, feeling all the time that she should not; he
called out to the cabman, “Anywhere for a little while.” When she was
seated beside him he began at once.

“Listen to me, Jennie, I want you. Tell me something about yourself.”

“I have to talk to you,” she replied, trying to stick to her original
line of defense.

“About what?” he inquired, seeking to fathom her expression in the half
light.

“I can’t go on this way,” she murmured nervously. “I can’t act this
way. You don’t know how it all is. I shouldn’t have done what I did
this morning. I mustn’t see you any more. Really I mustn’t.”

“You didn’t do what you did this morning,” he remarked, paradoxically,
seizing on that one particular expression. “I did that. And as for
seeing me any more, I’m going to see you.” He seized her hand. “You
don’t know me, but I like you. I’m crazy about you, that’s all. You
belong to me. Now listen. I’m going to have you. Are you going to come
to me?”

“No, no, no!” she replied in an agonized voice, “I can’t do anything
like that, Mr. Kane. Please listen to me. It can’t be. You don’t know.
Oh, you don’t know. I can’t do what you want. I don’t want to. I
couldn’t, even if I wanted to. You don’t know how things are. But I
don’t want to do anything wrong. I mustn’t. I can’t. I won’t. Oh, no!
no!! no!!! Please let me go home.”

He listened to this troubled, feverish outburst with sympathy, with
even a little pity.

“What do you mean by you can’t?” he asked, curiously.

“Oh, I can’t tell you,” she replied. “Please don’t ask me. You oughtn’t
to know. But I mustn’t see you any more. It won’t do any good.”

“But you like me,” he retorted.

“Oh yes, yes, I do. I can’t help that. But you mustn’t come near me any
more. Please don’t.”

He turned his proposition over in his mind with the solemnity of a
judge. He knew that this girl liked him—loved him really, brief as
their contact had been. And he was drawn to her, perhaps not
irrevocably, but with exceeding strength. What prevented her from
yielding, especially since she wanted to? He was curious.

“See here, Jennie,” he replied. “I hear what you say. I don’t know what
you mean by ‘can’t’ if you want to. You say you like me. Why can’t you
come to me? You’re my sort. We will get along beautifully together.
You’re suited to me temperamentally. I’d like to have you with me. What
makes you say you can’t come?”

“I can’t,” she replied. “I can’t. I don’t want to. I oughtn’t. Oh,
please don’t ask me any more. You don’t know. I can’t tell you why.”
She was thinking of her baby.

The man had a keen sense of justice and fair play. Above all things he
wanted to be decent in his treatment of people. In this case he
intended to be tender and considerate, and yet he must win her. He
turned this over in his mind.

“Listen to me,” he said finally, still holding her hand. “I may not
want you to do anything immediately. I want you to think it over. But
you belong to me. You say you care for me. You admitted that this
morning. I know you do. Now why should you stand out against me? I like
you, and I can do a lot of things for you. Why not let us be good
friends now? Then we can talk the rest of this over later.”

“But I mustn’t do anything wrong,” she insisted. “I don’t want to.
Please don’t come near me any more. I can’t do what you want.”

“Now, look here,” he said. “You don’t mean that. Why did you say you
liked me? Have you changed your mind? Look at me.” (She had lowered her
eyes.) “Look at me! You haven’t, have you?”

“Oh no, no, no,” she half sobbed, swept by some force beyond her
control.

“Well, then, why stand out against me? I love you, I tell you—I’m crazy
about you. That’s why I came back this time. It was to see you!”

“Was it?” asked Jennie, surprised.

“Yes, it was. And I would have come again and again if necessary. I
tell you I’m crazy about you. I’ve got to have you. Now tell me you’ll
come with me.”

“No, no, no,” she pleaded. “I can’t. I must work. I want to work. I
don’t want to do anything wrong. Please don’t ask me. You mustn’t. You
must let me go. Really you must. I can’t do what you want.”

“Tell me, Jennie,” he said, changing the subject. “What does your
father do?”

“He’s a glass-blower.”

“Here in Cleveland?”

“No, he works in Youngstown.”

“Is your mother alive?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You live with her?”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiled at the “sir.” “Don’t say ‘sir’ to me, sweet!” he pleaded in
his gruff way. “And don’t insist on the Mr. Kane. I’m not ‘mister’ to
you any more. You belong to me, little girl, me.” And he pulled her
close to him.

“Please don’t, Mr. Kane,” she pleaded. “Oh, please don’t. I can’t! I
can’t! You mustn’t.”

But he sealed her lips with his own.

“Listen to me, Jennie,” he repeated, using his favorite expression. “I
tell you you belong to me. I like you better every moment. I haven’t
had a chance to know you. I’m not going to give you up. You’ve got to
come to me eventually. And I’m not going to have you working as a
lady’s maid. You can’t stay in that place except for a little while.
I’m going to take you somewhere else. And I’m going to leave you some
money, do you hear? You have to take it.”

At the word money she quailed and withdrew her hand.

“No, no, no!” she repeated. “No, I won’t take it.”

“Yes, you will. Give it to your mother. I’m not trying to buy you. I
know what you think. But I’m not. I want to help you. I want to help
your family. I know where you live. I saw the place to-day. How many
are there of you?”

“Six,” she answered faintly.

“The families of the poor,” he thought.

“Well, you take this from me,” he insisted, drawing a purse from his
coat. “And I’ll see you very soon again. There’s no escape, sweet.”

“No, no,” she protested. “I won’t. I don’t need it. No, you mustn’t ask
me.”

He insisted further, but she was firm, and finally he put the money
away.

“One thing is sure, Jennie, you’re not going to escape me,” he said
soberly. “You’ll have to come to me eventually. Don’t you know you
will? Your own attitude shows that. I’m not going to leave you alone.”

“Oh, if you knew the trouble you’re causing me.”

“I’m not causing you any real trouble, am I?” he asked. “Surely not.”

“Yes. I can never do what you want.”

“You will! You will!” he exclaimed eagerly, the bare thought of this
prize escaping him heightening his passion. “You’ll come to me.” And he
drew her close in spite of all her protests.

“There,” he said when, after the struggle, that mystic something
between them spoke again, and she relaxed. Tears were in her eyes, but
he did not see them. “Don’t you see how it is? You like me too.”

“I can’t,” she repeated, with a sob.

Her evident distress touched him. “You’re not crying, little girl, are
you?” he asked.

She made no answer.

“I’m sorry,” he went on. “I’ll not say anything more to-night. We’re
almost at your home. I’m leaving to-morrow, but I’ll see you again.
Yes, I will, sweet. I can’t give you up now. I’ll do anything in reason
to make it easy for you, but I can’t, do you hear?”

She shook her head.

“Here’s where you get out,” he said, as the carriage drew up near the
corner. He could see the evening lamp gleaming behind the Gerhardt
cottage curtains.

“Good-by,” he said as she stepped out.

“Good-by,” she murmured.

“Remember,” he said, “this is just the beginning.”

“Oh no, no!” she pleaded.

He looked after her as she walked away.

“The beauty!” he exclaimed.

Jennie stepped into the house weary, discouraged, ashamed. What had she
done? There was no denying that she had compromised herself
irretrievably. He would come back.

He would come back. And he had offered her money. That was the worst of
all.




CHAPTER XIX


The inconclusive nature of this interview, exciting as it was, did not
leave any doubt in either Lester Kane’s or Jennie’s mind; certainly
this was not the end of the affair. Kane knew that he was deeply
fascinated. This girl was lovely. She was sweeter than he had had any
idea of. Her hesitancy, her repeated protests, her gentle “no, no, no”
moved him as music might. Depend upon it, this girl was for him, and he
would get her. She was too sweet to let go. What did he care about what
his family or the world might think?

It was curious that Kane held the well-founded idea that in time Jennie
would yield to him physically, as she had already done spiritually.
Just why he could not say. Something about her—a warm womanhood, a
guileless expression of countenance—intimated a sympathy toward sex
relationship which had nothing to do with hard, brutal immorality. She
was the kind of a woman who was made for a man—one man. All her
attitude toward sex was bound up with love, tenderness, service. When
the one man arrived she would love him and she would go to him. That
was Jennie as Lester understood her. He felt it. She would yield to him
because he was the one man.

On Jennie’s part there was a great sense of complication and of
possible disaster. If he followed her of course he would learn all. She
had not told him about Brander, because she was still under the vague
illusion that, in the end, she might escape. When she left him she knew
that he would come back. She knew, in spite of herself that she wanted
him to do so. Yet she felt that she must not yield, she must go on
leading her straitened, humdrum life. This was her punishment for
having made a mistake. She had made her bed, and she must lie on it.

The Kane family mansion at Cincinnati to which Lester returned after
leaving Jennie was an imposing establishment, which contrasted
strangely with the Gerhardt home. It was a great, rambling, two-story
affair, done after the manner of the French chateaux, but in red brick
and brownstone. It was set down, among flowers and trees, in an almost
park-like inclosure, and its very stones spoke of a splendid dignity
and of a refined luxury. Old Archibald Kane, the father, had amassed a
tremendous fortune, not by grabbing and brow-beating and unfair
methods, but by seeing a big need and filling it. Early in life he had
realized that America was a growing country. There was going to be a
big demand for vehicles—wagons, carriages, drays—and he knew that some
one would have to supply them. Having founded a small wagon industry,
he had built it up into a great business; he made good wagons, and he
sold them at a good profit. It was his theory that most men were
honest; he believed that at bottom they wanted honest things, and if
you gave them these they would buy of you, and come back and buy again
and again, until you were an influential and rich man. He believed in
the measure “heaped full and running over.” All through his life and
now in his old age he enjoyed the respect and approval of every one who
knew him. “Archibald Kane,” you would hear his competitors say, “Ah,
there is a fine man. Shrewd, but honest. He’s a big man.”

This man was the father of two sons and three daughters, all healthy,
all good-looking, all blessed with exceptional minds, but none of them
so generous and forceful as their long-living and big-hearted sire.
Robert, the eldest, a man forty years of age, was his father’s
right-hand man in financial matters, having a certain hard incisiveness
which fitted him for the somewhat sordid details of business life. He
was of medium height, of a rather spare build, with a high forehead,
slightly inclined to baldness, bright, liquid-blue eyes, an eagle nose,
and thin, firm, even lips. He was a man of few words, rather slow to
action and of deep thought. He sat close to his father as
vice-president of the big company which occupied two whole blocks in an
outlying section of the city. He was a strong man—a coming man, as his
father well knew.

Lester, the second boy, was his father’s favorite. He was not by any
means the financier that Robert was, but he had a larger vision of the
subtleties that underlie life. He was softer, more human, more
good-natured about everything. And, strangely enough, old Archibald
admired and trusted him. He knew he had the bigger vision. Perhaps he
turned to Robert when it was a question of some intricate financial
problem, but Lester was the most loved as a son.

Then there was Amy, thirty-two years of age, married, handsome, the
mother of one child—a boy; Imogene, twenty-eight, also married, but as
yet without children, and Louise, twenty-five, single, the best-looking
of the girls, but also the coldest and most critical. She was the most
eager of all for social distinction, the most vigorous of all in her
love of family prestige, the most desirous that the Kane family should
outshine every other. She was proud to think that the family was so
well placed socially, and carried herself with an air and a hauteur
which was sometimes amusing, sometimes irritating to Lester! He liked
her—in a way she was his favorite sister—but he thought she might take
herself with a little less seriousness and not do the family standing
any harm.

Mrs. Kane, the mother, was a quiet, refined woman, sixty years of age,
who, having come up from comparative poverty with her husband, cared
but little for social life. But she loved her children and her husband,
and was naively proud of their position and attainments. It was enough
for her to shine only in their reflected glory. A good woman, a good
wife, and a good mother.

Lester arrived at Cincinnati early in the evening, and drove at once to
his home. An old Irish servitor met him at the door.

“Ah, Mr. Lester,” he began, joyously, “sure I’m glad to see you back.
I’ll take your coat. Yes, yes, it’s been fine weather we’re having.
Yes, yes, the family’s all well. Sure your sister Amy is just after
leavin’ the house with the boy. Your mother’s up-stairs in her room.
Yes, yes.”

Lester smiled cheerily and went up to his mother’s room. In this, which
was done in white and gold and overlooked the garden to the south and
east, sat Mrs. Kane, a subdued, graceful, quiet woman, with smoothly
laid gray hair. She looked up when the door opened, laid down the
volume that she had been reading, and rose to greet him.

“There you are, Mother,” he said, putting his arms around her and
kissing her. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m just about the same, Lester. How have you been?”

“Fine. I was up with the Bracebridges for a few days again. I had to
stop off in Cleveland to see Parsons. They all asked after you.”

“How is Minnie?”

“Just the same. She doesn’t change any that I can see. She’s just as
interested in entertaining as she ever was.”

“She’s a bright girl,” remarked his mother, recalling Mrs. Bracebridge
as a girl in Cincinnati. “I always liked her. She’s so sensible.”

“She hasn’t lost any of that, I can tell you,” replied Lester
significantly. Mrs. Kane smiled and went on to speak of various family
happenings. Imogene’s husband was leaving for St. Louis on some errand.
Robert’s wife was sick with a cold. Old Zwingle, the yard watchman at
the factory, who had been with Mr. Kane for over forty years, had died.
Her husband was going to the funeral. Lester listened dutifully, albeit
a trifle absently.

Lester, as he walked down the hall, encountered Louise. “Smart” was the
word for her. She was dressed in a beaded black silk dress, fitting
close to her form, with a burst of rubies at her throat which
contrasted effectively with her dark complexion and black hair. Her
eyes were black and piercing.

“Oh, there you are, Lester,” she exclaimed. “When did you get in? Be
careful how you kiss me. I’m going out, and I’m all fixed, even to the
powder on my nose. Oh, you bear!” Lester had gripped her firmly and
kissed her soundly. She pushed him away with her strong hands.

“I didn’t brush much of it off,” he said. “You can always dust more on
with that puff of yours.” He passed on to his own room to dress for
dinner. Dressing for dinner was a custom that had been adopted by the
Kane family in the last few years. Guests had become so common that in
a way it was a necessity, and Louise, in particular, made a point of
it. To-night Robert was coming, and a Mr. and Mrs. Burnett, old friends
of his father and mother, and so, of course, the meal would be a formal
one. Lester knew that his father was around somewhere, but he did not
trouble to look him up now. He was thinking of his last two days in
Cleveland and wondering when he would see Jennie again.




CHAPTER XX


As Lester came down-stairs after making his toilet he found his father
in the library reading.

“Hello, Lester,” he said, looking up from his paper over the top of his
glasses and extending his hand. “Where do you come from?”

“Cleveland,” replied his son, shaking hands heartily, and smiling.

“Robert tells me you’ve been to New York.”

“Yes, I was there.”

“How did you find my old friend Arnold?”

“Just about the same,” returned Lester. “He doesn’t look any older.”

“I suppose not,” said Archibald Kane genially, as if the report were a
compliment to his own hardy condition. “He’s been a temperate man. A
fine old gentleman.”

He led the way back to the sitting-room where they chatted over
business and home news until the chime of the clock in the hall warned
the guests up-stairs that dinner had been served.

Lester sat down in great comfort amid the splendors of the great Louis
Quinze dining-room. He liked this homey home atmosphere—his mother and
father and his sisters—the old family friends. So he smiled and was
exceedingly genial.

Louise announced that the Leverings were going to give a dance on
Tuesday, and inquired whether he intended to go.

“You know I don’t dance,” he returned dryly. “Why should I go?”

“Don’t dance? Won’t dance, you mean. You’re getting too lazy to move.
If Robert is willing to dance occasionally I think you might.”

“Robert’s got it on me in lightness,” Lester replied, airily.

“And politeness,” retorted Louise.

“Be that as it may,” said Lester.

“Don’t try to stir up a fight, Louise,” observed Robert, sagely.

After dinner they adjourned to the library, and Robert talked with his
brother a little on business. There were some contracts coming up for
revision. He wanted to see what suggestions Lester had to make. Louise
was going to a party, and the carriage was now announced. “So you are
not coming?” she asked, a trifle complainingly.

“Too tired,” said Lester lightly. “Make my excuses to Mrs. Knowles.”

“Letty Pace asked about you the other night,” Louise called back from
the door.

“Kind,” replied Lester. “I’m greatly obliged.”

“She’s a nice girl, Lester,” put in his father, who was standing near
the open fire. “I only wish you would marry her and settle down. You’d
have a good wife in her.”

“She’s charming,” testified Mrs. Kane.

“What is this?” asked Lester jocularly—“a conspiracy? You know I’m not
strong on the matrimonial business.”

“And I well know it,” replied his mother semi-seriously. “I wish you
were.”

Lester changed the subject. He really could not stand for this sort of
thing any more, he told himself. And as he thought his mind wandered
back to Jennie and her peculiar “Oh no, no!” There was someone that
appealed to him. That was a type of womanhood worth while. Not
sophisticated, not self-seeking, not watched over and set like a
man-trap in the path of men, but a sweet little girl—sweet as a flower,
who was without anybody, apparently, to watch over her. That night in
his room he composed a letter, which he dated a week later, because he
did not want to appear too urgent and because he could not again leave
Cincinnati for at least two weeks.

“MY DEAR JENNIE, Although it has been a week, and I have said nothing,
I have not forgotten you—believe me. Was the impression I gave of
myself very bad? I will make it better from now on, for I love you,
little girl—I really do. There is a flower on my table which reminds me
of you very much—white, delicate, beautiful. Your personality,
lingering with me, is just that. You are the essence of everything
beautiful to me. It is in your power to strew flowers in my path if you
will.
    “But what I want to say here is that I shall be in Cleveland on the
    18th, and I shall expect to see you. I arrive Thursday night, and I
    want you to meet me in the ladies’ parlor of the Dornton at noon
    Friday. Will you? You can lunch with me.
    “You see, I respect your suggestion that I should not call. (I will
    not—on condition.) These separations are dangerous to good
    friendship. Write me that you will. I throw myself on your
    generosity. But I can’t take “no” for an answer, not now.
    “With a world of affection.


“LESTER KANE.”


He sealed the letter and addressed it. “She’s a remarkable girl in her
way,” he thought. “She really is.”




CHAPTER XXI


The arrival of this letter, coming after a week of silence and after
she had had a chance to think, moved Jennie deeply. What did she want
to do? What ought she to do? How did she truly feel about this man? Did
she sincerely wish to answer his letter? If she did so, what should she
say? Heretofore all her movements, even the one in which she had sought
to sacrifice herself for the sake of Bass in Columbus, had not seemed
to involve any one but herself. Now, there seemed to be others to
consider—her family, above all, her child. The little Vesta was now
eighteen months of age; she was an interesting child; her large, blue
eyes and light hair giving promise of a comeliness which would closely
approximate that of her mother, while her mential traits indicated a
clear and intelligent mind. Mrs. Gerhardt had become very fond of her.
Gerhardt had unbended so gradually that his interest was not even yet
clearly discernible, but he had a distinct feeling of kindliness toward
her. And this readjustment of her father’s attitude had aroused in
Jennie an ardent desire to so conduct herself that no pain should ever
come to him again. Any new folly on her part would not only be base
ingratitude to her father, but would tend to injure the prospects of
her little one. Her life was a failure, she fancied, but Vesta’s was a
thing apart; she must do nothing to spoil it. She wondered whether it
would not be better to write Lester and explain everything. She had
told him that she did not wish to do wrong. Suppose she went on to
inform him that she had a child, and beg him to leave her in peace.
Would he obey her? She doubted it. Did she really want him to take her
at her word?

The need of making this confession was a painful thing to Jennie. It
caused her to hesitate, to start a letter in which she tried to
explain, and then to tear it up. Finally, fate intervened in the sudden
home-coming of her father, who had been seriously injured by an
accident at the glass-works in Youngstown where he worked.

It was on a Wednesday afternoon, in the latter part of August, when a
letter came from Gerhardt. But instead of the customary fatherly
communication, written in German and inclosing the regular weekly
remittance of five dollars, there was only a brief note, written by
another hand, and explaining that the day before Gerhardt had received
a severe burn on both hands, due to the accidental overturning of a
dipper of molten glass. The letter added that he would be home the next
morning.

“What do you think of that?” exclaimed William, his mouth wide open.

“Poor papa!” said Veronica, tears welling up in her eyes.

Mrs. Gerhardt sat down, clasped her hands in her lap, and stared at the
floor. “Now, what to do?” she nervously exclaimed. The possibility that
Gerhardt was disabled for life opened long vistas of difficulties which
she had not the courage to contemplate.

Bass came home at half-past six and Jennie at eight. The former heard
the news with an astonished face.

“Gee! that’s tough, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. “Did the letter say how
bad he was hurt?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Gerhardt.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Bass easily. “It won’t do any
good. We’ll get along somehow. I wouldn’t worry like that if I were
you.”

The truth was, he wouldn’t, because his nature was wholly different.
Life did not rest heavily upon his shoulders. His brain was not large
enough to grasp the significance and weigh the results of things.

“I know,” said Mrs. Gerhardt, endeavoring to recover herself. “I can’t
help it, though. To think that just when we were getting along fairly
well this new calamity should be added. It seems sometimes as if we
were under a curse. We have so much bad luck.”

When Jennie came her mother turned to her instinctively; here was her
one stay.

“What’s the matter, ma?” asked Jennie as she opened the door and
observed her mother’s face. “What have you been crying about?”

Mrs. Gerhardt looked at her, and then turned half away.

“Pa’s had his hands burned,” put in Bass solemnly. “He’ll be home
to-morrow.”

Jennie turned and stared at him. “His hands burned!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Bass.

“How did it happen?”

“A pot of glass was turned over.”

Jennie looked at her mother, and her eyes dimmed with tears.
Instinctively she ran to her and put her arms around her.

“Now, don’t you cry, ma,” she said, barely able to control herself.
“Don’t you worry. I know how you feel, but we’ll get along. Don’t cry
now.” Then her own lips lost their evenness, and she struggled long
before she could pluck up courage to contemplate this new disaster. And
now without volition upon her part there leaped into her consciousness
a new and subtly persistent thought. What about Lester’s offer of
assistance now? What about his declaration of love? Somehow it came
back to her—his affection, his personality, his desire to help her, his
sympathy, so like that which Brander had shown when Bass was in jail.
Was she doomed to a second sacrifice? Did it really make any
difference? Wasn’t her life a failure already? She thought this over as
she looked at her mother sitting there so silent, haggard, and
distraught. “What a pity,” she thought, “that her mother must always
suffer! Wasn’t it a shame that she could never have any real
happiness?”

“I wouldn’t feel so badly,” she said, after a time. “Maybe pa isn’t
burned so badly as we think. Did the letter say he’d be home in the
morning?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Gerhardt, recovering herself.

They talked more quietly from now on, and gradually, as the details
were exhausted, a kind of dumb peace settled down upon the household.

“One of us ought to go to the train to meet him in the morning,” said
Jennie to Bass. “I will. I guess Mrs. Bracebridge won’t mind.”

“No,” said Bass gloomily, “you mustn’t. I can go.”

He was sour at this new fling of fate, and he looked his feelings; he
stalked off gloomily to his room and shut himself in. Jennie and her
mother saw the others off to bed, and then sat out in the kitchen
talking.

“I don’t see what’s to become of us now,” said Mrs. Gerhardt at last,
completely overcome by the financial complications which this new
calamity had brought about. She looked so weak and helpless that Jennie
could hardly contain herself.

“Don’t worry, mamma dear,” she said, softly, a peculiar resolve coming
into her heart. The world was wide. There was comfort and ease in it
scattered by others with a lavish hand. Surely, surely misfortune could
not press so sharply but that they could live!

She sat down with her mother, the difficulties of the future seeming to
approach with audible and ghastly steps.

“What do you suppose will become of us now?” repeated her mother, who
saw how her fanciful conception of this Cleveland home had crumbled
before her eyes.

“Why,” said Jennie, who saw clearly and knew what could be done, “it
will be all right. I wouldn’t worry about it. Something will happen.
We’ll get something.”

She realized, as she sat there, that fate had shifted the burden of the
situation to her. She must sacrifice herself; there was no other way.

Bass met his father at the railway station in the morning. He looked
very pale, and seemed to have suffered a great deal. His cheeks were
slightly sunken and his bony profile appeared rather gaunt. His hands
were heavily bandaged, and altogether he presented such a picture of
distress that many stopped to look at him on the way home from the
station.

“By chops,” he said to Bass, “that was a burn I got. I thought once I
couldn’t stand the pain any longer. Such pain I had! Such pain! By
chops! I will never forget it.”

He related just how the accident had occurred, and said that he did not
know whether he would ever be able to use his hands again. The thumb on
his right hand and the first two fingers on the left had been burned to
the bone. The latter had been amputated at the first joint—the thumb he
might save, but his hands would be in danger of being stiff.

“By chops!” he added, “just at the time when I needed the money most.
Too bad! Too bad!”

When they reached the house, and Mrs. Gerhardt opened the door, the old
mill-worker, conscious of her voiceless sympathy, began to cry. Mrs.
Gerhardt sobbed also. Even Bass lost control of himself for a moment or
two, but quickly recovered. The other children wept, until Bass called
a halt on all of them.

“Don’t cry now,” he said cheeringly. “What’s the use of crying? It
isn’t so bad as all that. You’ll be all right again. We can get along.”

Bass’s words had a soothing effect, temporarily, and, now that her
husband was home, Mrs. Gerhardt recovered her composure. Though his
hands were bandaged, the mere fact that he could walk and was not
otherwise injured was some consolation. He might recover the use of his
hands and be able to undertake light work again. Anyway, they would
hope for the best.

When Jennie came home that night she wanted to run to her father and
lay the treasury of her services and affection at his feet, but she
trembled lest he might be as cold to her as formerly.

Gerhardt, too, was troubled. Never had he completely recovered from the
shame which his daughter had brought upon him. Although he wanted to be
kindly, his feelings were so tangled that he hardly knew what to say or
do.

“Papa,” said Jennie, approaching him timidly.

Gerhardt looked confused and tried to say something natural, but it was
unavailing. The thought of his helplessness, the knowledge of her
sorrow and of his own responsiveness to her affection—it was all too
much for him; he broke down again and cried helplessly.

“Forgive me, papa,” she pleaded, “I’m so sorry. Oh, I’m so sorry.”

He did not attempt to look at her, but in the swirl of feeling that
their meeting created he thought that he could forgive, and he did.

“I have prayed,” he said brokenly. “It is all right.”

When he recovered himself he felt ashamed of his emotion, but a new
relationship of sympathy and of understanding had been established.
From that time, although there was always a great reserve between them,
Gerhardt tried not to ignore her completely, and she endeavored to show
him the simple affection of a daughter, just as in the old days.

But while the household was again at peace, there were other cares and
burdens to be faced. How were they to get along now with five dollars
taken from the weekly budget, and with the cost of Gerhardt’s presence
added? Bass might have contributed more of his weekly earnings, but he
did not feel called upon to do it. And so the small sum of nine dollars
weekly must meet as best it could the current expenses of rent, food,
and coal, to say nothing of incidentals, which now began to press very
heavily. Gerhardt had to go to a doctor to have his hands dressed
daily. George needed a new pair of shoes. Either more money must come
from some source or the family must beg for credit and suffer the old
tortures of want. The situation crystallized the half-formed resolve in
Jennie’s mind.

Lester’s letter had been left unanswered. The day was drawing near.
Should she write? He would help them. Had he not tried to force money
on her? She finally decided that it was her duty to avail herself of
this proffered assistance. She sat down and wrote him a brief note. She
would meet him as he had requested, but he would please not come to the
house. She mailed the letter, and then waited, with mingled feelings of
trepidation and thrilling expectancy, the arrival of the fateful day.




CHAPTER XXII


The fatal Friday came, and Jennie stood face to face with this new and
overwhelming complication in her modest scheme of existence. There was
really no alternative, she thought. Her own life was a failure. Why go
on fighting? If she could make her family happy, if she could give
Vesta a good education, if she could conceal the true nature of this
older story and keep Vesta in the background perhaps, perhaps—well,
rich men had married poor girls before this, and Lester was very kind,
he certainly liked her. At seven o’clock she went to Mrs.
Bracebridge’s; at noon she excused herself on the pretext of some work
for her mother and left the house for the hotel.

Lester, leaving Cincinnati a few days earlier than he expected, had
failed to receive her reply; he arrived at Cleveland feeling sadly out
of tune with the world. He had a lingering hope that a letter from
Jennie might be awaiting him at the hotel, but there was no word from
her. He was a man not easily wrought up, but to-night he felt
depressed, and so went gloomily up to his room and changed his linen.
After supper he proceeded to drown his dissatisfaction in a game of
billiards with some friends, from whom he did not part until he had
taken very much more than his usual amount of alcoholic stimulant. The
next morning he arose with a vague idea of abandoning the whole affair,
but as the hours elapsed and the time of his appointment drew near he
decided that it might not be unwise to give her one last chance. She
might come. Accordingly, when it still lacked a quarter of an hour of
the time, he went down into the parlor. Great was his delight when he
beheld her sitting in a chair and waiting—the outcome of her
acquiescence. He walked briskly up, a satisfied, gratified smile on his
face.

“So you did come after all,” he said, gazing at her with the look of
one who has lost and recovered a prize. “What do you mean by not
writing me? I thought from the way you neglected me that you had made
up your mind not to come at all.”

“I did write,” she replied.

“Where?”

“To the address you gave me. I wrote three days ago.”

“That explains it. It came too late. You should have written me before.
How have you been?”

“Oh, all right,” she replied.

“You don’t look it!” he said. “You look worried. What’s the trouble,
Jennie? Nothing gone wrong out at your house, has there?”

It was a fortuitous question. He hardly knew why he had asked it. Yet
it opened the door to what she wanted to say.

“My father’s sick,” she replied.

“What’s happened to him?”

“He burned his hands at the glass-works. We’ve been terribly worried.
It looks as though he would not be able to use them any more.”

She paused, looking the distress she felt, and he saw plainly that she
was facing a crisis.

“That’s too bad,” he said. “That certainly is. When did this happen?”

“Oh, almost three weeks ago now.”

“It certainly is bad. Come in to lunch, though. I want to talk with
you. I’ve been wanting to get a better understanding of your family
affairs ever since I left.” He led the way into the dining-room and
selected a secluded table. He tried to divert her mind by asking her to
order the luncheon, but she was too worried and too shy to do so and he
had to make out the menu by himself. Then he turned to her with a
cheering air. “Now, Jennie,” he said, “I want you to tell me all about
your family. I got a little something of it last time, but I want to
get it straight. Your father, you said, was a glass-blower by trade.
Now he can’t work any more at that, that’s obvious.”

“Yes,” she said.

“How many other children are there?”

“Six.”

“Are you the oldest?”

“No, my brother Sebastian is. He’s twenty-two.”

“And what does he do?”

“He’s a clerk in a cigar store.”

“Do you know how much he makes?”

“I think it’s twelve dollars,” she replied thoughtfully.

“And the other children?”

“Martha and Veronica don’t do anything yet. They’re too young. My
brother George works at Wilson’s. He’s a cash-boy. He gets three
dollars and a half.”

“And how much do you make?”

“I make four.”

He stopped, figuring up mentally just what they had to live on. “How
much rent do you pay?” he continued.

“Twelve dollars.”

“How old is your mother?”

“She’s nearly fifty now.”

He turned a fork in his hands back and forth; he was thinking
earnestly.

“To tell you the honest truth, I fancied it was something like that,
Jennie,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot. Now, I know.
There’s only one answer to your problem, and it isn’t such a bad one,
if you’ll only believe me.” He paused for an inquiry, but she made
none. Her mind was running on her own difficulties.

“Don’t you want to know?” he inquired.

“Yes,” she answered mechanically.

“It’s me,” he replied. “You have to let me help you. I wanted to last
time. Now you have to; do you hear?”

“I thought I wouldn’t,” she said simply.

“I knew what you thought,” he replied. “That’s all over now. I’m going
to ’tend to that family of yours. And I’ll do it right now while I
think of it.”

He drew out his purse and extracted several ten and twenty-dollar
bills—two hundred and fifty dollars in all. “I want you to take this,”
he said. “It’s just the beginning. I will see that your family is
provided for from now on. Here, give me your hand.”

“Oh no,” she said. “Not so much. Don’t give me all that.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Don’t argue. Here. Give me your hand.”

She put it out in answer to the summons of his eyes, and he shut her
fingers on the money, pressing them gently at the same time. “I want
you to have it, sweet. I love you, little girl. I’m not going to see
you suffer, nor any one belonging to you.”

Her eyes looked a dumb thankfulness, and she bit her lips.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

“You don’t need to,” he replied. “The thanks are all the other
way—believe me.”

He paused and looked at her, the beauty of her face holding him. She
looked at the table, wondering what would come next.

“How would you like to leave what you’re doing and stay at home?” he
asked. “That would give you your freedom day times.”

“I couldn’t do that,” she replied. “Papa wouldn’t allow it. He knows I
ought to work.”

“That’s true enough,” he said. “But there’s so little in what you’re
doing. Good heavens! Four dollars a week! I would be glad to give you
fifty times that sum if I thought there was any way in which you could
use it.” He idly thrummed the cloth with his fingers.

“I couldn’t,” she said. “I hardly know how to use this. They’ll
suspect. I’ll have to tell mamma.”

From the way she said it he judged there must be some bond of sympathy
between her and her mother which would permit of a confidence such as
this. He was by no means a hard man, and the thought touched him. But
he would not relinquish his purpose.

“There’s only one thing to be done, as far as I can see,” he went on
very gently. “You’re not suited for the kind of work you’re doing.
You’re too refined. I object to it. Give it up and come with me down to
New York; I’ll take good care of you. I love you and want you. As far
as your family is concerned, you won’t have to worry about them any
more. You can take a nice home for them and furnish it in any style you
please. Wouldn’t you like that?”

He paused, and Jennie’s thoughts reverted quickly to her mother, her
dear mother. All her life long Mrs. Gerhardt had been talking of this
very thing—a nice home. If they could just have a larger house, with
good furniture and a yard filled with trees, how happy she would be. In
such a home she would be free of the care of rent, the discomfort of
poor furniture, the wretchedness of poverty; she would be so happy. She
hesitated there while his keen eye followed her in spirit, and he saw
what a power he had set in motion. It had been a happy inspiration—the
suggestion of a decent home for the family. He waited a few minutes
longer, and then said:

“Well, wouldn’t you better let me do that?”

“It would be very nice,” she said, “but it can’t be done now. I
couldn’t leave home. Papa would want to know all about where I was
going. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“Why couldn’t you pretend that you are going down to New York with Mrs.
Bracebridge?” he suggested. “There couldn’t be any objection to that,
could there?”

“Not if they didn’t find out,” she said, her eyes opening in amazement.
“But if they should!”

“They won’t,” he replied calmly. “They’re not watching Mrs.
Bracebridge’s affairs. Plenty of mistresses take their maids on long
trips. Why not simply tell them you’re invited to go—have to go—and
then go?”

“Do you think I could?” she inquired.

“Certainly,” he replied. “What is there peculiar about that?”

She thought it over, and the plan did seem feasible. Then she looked at
this man and realized that relationship with him meant possible
motherhood for her again. The tragedy of giving birth to a child—ah,
she could not go through that a second time, at least under the same
conditions. She could not bring herself to tell him about Vesta, but
she must voice this insurmountable objection.

“I—” she said, formulating the first word of her sentence, and then
stopping.

“Yes,” he said. “I—what?”

“I—” She paused again.

He loved her shy ways, her sweet, hesitating lips.

“What is it, Jennie?” he asked helpfully. “You’re so delicious. Can’t
you tell me?”

Her hand was on the table. He reached over and laid his strong brown
one on top of it.

“I couldn’t have a baby,” she said, finally, and looked down.

He gazed at her, and the charm of her frankness, her innate decency
under conditions so anomalous, her simple unaffected recognition of the
primal facts of life lifted her to a plane in his esteem which she had
not occupied until that moment.

“You’re a great girl, Jennie,” he said. “You’re wonderful. But don’t
worry about that. It can be arranged. You don’t need to have a child
unless you want to, and I don’t want you to.”

He saw the question written in her wondering, shamed face.

“It’s so,” he said. “You believe me, don’t you? You think I know, don’t
you?”

“Yes,” she faltered.

“Well, I do. But anyway, I wouldn’t let any trouble come to you. I’ll
take you away. Besides, I don’t want any children. There wouldn’t be
any satisfaction in that proposition for me at this time. I’d rather
wait. But there won’t be—don’t worry.”

“Yes,” she said faintly. Not for worlds could she have met his eyes.

“Look here, Jennie,” he said, after a time. “You care for me, don’t
you? You don’t think I’d sit here and plead with you if I didn’t care
for you? I’m crazy about you, and that’s the literal truth. You’re like
wine to me. I want you to come with me. I want you to do it quickly. I
know how difficult this family business is, but you can arrange it.
Come with me down to New York. We’ll work out something later. I’ll
meet your family. We’ll pretend a courtship, anything you like—only
come now.”

“You don’t mean right away, do you?” she asked, startled.

“Yes, to-morrow if possible. Monday sure. You can arrange it. Why, if
Mrs. Bracebridge asked you you’d go fast enough, and no one would think
anything about it. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes,” she admitted slowly.

“Well, then, why not now?”

“It’s always so much harder to work out a falsehood,” she replied
thoughtfully.

“I know it, but you can come. Won’t you?”

“Won’t you wait a little while?” she pleaded. “It’s so very sudden. I’m
afraid.”

“Not a day, sweet, that I can help. Can’t you see how I feel? Look in
my eyes. Will you?”

“Yes,” she replied sorrowfully, and yet with a strange thrill of
affection. “I will.”




CHAPTER XXIII


The business of arranging for this sudden departure was really not so
difficult as it first appeared. Jennie proposed to tell her mother the
whole truth, and there was nothing to say to her father except that she
was going with Mrs. Bracebridge at the latter’s request. He might
question her, but he really could not doubt Before going home that
afternoon she accompanied Lester to a department store, where she was
fitted out with a trunk, a suit-case, and a traveling suit and hat.
Lester was very proud of his prize. “When we get to New York I am going
to get you some real things,” he told her. “I am going to show you what
you can be made to look like.” He had all the purchased articles packed
in the trunk and sent to his hotel. Then he arranged to have Jennie
come there and dress Monday for the trip which began in the afternoon.

When she came home Mrs. Gerhardt, who was in the kitchen, received her
with her usual affectionate greeting. “Have you been working very
hard?” she asked. “You look tired.”

“No,” she said, “I’m not tired. It isn’t that. I just don’t feel good.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Oh, I have to tell you something, mamma. It’s so hard.” She paused,
looking inquiringly at her mother, and then away.

“Why, what is it?” asked her mother nervously. So many things had
happened in the past that she was always on the alert for some new
calamity. “You haven’t lost your place, have you?”

“No,” replied Jennie, with an effort to maintain her mental poise, “but
I’m going to leave it.”

“No!” exclaimed her mother. “Why?”

“I’m going to New York.”

Her mother’s eyes opened widely. “Why, when did you decide to do that?”
she inquired.

“To-day.”

“You don’t mean it!”

“Yes, I do, mamma. Listen. I’ve got something I want to tell you. You
know how poor we are. There isn’t any way we can make things come out
right. I have found some one who wants to help us. He says he loves me,
and he wants me to go to New York with him Monday. I’ve decided to go.”

“Oh, Jennie!” exclaimed her mother. “Surely not! You wouldn’t do
anything like that after all that’s happened. Think of your father.”

“I’ve thought it all out,” went on Jennie, firmly. “It’s really for the
best. He’s a good man. I know he is. He has lots of money. He wants me
to go with him, and I’d better go. He will take a new house for us when
we come back and help us to get along. No one will ever have me as a
wife—you know that. It might as well be this way. He loves me. And I
love him. Why shouldn’t I go?”

“Does he know about Vesta?” asked her mother cautiously.

“No,” said Jennie guiltily. “I thought I’d better not tell him about
her. She oughtn’t to be brought into it if I can help it.”

“I’m afraid you’re storing up trouble for yourself, Jennie,” said her
mother. “Don’t you think he is sure to find it out some time?”

“I thought maybe that she could be kept here,” suggested Jennie, “until
she’s old enough to go to school. Then maybe I could send her
somewhere.”

“She might,” assented her mother; “but don’t you think it would be
better to tell him now? He won’t think any the worse of you.”

“It isn’t that. It’s her,” said Jennie passionately. “I don’t want her
to be brought into it.”

Her mother shook her head. “Where did you meet him?” she inquired.

“At Mrs. Bracebridge’s.”

“How long ago?”

“Oh, it’s been almost two months now.”

“And you never said anything about him,” protested Mrs. Gerhardt
reproachfully.

“I didn’t know that he cared for me this way,” said Jennie defensively.

“Why didn’t you wait and let him come out here first?” asked her
mother. “It will make things so much easier. You can’t go and not have
your father find out.”

“I thought I’d say I was going with Mrs. Bracebridge. Papa can’t object
to my going with her.”

“No,” agreed her mother thoughtfully.

The two looked at each other in silence. Mrs. Gerhardt, with her
imaginative nature, endeavored to formulate some picture of this new
and wonderful personality that had come into Jennie’s life. He was
wealthy; he wanted to take Jennie; he wanted to give them a good home.
What a story!

“And he gave me this,” put in Jennie, who, with some instinctive
psychic faculty, had been following her mother’s mood. She opened her
dress at the neck, and took out the two hundred and fifty dollars; she
placed the money in her mother’s hands.

The latter stared at it wide-eyed. Here was the relief for all her
woes—food, clothes, rent, coal—all done up in one small package of
green and yellow bills. If there were plenty of money in the house
Gerhardt need not worry about his burned hands; George and Martha and
Veronica could be clothed in comfort and made happy.

Jennie could dress better; there would be a future education for Vesta.

“Do you think he might ever want to marry you?” asked her mother
finally.

“I don’t know,” replied Jennie “he might. I know he loves me.”

“Well,” said her mother after a long pause, “if you’re going to tell
your father you’d better do it right away. He’ll think it’s strange as
it is.”

Jennie realized that she had won. Her mother had acquiesced from sheer
force of circumstances. She was sorry, but somehow it seemed to be for
the best. “I’ll help you out with it,” her mother had concluded, with a
little sigh.

The difficulty of telling this lie was very great for Mrs. Gerhardt,
but she went through the falsehood with a seeming nonchalance which
allayed Gerhardt’s suspicions. The children were also told, and when,
after the general discussion, Jennie repeated the falsehood to her
father it seemed natural enough.

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” he inquired.

“About two or three weeks,” she replied.

“That’s a nice trip,” he said. “I came through New York in 1844. It was
a small place then compared to what it is now.”

Secretly he was pleased that Jennie should have this fine chance. Her
employer must like her.

When Monday came Jennie bade her parents good-by and left early, going
straight to the Dornton, where Lester awaited her.

“So you came,” he said gaily, greeting her as she entered the ladies’
parlor.

“Yes,” she said simply.

“You are my niece,” he went on. “I have engaged H room for you near
mine. I’ll call for the key, and you go dress. When you’re ready I’ll
have the trunk sent to the depôt. The train leaves at one o’clock.”

She went to her room and dressed, while he fidgeted about, read,
smoked, and finally knocked at her door.

She replied by opening to him, fully clad.

“You look charming,” he said with a smile.

She looked down, for she was nervous and distraught. The whole process
of planning, lying, nerving herself to carry out her part had been hard
on her. She looked tired and worried.

“Not grieving, are you?” he asked, seeing how things stood.

“No-o,” she replied.

“Come now, sweet. You mustn’t feel this way. It’s coming out all
right.” He took her in his arms and kissed her, and they strolled down
the hall. He was astonished to see how well she looked in even these
simple clothes—the best she had ever had.

They reached the depôt after a short carriage ride. The accommodations
had been arranged for before hand, and Kane had allowed just enough
time to make the train. When they settled themselves in a Pullman
state-room it was with a keen sense of satisfaction on his part. Life
looked rosy. Jennie was beside him. He had succeeded in what he had
started out to do. So might it always be.

As the train rolled out of the depôt and the long reaches of the fields
succeeded Jennie studied them wistfully. There were the forests,
leafless and bare; the wide, brown fields, wet with the rains of
winter; the low farm-houses sitting amid flat stretches of prairie,
their low roofs making them look as if they were hugging the ground.
The train roared past little hamlets, with cottages of white and yellow
and drab, their roofs blackened by frost and rain. Jennie noted one in
particular which seemed to recall the old neighborhood where they used
to live at Columbus; she put her handkerchief to her eyes and began
silently to cry.

“I hope you’re not crying, are you, Jennie?” said

Lester, looking up suddenly from the letter he had been reading. “Come,
come,” he went on as he saw a faint tremor shaking her. “This won’t do.
You have to do better than this. You’ll never get along if you act that
way.”

She made no reply, and the depth of her silent grief filled him with
strange sympathies.

“Don’t cry,” he continued soothingly; “everything will be all right. I
told you that. You needn’t worry about anything.”

Jennie made a great effort to recover herself, and began to dry her
eyes.

“You don’t want to give way like that,” he continued. “It doesn’t do
you any good. I know how you feel about leaving home, but tears won’t
help it any. It isn’t as if you were going away for good, you know.
Besides, you’ll be going back shortly. You care for me, don’t you,
sweet? I’m something?”

“Yes,” she said, and managed to smile back at him.

Lester returned to his correspondence and Jennie fell to thinking of
Vesta. It troubled her to realize that she was keeping this secret from
one who was already very dear to her. She knew that she ought to tell
Lester about the child, but she shrank from the painful necessity.
Perhaps later on she might find the courage to do it.

“I’ll have to tell him something,” she thought with a sudden upwelling
of feeling as regarded the seriousness of this duty. “If I don’t do it
soon and I should go and live with him and he should find it out he
would never forgive me. He might turn me out, and then where would I
go? I have no home now. What would I do with Vesta?”

She turned to contemplate him, a premonitory wave of terror sweeping
over her, but she only saw that imposing and comfort-loving soul
quietly reading his letters, his smoothly shaved red cheek and
comfortable head and body looking anything but militant or like an
avenging Nemesis. She was just withdrawing her gaze when he looked up.

“Well, have you washed all your sins away?” he inquired merrily.

She smiled faintly at the allusion. The touch of fact in it made it
slightly piquant.

“I expect so,” she replied.

He turned to some other topic, while she looked out of the window, the
realization that one impulse to tell him had proved unavailing dwelling
in her mind. “I’ll have to do it shortly,” she thought, and consoled
herself with the idea that she would surely find courage before long.

Their arrival in New York the next day raised the important question in
Lester’s mind as to where he should stop. New York was a very large
place, and he was not in much danger of encountering people who would
know him, but he thought it just as well not to take chances.
Accordingly he had the cabman drive them to one of the more exclusive
apartment hotels, where he engaged a suite of rooms; and they settled
themselves for a stay of two or three weeks.

This atmosphere into which Jennie was now plunged was so wonderful, so
illuminating, that she could scarcely believe this was the same world
that she had inhabited before. Kane was no lover of vulgar display. The
appointments with which he surrounded himself were always simple and
elegant. He knew at a glance what Jennie needed, and bought for her
with discrimination and care. And Jennie, a woman, took a keen pleasure
in the handsome gowns and pretty fripperies that he lavished upon her.
Could this be really Jennie Gerhardt, the washerwoman’s daughter, she
asked herself, as she gazed in her mirror at the figure of a girl clad
in blue velvet, with yellow French lace at her throat and upon her
arms? Could these be her feet, clad in soft shapely shoes at ten
dollars a pair, these her hands adorned with flashing jewels? What
wonderful good fortune she was enjoying! And Lester had promised that
her mother would share in it. Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought.
The dear mother, how she loved her!

It was Lester’s pleasure in these days to see what he could do to make
her look like some one truly worthy of im. He exercised his most
careful judgment, and the result surprised even himself. People turned
in the halls, in the dining-rooms, and on the street to gaze at Jennie.

“A stunning woman that man has with him,” was a frequent comment.

Despite her altered state Jennie did not lose her judgment of life or
her sense of perspective or proportion. She felt as though life were
tentatively loaning her something which would be taken away after a
time. There was no pretty vanity in her bosom. Lester realized this as
he watched her. “You’re a big woman, in your way,” he said. “You’ll
amount to something. Life hasn’t given you much of a deal up to now.”

He wondered how he could justify this new relationship to his family,
should they chance to hear about it. If he should decide to take a home
in Chicago or St. Louis (there was such a thought running in his mind)
could he maintain it secretly? Did he want to? He was half persuaded
that he really, truly loved her.

As the time drew near for their return he began to counsel her as to
her future course of action. “You ought to find some way of introducing
me, as an acquaintance, to your father,” he said. “It will ease matters
up. I think I’ll call. Then if you tell him you’re going to marry me
he’ll think nothing of it.” Jennie thought of Vesta, and trembled
inwardly. But perhaps her father could be induced to remain silent.

Lester had made the wise suggestion that she should retain the clothes
she had worn in Cleveland in order that she might wear them home when
she reached there. “There won’t be any trouble about this other stuff,”
he said. “I’ll have it cared for until we make some other arrangement.”
It was all very simple and easy; he was a master strategist.

Jennie had written her mother almost daily since she had been East. She
had inclosed little separate notes to be read by Mrs. Gerhardt only. In
one she explained Lester’s desire to call, and urged her mother to
prepare the way by telling her father that she had met some one who
liked her. She spoke of the difficulty concerning Vesta, and her mother
at once began to plan a campaign to have Gerhardt hold his peace. There
must be no hitch now. Jennie must be given an opportunity to better
herself. When she returned there was great rejoicing. Of course she
could not go back to her work, but Mrs. Gerhardt explained that Mrs.
Bracebridge had given Jennie a few weeks’ vacation in order that she
might look for something better, something at which she could make more
money.




CHAPTER XXIV


The problem of the Gerhardt family and its relationship to himself
comparatively settled, Kane betook himself to Cincinnati and to his
business duties. He was heartily interested in the immense plant, which
occupied two whole blocks in the outskirts of the city, and its conduct
and development was as much a problem and a pleasure to him as to
either his father or his brother. He liked to feel that he was a vital
part of this great and growing industry. When he saw freight cars going
by on the railroads labelled “The Kane Manufacturing
Company—Cincinnati” or chanced to notice displays of the company’s
products in the windows of carriage sales companies in the different
cities he was conscious of a warm glow of satisfaction. It was
something to be a factor in an institution so stable, so distinguished,
so honestly worth while. This was all very well, but now Kane was
entering upon a new phase of his personal existence—in a word, there
was Jennie. He was conscious as he rode toward his home city that he
was entering on a relationship which might involve disagreeable
consequences. He was a little afraid of his father’s attitude; above
all, there was his brother Robert.

Robert was cold and conventional in character; an excellent business
man; irreproachable in both his public and in his private life. Never
overstepping the strict boundaries of legal righteousness, he was
neither warm-hearted nor generous—in fact, he would turn any trick
which could be speciously, or at best necessitously, recommended to his
conscience. How he reasoned Lester did not know—he could not follow the
ramifications of a logic which could combine hard business tactics with
moral rigidity, but somehow his brother managed to do it. “He’s got a
Scotch Presbyterian conscience mixed with an Asiatic perception of the
main chance.” Lester once told somebody, and he had the situation
accurately measured. Nevertheless he could not rout his brother from
his positions nor defy him, for he had the public conscience with him.
He was in line with convention practically, and perhaps
sophisticatedly.

The two brothers were outwardly friendly; inwardly they were far apart.
Robert liked Lester well enough personally, but he did not trust his
financial judgment, and, temperamentally, they did not agree as to how
life and its affairs should be conducted. Lester had a secret contempt
for his brother’s chill, persistent chase of the almighty dollar.
Robert was sure that Lester’s easy-going ways were reprehensible, and
bound to create trouble sooner or later. In the business they did not
quarrel much—there was not so much chance with the old gentleman still
in charge—but there were certain minor differences constantly cropping
up which showed which way the wind blew. Lester was for building up
trade through friendly relationship, concessions, personal contact, and
favors. Robert was for pulling everything tight, cutting down the cost
of production, and offering such financial inducements as would
throttle competition.

The old manufacturer always did his best to pour oil on these troubled
waters, but he foresaw an eventual clash. One or the other would have
to get out or perhaps both. “If only you two boys could agree!” he used
to say.

Another thing which disturbed Lester was his father’s attitude on the
subject of marriage—Lester’s marriage, to be specific. Archibald Kane
never ceased to insist on the fact that Lester ought to get married,
and that he was making a big mistake in putting it off. All the other
children, save Louise, were safely married. Why not his favorite son?
It was doing him injury morally, socially, commercially, that he was
sure of.

“The world expects it of a man in your position,” his father had argued
from time to time. “It makes for social solidity and prestige. You
ought to pick out a good woman and raise a family. Where will you be
when you get to my time of life if you haven’t any children, any home?”

“Well, if the right woman came along,” said Lester, “I suppose I’d
marry her. But she hasn’t come along. What do you want me to do? Take
anybody?”

“No, not anybody, of course, but there are lots of good women. You can
surely find some one if you try. There’s that Pace girl. What about
her? You used to like her. I wouldn’t drift on this way, Lester; it
can’t come to any good.”

His son would only smile. “There, father, let it go now. I’ll come
around some time, no doubt. I’ve got to be thirsty when I’m led to
water.”

The old gentleman gave over, time and again, but it was a sore point
with him. He wanted his son to settle down and be a real man of
affairs.

The fact that such a situation as this might militate against any
permanent arrangement with Jennie was obvious even to Lester at this
time. He thought out his course of action carefully. Of course he would
not give Jennie up, whatever the possible consequences. But he must be
cautious; he must take no unnecessary risks. Could he bring her to
Cincinnati? What a scandal if it were ever found out! Could he install
her in a nice home somewhere near the city? The family would probably
eventually suspect something. Could he take her along on his numerous
business journeys? This first one to New York had been successful.
Would it always be so? He turned the question over in his mind.

The very difficulty gave it zest. Perhaps St. Louis, or Pittsburg, or
Chicago would be best after all. He went to these places frequently,
and particularly to Chicago. He decided finally that it should be
Chicago if he could arrange it. He could always make excuses to run up
there, and it was only a night’s ride. Yes, Chicago was best. The very
size and activity of the city made concealment easy. After two weeks’
stay at Cincinnati Lester wrote Jennie that he was coming to Cleveland
soon, and she answered that she thought it would be all right for him
to call and see her. Her father had been told about him. She had felt
it unwise to stay about the house, and so had secured a position in a
store at four dollars a week. He smiled as he thought of her working,
and yet the decency and energy of it appealed to him. “She’s all
right,” he said. “She’s the best I’ve come across yet.”

He ran up to Cleveland the following Saturday, and, calling at her
place of business, he made an appointment to see her that evening. He
was anxious that his introduction, as her beau, should be gotten over
with as quickly as possible. When he did call the shabbiness of the
house and the manifest poverty of the family rather disgusted him, but
somehow Jennie seemed as sweet to him as ever. Gerhardt came in the
front-room, after he had been there a few minutes, and shook hands with
him, as did also Mrs. Gerhardt, but Lester paid little attention to
them. The old German appeared to him to be merely commonplace—the sort
of man who was hired by hundreds in common capacities in his father’s
factory. After some desultory conversation Lester suggested to Jennie
that they should go for a drive. Jennie put on her hat, and together
they departed. As a matter of fact, they went to an apartment which he
had hired for the storage of her clothes. When she returned at eight in
the evening the family considered it nothing amiss.




CHAPTER XXV


A month later Jennie was able to announce that Lester intended to marry
her. His visits had of course paved the way for this, and it seemed
natural enough. Only Gerhardt seemed a little doubtful. He did not know
just how this might be. Perhaps it was all right. Lester seemed a fine
enough man in all conscience, and really, after Brander, why not? If a
United States Senator could fall in love with Jennie, why not a
business man? There was just one thing—the child. “Has she told him
about Vesta?” he asked his wife.

“No,” said Mrs. Gerhardt, “not yet.”

“Not yet, not yet. Always something underhanded. Do you think he wants
her if he knows? That’s what comes of such conduct in the first place.
Now she has to slip around like a thief. The child cannot even have an
honest name.”

Gerhardt went back to his newspaper reading and brooding. His life
seemed a complete failure to him and he was only waiting to get well
enough to hunt up another job as watchman. He wanted to get out of this
mess of deception and dishonesty.

A week or two later Jennie confided to her mother that Lester had
written her to join him in Chicago. He was not feeling well, and could
not come to Cleveland. The two women explained to Gerhardt that Jennie
was going away to be married to Mr. Kane. Gerhardt flared up at this,
and his suspicions were again aroused. But he could do nothing but
grumble over the situation; it would lead to no good end, of that he
was sure.

When the day came for Jennie’s departure she had to go without saying
farewell to her father. He was out looking for work until late in the
afternoon, and before he had returned she had been obliged to leave for
the station. “I will write a note to him when I get there,” she said.
She kissed her baby over and over. “Lester will take a better house for
us soon,” she went on hopefully. “He wants us to move.” The night train
bore her to Chicago; the old life had ended and the new one had begun.

The curious fact should be recorded here that, although Lester’s
generosity had relieved the stress upon the family finances, the
children and Gerhardt were actually none the wiser. It was easy for
Mrs. Gerhardt to deceive her husband as to the purchase of necessities
and she had not as yet indulged in any of the fancies which an enlarged
purse permitted. Fear deterred her. But, after Jennie had been in
Chicago for a few days, she wrote to her mother saying that Lester
wanted them to take a new home. This letter was shown to Gerhardt, who
had been merely biding her return to make a scene. He frowned, but
somehow it seemed an evidence of regularity. If he had not married her
why should he want to help them? Perhaps Jennie was well married after
all. Perhaps she really had been lifted to a high station in life, and
was now able to help the family. Gerhardt almost concluded to forgive
her everything once and for all.

The end of it was that a new house was decided upon, and Jennie
returned to Cleveland to help her mother move. Together they searched
the streets for a nice, quiet neighborhood, and finally found one. A
house of nine rooms, with a yard, which rented for thirty dollars, was
secured and suitably furnished. There were comfortable fittings for the
dining-room and sitting-room, a handsome parlor set and bedroom sets
complete for each room. The kitchen was supplied with every
convenience, and there was even a bath-room, a luxury the Gerhardts had
never enjoyed before. Altogether the house was attractive, though
plain, and Jennie was happy to know that her family could be
comfortable in it.

When the time came for the actual moving Mrs. Gerhardt was fairly
beside herself with joy, for was not this the realization of her
dreams? All through the long years of her life she had been waiting,
and now it had come. A new house, new furniture, plenty of room—things
finer than she had ever even imagined—think of it! Her eyes shone as
she looked at the new beds and tables and bureaus and whatnots. “Dear,
dear, isn’t this nice!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it beautiful!” Jennie
smiled and tried to pretend satisfaction without emotion, but there
were tears in her eyes. She was so glad for her mother’s sake. She
could have kissed Lester’s feet for his goodness to her family.

The day the furniture was moved in Mrs. Gerhardt, Martha, and Veronica
were on hand to clean and arrange things. At the sight of the large
rooms and pretty yard, bare enough in winter, but giving promise of a
delightful greenness in spring, and the array of new furniture standing
about in excelsior, the whole family fell into a fever of delight. Such
beauty, such spaciousness! George rubbed his feet over the new carpets
and Bass examined the quality of the furniture critically. “Swell,” was
his comment. Mrs. Gerhardt roved to and fro like a person in a dream.
She could not believe that these bright bedrooms, this beautiful
parlor, this handsome dining-room were actually hers.

Gerhardt came last of all. Although he tried hard not to show it, he,
too, could scarcely refrain from enthusiastic comment. The sight of an
opal-globed chandelier over the dining-room table was the finishing
touch.

“Gas, yet!” he said.

He looked grimly around, under his shaggy eyebrows, at the new carpets
under his feet, the long oak extension table covered with a white cloth
and set with new dishes, at the pictures on the walls, the bright,
clean kitchen. He shook his head. “By chops, it’s fine!” he said. “It’s
very nice. Yes, it’s very nice. We want to be careful now not to break
anything. It’s so easy to scratch things up, and then it’s all over.”
Yes, even Gerhardt was satisfied.




CHAPTER XXVI


It would be useless to chronicle the events of the three years that
followed—events and experiences by which the family grew from an abject
condition of want to a state of comparative self-reliance, based, of
course, on the obvious prosperity of Jennie and the generosity (through
her) of her distant husband. Lester was seen now and then, a
significant figure, visiting Cleveland, and sometimes coming out to the
house where he occupied with Jennie the two best rooms of the second
floor. There were hurried trips on her part—in answer to telegraph
massages—to Chicago, to St. Louis, to New York. One of his favorite
pastimes was to engage quarters at the great resorts—Hot Springs, Mt.
Clemens, Saratoga—and for a period of a week or two at a stretch enjoy
the luxury of living with Jennie as his wife. There were other times
when he would pass through Cleveland only for the privilege of seeing
her for a day. All the time he was aware that he was throwing on her
the real burden of a rather difficult situation, but he did not see how
he could remedy it at this time. He was not sure as yet that he really
wanted to. They were getting along fairly well.

The attitude of the Gerhardt family toward this condition of affairs
was peculiar. At first, in spite of the irregularity of it, it seemed
natural enough. Jennie said she was married. No one had seen her
marriage certificate, but she said so, and she seemed to carry herself
with the air of one who holds that relationship. Still, she never went
to Cincinnati, where his family lived, and none of his relatives ever
came near her. Then, too, his attitude, in spite of the money which had
first blinded them, was peculiar. He really did not carry himself like
a married man. He was so indifferent. There were weeks in which she
appeared to receive only perfunctory notes. There were times when she
would only go away for a few days to meet him. Then there were the long
periods in which she absented herself—the only worthwhile testimony
toward a real relationship, and that, in a way, unnatural.

Bass, who had grown to be a young man of twenty-five, with some
business judgment and a desire to get out in the world, was suspicious.
He had come to have a pretty keen knowledge of life, and intuitively he
felt that things were not right. George, nineteen, who had gained a
slight foothold in a wall-paper factory and was looking forward to a
career in that field, was also restless. He felt that something was
wrong. Martha, seventeen, was still in school, as were William and
Veronica. Each was offered an opportunity to study indefinitely; but
there was unrest with life. They knew about Jennie’s child. The
neighbors were obviously drawing conclusions for themselves. They had
few friends. Gerhardt himself finally concluded that there was
something wrong, but he had let himself into this situation, and was
not in much of a position now to raise an argument. He wanted to ask
her at times—proposed to make her do better if he could—but the worst
had already been done. It depended on the man now, he knew that.

Things were gradually nearing a state where a general upheaval would
have taken place had not life stepped in with one of its fortuitous
solutions. Mrs. Gerhardt’s health failed. Although stout and formerly
of a fairly active disposition, she had of late years become decidedly
sedentary in her habits and grown weak, which, coupled with a mind
naturally given to worry, and weighed upon as it had been by a number
of serious and disturbing ills, seemed now to culminate in a slow but
very certain case of systemic poisoning. She became decidedly sluggish
in her motions, wearied more quickly at the few tasks left for her to
do, and finally complained to Jennie that it was very hard for her to
climb stairs. “I’m not feeling well,” she said. “I think I’m going to
be sick.”

Jennie now took alarm and proposed to take her to some near-by
watering-place, but Mrs. Gerhardt wouldn’t go. “I don’t think it would
do any good,” she said. She sat about or went driving with her
daughter, but the fading autumn scenery depressed her. “I don’t like to
get sick in the fall,” she said. “The leaves coming down make me think
I am never going to get well.”

“Oh, ma, how you talk!” said Jennie; but she felt frightened,
nevertheless.

How much the average home depends upon the mother was seen when it was
feared the end was near. Bass, who had thought of getting married and
getting out of this atmosphere, abandoned the idea temporarily.
Gerhardt, shocked and greatly depressed, hung about like one expectant
of and greatly awed by the possibility of disaster. Jennie, too
inexperienced in death to feel that she could possibly lose her mother,
felt as if somehow her living depended on her. Hoping in spite of all
opposing circumstances, she hung about, a white figure of patience,
waiting and serving.

The end came one morning after a month of illness and several days of
unconsciousness, during which silence reigned in the house and all the
family went about on tiptoe. Mrs. Gerhardt passed away with her dying
gaze fastened on Jennie’s face for the last few minutes of
consciousness that life vouchsafed her. Jennie stared into her eyes
with a yearning horror. “Oh, mamma! mamma!” she cried. “Oh no, no!”

Gerhardt came running in from the yard, and, throwing himself down by
the bedside, wrung his bony hands in anguish. “I should have gone
first!” he cried. “I should have gone first!”

The death of Mrs. Gerhardt hastened the final breaking up of the
family. Bass was bent on getting married at once, having had a girl in
town for some time. Martha, whose views of life had broadened and
hardened, was anxious to get out also. She felt that a sort of stigma
attached to the home—to herself, in fact, so long as she remained
there. Martha looked to the public schools as a source of income; she
was going to be a teacher. Gerhardt alone scarcely knew which way to
turn. He was again at work as a night watchman. Jennie found him crying
one day alone in the kitchen, and immediately burst into tears herself.
“Now, papa!” she pleaded, “it isn’t as bad as that. You will always
have a home—you know that—as long as I have anything. You can come with
me.”

“No, no,” he protested. He really did not want to go with her. “It
isn’t that,” he continued. “My whole life comes to nothing.”

It was some little time before Bass, George and Martha finally left,
but, one by one, they got out, leaving Jennie, her father, Veronica,
and William, and one other—Jennie’s child. Of course Lester knew
nothing of Vesta’s parentage, and curiously enough he had never seen
the little girl. During the short periods in which he deigned to visit
the house—two or three days at most—Mrs. Gerhardt took good care that
Vesta was kept in the background. There was a play-room on the top
floor, and also a bedroom there, and concealment was easy. Lester
rarely left his rooms, he even had his meals served to him in what
might have been called the living-room of the suite. He was not at all
inquisitive or anxious to meet any one of the other members of the
family. He was perfectly willing to shake hands with them or to
exchange a few perfunctory words, but perfunctory words only. It was
generally understood that the child must not appear, and so it did not.

There is an inexplicable sympathy between old age and childhood, an
affinity which is as lovely as it is pathetic. During that first year
in Lorrie Street, when no one was looking, Gerhardt often carried Vesta
about on his shoulders and pinched her soft, red cheeks. When she got
old enough to walk he it was who, with a towel fastened securely under
her arms, led her patiently around the room until she was able to take
a few steps of her own accord. When she actually reached the point
where she could walk he was the one who coaxed her to the effort,
shyly, grimly, but always lovingly. By some strange leading of fate
this stigma on his family’s honor, this blotch on conventional
morality, had twined its helpless baby fingers about the tendons of his
heart. He loved this little outcast ardently, hopefully. She was the
one bright ray in a narrow, gloomy life, and Gerhardt early took upon
himself the responsibility of her education in religious matters. Was
it not he who had insisted that the infant should be baptized?

“Say ‘Our Father,’” he used to demand of the lisping infant when he had
her alone with him.

“Ow Fowvaw,” was her vowel-like interpretation of his words.

“‘Who art in heaven.’”

“‘Ooh ah in aven,’” repeated the child.

“Why do you teach her so early?” pleaded Mrs. Gerhardt, overhearing the
little one’s struggles with stubborn consonants and vowels.

“Because I want she should learn the Christian faith,” returned
Gerhardt determinedly. “She ought to know her prayers. If she don’t
begin now she never will know them.”

Mrs. Gerhardt smiled. Many of her husband’s religious idiosyncrasies
were amusing to her. At the same time she liked to see this sympathetic
interest he was taking in the child’s upbringing. If he were only not
so hard, so narrow at times. He made himself a torment to himself and
to every one else.

On the earliest bright morning of returning spring he was wont to take
her for her first little journeys in the world. “Come, now,” he would
say, “we will go for a little walk.”

“Walk,” chirped Vesta.

“Yes, walk,” echoed Gerhardt.

Mrs. Gerhardt would fasten on one of her little hoods, for in these
days Jennie kept Vesta’s wardrobe beautifully replete. Taking her by
the hand, Gerhardt would issue forth, satisfied to drag first one foot
and then the other in order to accommodate his gait to her toddling
steps.

One beautiful May day, when Vesta was four years old, they started on
one of their walks. Everywhere nature was budding and bourgeoning; the
birds twittering their arrival from the south; the insects making the
best of their brief span of life. Sparrows chirped in the road; robins
strutted upon the grass; bluebirds built in the eaves of the cottages.
Gerhardt took a keen delight in pointing out the wonders of nature to
Vesta, and she was quick to respond. Every new sight and sound
interested her.

“Ooh!—ooh!” exclaimed Vesta, catching sight of a low, flashing touch of
red as a robin lighted upon a twig nearby. Her hand was up, and her
eyes were wide open.

“Yes,” said Gerhardt, as happy as if he himself had but newly
discovered this marvelous creature. “Robin. Bird. Robin. Say robin.”

“Wobin,” said Vesta.

“Yes, robin,” he answered. “It is going to look for a worm now. We will
see if we cannot find its nest. I think I saw a nest in one of these
trees.”

He plodded peacefully on, seeking to rediscover an old abandoned nest
that he had observed on a former walk. “Here it is,” he said at last,
coming to a small and leafless tree, in which a winter-beaten remnant
of a home was still clinging. “Here, come now, see,” and he lifted the
baby up at arm’s length.

“See,” said Gerhardt, indicating the wisp of dead grasses with his free
hand, “nest. That is a bird’s nest. See!”

“Ooh!” repeated Vesta, imitating his pointing finger with one of her
own. “Ness—ooh!”

“Yes,” said Gerhardt, putting her down again. “That was a wren’s nest.
They have all gone now. They will not come any more.”

Still further they plodded, he unfolding the simple facts of life, she
wondering with the wide wonder of a child. When they had gone a block
or two he turned slowly about as if the end of the world had been
reached.

“We must be going back!” he said.

And so she had come to her fifth year, growing in sweetness,
intelligence, and vivacity. Gerhardt was fascinated by the questions
she asked, the puzzles she pronounced. “Such a girl!” he would exclaim
to his wife. “What is it she doesn’t want to know? ‘Where is God? What
does He do? Where does He keep His feet?” she asks me. “I gotta laugh
sometimes.” From rising in the morning, to dress her to laying her down
at night after she had said her prayers, she came to be the chief
solace and comfort of his days. Without Vesta, Gerhardt would have
found his life hard indeed to bear.




CHAPTER XXVII


For three years now Lester had been happy in the companionship of
Jennie. Irregular as the connection might be in the eyes of the church
and of society, it had brought him peace and comfort, and he was
perfectly satisfied with the outcome of the experiment. His interest in
the social affairs of Cincinnati was now practically nil, and he had
consistently refused to consider any matrimonial proposition which had
himself as the object. He looked on his father’s business organization
as offering a real chance for himself if he could get control of it;
but he saw no way of doing so. Robert’s interests were always in the
way, and, if anything, the two brothers were farther apart than ever in
their ideas and aims. Lester had thought once or twice of entering some
other line of business or of allying himself with another carriage
company, but he did not feel that ha could conscientiously do this.
Lester had his salary—fifteen thousand a year as secretary and
treasurer of the company (his brother was vice-president)—and about
five thousand from some outside investments. He had not been so lucky
or so shrewd in speculation as Robert had been; aside from the
principal which yielded his five thousand, he had nothing. Robert, on
the other hand, was unquestionably worth between three and four hundred
thousand dollars, in addition to his future interest in the business,
which both brothers shrewdly suspected would be divided somewhat in
their favor. Robert and Lester would get a fourth each, they thought;
their sisters a sixth. It seemed natural that Kane senior should take
this view, seeing that the brothers were actually in control and doing
the work. Still, there was no certainty. The old gentleman might do
anything or nothing. The probabilities were that he would be very fair
and liberal. At the same time, Robert was obviously beating Lester in
the game of life. What did Lester intend to do about it?

There comes a time in every thinking man’s life when he pauses and
“takes stock” of his condition; when he asks himself how it fares with
his individuality as a whole, mental, moral, physical, material. This
time comes after the first heedless flights of youth have passed, when
the initiative and more powerful efforts have been made, and he begins
to feel the uncertainty of results and final values which attaches
itself to everything. There is a deadening thought of uselessness which
creeps into many men’s minds—the thought which has been best expressed
by the Preacher in Ecclesiastes.

Yet Lester strove to be philosophical. “What difference does it make?”
he used to say to himself, “whether I live at the White House, or here
at home, or at the Grand Pacific?” But in the very question was the
implication that there were achievements in life which he had failed to
realize in his own career. The White House represented the rise and
success of a great public character. His home and the Grand Pacific
were what had come to him without effort.

He decided for the time being—it was about the period of the death of
Jennie’s mother—that he would make some effort to rehabilitate himself.
He would cut out idling—these numerous trips with Jennie had cost him
considerable time. He would make some outside investments. If his
brother could find avenues of financial profit, so could he. He would
endeavor to assert his authority—he would try to make himself of more
importance in the business, rather than let Robert gradually absorb
everything. Should he forsake Jennie?—that thought also, came to him.
She had no claim on him. She could make no protest. Somehow he did not
see how it could be done. It seemed cruel, useless; above all (though
he disliked to admit it) it would be uncomfortable for himself. He
liked her—loved her, perhaps, in a selfish way. He didn’t see how he
could desert her very well.

Just at this time he had a really serious difference with Robert. His
brother wanted to sever relations with an old and well established
paint company in New York, which had manufactured paints especially for
the house, and invest in a new concern in Chicago, which was growing
and had a promising future. Lester, knowing the members of the Eastern
firm, their reliability, their long and friendly relations with the
house, was in opposition. His father at first seemed to agree with
Lester. But Robert argued out the question in his cold, logical way,
his blue eyes fixed uncompromisingly upon his brother’s face. “We can’t
go on forever,” he said, “standing by old friends, just because father
here has dealt with them, or you like them. We must have a change. The
business must be stiffened up; we’re going to have more and stronger
competition.”

“It’s just as father feels about it,” said Lester at last. “I have no
deep feeling in the matter. It won’t hurt me one way or the other. You
say the house is going to profit eventually. I’ve stated the arguments
on the other side.”

“I’m inclined to think Robert is right,” said Archibald Kane calmly.
“Most of the things he has suggested so far have worked out.”

Lester colored. “Well, we won’t have any more discussion about it
then,” he said. He rose and strolled out of the office.

The shock of this defeat, coming at a time when he was considering
pulling himself together, depressed Lester considerably. It wasn’t much
but it was a straw, and his father’s remark about his brother’s
business acumen was even more irritating. He was beginning to wonder
whether his father would discriminate in any way in the distribution of
the property. Had he heard anything about his entanglement with Jennie?
Had he resented the long vacations he had taken from business? It did
not appear to Lester that he could be justly chargeable with either
incapacity or indifference, so far as the company was concerned. He had
done his work well. He was still the investigator of propositions put
up to the house, the student of contracts, the trusted adviser of his
father and mother—but he was being worsted. Where would it end? He
thought about this, but could reach no conclusion.

Later in this same year Robert came forward with a plan for
reorganization in the executive department of the business. He proposed
that they should build an immense exhibition and storage warehouse on
Michigan Avenue in Chicago, and transfer a portion of their completed
stock there. Chicago was more central than Cincinnati. Buyers from the
West and country merchants could be more easily reached and dealt with
there. It would be a big advertisement for the house, a magnificent
evidence of its standing and prosperity. Kane senior and Lester
immediately approved of this. Both saw its advantages. Robert suggested
that Lester should undertake the construction of the new buildings. It
would probably be advisable for him to reside in Chicago a part of the
time.

The idea appealed to Lester, even though it took him away from
Cincinnati, largely if not entirely. It was dignified and not
unrepresentative of his standing in the company. He could live in
Chicago and he could have Jennie with him. The scheme he had for taking
an apartment could now be arranged without difficulty. He voted yes.
Robert smiled. “I’m sure we’ll get good results from this all around,”
he said.

As construction work was soon to begin, Lester decided to move to
Chicago immediately. He sent word for Jennie to meet him, and together
they selected an apartment on the North Side, a very comfortable suite
of rooms on a side street near the lake, and he had it fitted up to
suit his taste. He figured that living in Chicago he could pose as a
bachelor. He would never need to invite his friends to his rooms. There
were his offices, where he could always be found, his clubs and the
hotels. To his way of thinking the arrangement was practically ideal.

Of course Jennie’s departure from Cleveland brought the affairs of the
Gerhardt family to a climax. Probably the home would be broken up, but
Gerhardt himself took the matter philosophically. He was an old man,
and it did not matter much where he lived. Bass, Martha, and George
were already taking care of themselves. Veronica and William were still
in school, but some provision could be made for boarding them with a
neighbor. The one real concern of Jennie and Gerhardt was Vesta. It was
Gerhardt’s natural thought that Jennie must take the child with her.
What else should a mother do?

“Have you told him yet?” he asked her, when the day of her contemplated
departure had been set.

“No; but I’m going to soon,” she assured him.

“Always soon,” he said.

He shook his head. His throat swelled.

“It’s too bad,” he went on. “It’s a great sin. God will punish you, I’m
afraid. The child needs some one. I’m getting old—otherwise I would
keep her. There is no one here all day now to look after her right, as
she should be.” Again he shook his head.

“I know,” said Jennie weakly. “I’m going to fix it now. I’m going to
have her live with me soon. I won’t neglect her—you know that.”

“But the child’s name,” he insisted. “She should have a name. Soon in
another year she goes to school. People will want to know who she is.
It can’t go on forever like this.”

Jennie understood well enough that it couldn’t. She was crazy about her
baby. The heaviest cross she had to bear was the constant separations
and the silence she was obliged to maintain about Vesta’s very
existence. It did seem unfair to the child, and yet Jennie did not see
clearly how she could have acted otherwise. Vesta had good clothes,
everything she needed. She was at least comfortable. Jennie hoped to
give her a good education. If only she had told the truth to Lester in
the first place. Now it was almost too late, and yet she felt that she
had acted for the best. Finally she decided to find some good woman or
family in Chicago who would take charge of Vesta for a consideration.
In a Swedish colony to the west of La Salle Avenue she came across an
old lady who seemed to embody all the virtues she required—cleanliness,
simplicity, honesty. She was a widow, doing work by the day, but she
was glad to make an arrangement by which she should give her whole time
to Vesta. The latter was to go to kindergarten when a suitable one
should be found. She was to have toys and kindly attention, and Mrs.
Olsen was to inform Jennie of any change in the child’s health. Jennie
proposed to call every day, and she thought that sometimes, when Lester
was out of town, Vesta might be brought to the apartment. She had had
her with her at Cleveland, and he had never found out anything.

The arrangements completed, Jennie returned at the first opportunity to
Cleveland to take Vesta away. Gerhardt, who had been brooding over his
approaching loss, appeared most solicitous about her future. “She
should grow up to be a fine girl,” he said. “You should give her a good
education—she is so smart.” He spoke of the advisability of sending her
to a Lutheran school and church, but Jennie was not so sure of that.
Time and association with Lester had led her to think that perhaps the
public school was better than any private institution. She had no
particular objection to the church, but she no longer depended upon its
teachings as a guide in the affairs of life. Why should she?

The next day it was necessary for Jennie to return to Chicago. Vesta,
excited and eager, was made ready for the journey. Gerhardt had been
wandering about, restless as a lost spirit, while the process of
dressing was going on; now that the hour had actually struck he was
doing his best to control his feelings. He could see that the
five-year-old child had no conception of what it meant to him. She was
happy and self-interested, chattering about the ride and the train.

“Be a good little girl,” he said, lifting her up and kissing her. “See
that you study your catechism and say your prayers. And you won’t
forget the grandpa—what?—” He tried to go on, but his voice failed him.

Jennie, whose heart ached for her father, choked back her emotion.
“There,” she said, “if I’d thought you were going to act like that—”
She stopped.

“Go,” said Gerhardt, manfully, “go. It is best this way.” And he stood
solemnly by as they went out of the door. Then he turned back to his
favorite haunt, the kitchen, and stood there staring at the floor. One
by one they were leaving him—Mrs. Gerhardt, Bass, Martha, Jennie,
Vesta. He clasped his hands together, after his old-time fashion, and
shook his head again and again. “So it is! So it is!” he repeated.
“They all leave me. All my life goes to pieces.”




CHAPTER XXVIII


During the three years in which Jennie and Lester had been associated
there had grown up between them a strong feeling of mutual sympathy and
understanding. Lester truly loved her in his own way. It was a strong,
self-satisfying, determined kind of way, based solidly on a big natural
foundation, but rising to a plane of genuine spiritual affinity. The
yielding sweetness of her character both attracted and held him. She
was true, and good, and womanly to the very center of her being; he had
learned to trust her, to depend upon her, and the feeling had but
deepened with the passing of the years.

On her part Jennie had sincerely, deeply, truly learned to love this
man. At first when he had swept her off her feet, overawed her soul,
and used her necessity as a chain wherewith to bind her to him, she was
a little doubtful, a little afraid of him, although she had always
liked him. Now, however, by living with him, by knowing him better, by
watching his moods, she had come to love him. He was so big, so vocal,
so handsome. His point of view and opinions of anything and everything
were so positive. His pet motto, “Hew to the line, let the chips fall
where they may,” had clung in her brain as something immensely
characteristic. Apparently he was not afraid of anything—God, man, or
devil. He used to look at her, holding her chin between the thumb and
fingers of his big brown hand, and say: “You’re sweet, all right, but
you need courage and defiance. You haven’t enough of those things.” And
her eyes would meet his in dumb appeal. “Never mind,” he would add,
“you have other things.” And then he would kiss her.

One of the most appealing things to Lester was the simple way in which
she tried to avoid exposure of her various social and educational
shortcomings. She could not write very well, and once he found a list
of words he had used written out on a piece of paper with the meanings
opposite. He smiled, but he liked her better for it. Another time in
the Southern hotel in St. Louis he watched her pretending a loss of
appetite because she thought that her lack of table manners was being
observed by nearby diners. She could not always be sure of the right
forks and knives, and the strange-looking dishes bothered her; how did
one eat asparagus and artichokes?

“Why don’t you eat something?” he asked good-naturedly. “You’re hungry,
aren’t you?”

“Not very.”

“You must be. Listen, Jennie. I know what it is. You mustn’t feel that
way. Your manners are all right. I wouldn’t bring you here if they
weren’t. Your instincts are all right. Don’t be uneasy. I’d tell you
quick enough when there was anything wrong.” His brown eyes held a
friendly gleam.

She smiled gratefully. “I do feel a little nervous at times,” she
admitted.

“Don’t,” he repeated. “You’re all right. Don’t worry. I’ll show you.”
And he did.

By degrees Jennie grew into an understanding of the usages and customs
of comfortable existence. All that the Gerhardt family had ever had
were the bare necessities of life. Now she was surrounded with whatever
she wanted—trunks, clothes, toilet articles, the whole varied equipment
of comfort—and while she liked it all, it did not upset her sense of
proportion and her sense of the fitness of things. There was no element
of vanity in her, only a sense of joy in privilege and opportunity. She
was grateful to Lester for all that he had done and was doing for her.
If only she could hold him—always!

The details of getting Vesta established once adjusted, Jennie settled
down into the routine of home life. Lester, busy about his
multitudinous affairs, was in and out. He had a suite of rooms reserved
for himself at the Grand Pacific, which was then the exclusive hotel of
Chicago, and this was his ostensible residence. His luncheon and
evening appointments were kept at the Union Club. An early patron of
the telephone, he had one installed in the apartment, so that he could
reach Jennie quickly and at any time. He was home two or three nights a
week, sometimes oftener. He insisted at first on Jennie having a girl
of general housework, but acquiesced in the more sensible arrangement
which she suggested later of letting some one come in to do the
cleaning. She liked to work around her own home. Her natural industry
and love of order prompted this feeling.

Lester liked his breakfast promptly at eight in the morning. He wanted
dinner served nicely at seven. Silverware, cut glass, imported
china—all the little luxuries of life appealed to him. He kept his
trunks and wardrobe at the apartment.

During the first few months everything went smoothly. He was in the
habit of taking Jennie to the theater now and then, and if he chanced
to run across an acquaintance he always introduced her as Miss
Gerhardt. When he registered her as his wife it was usually under an
assumed name; where there was no danger of detection he did not mind
using his own signature. Thus far there had been no difficulty or
unpleasantness of any kind.

The trouble with this situation was that it was criss-crossed with the
danger and consequent worry which the deception in regard to Vesta had
entailed, as well as with Jennie’s natural anxiety about her father and
the disorganized home. Jennie feared, as Veronica hinted, that she and
William would go to live with Martha, who was installed in a
boarding-house in Cleveland, and that Gerhardt would be left alone. He
was such a pathetic figure to her, with his injured hands and his one
ability—that of being a watchman—that she was hurt to think of his
being left alone. Would he come to her? She knew that he would
not—feeling as he did at present. Would Lester have him—she was not
sure of that. If he came Vesta would have to be accounted for. So she
worried.

The situation in regard to Vesta was really complicated. Owing to the
feeling that she was doing her daughter a great injustice, Jennie was
particularly sensitive in regard to her, anxious to do a thousand
things to make up for the one great duty that she could not perform.
She daily paid a visit to the home of Mrs. Olsen, always taking with
her toys, candy, or whatever came into her mind as being likely to
interest and please the child. She liked to sit with Vesta and tell her
stories of fairy and giant, which kept the little girl wide-eyed. At
last she went so far as to bring her to the apartment, when Lester was
away visiting his parents, and she soon found it possible, during his
several absences, to do this regularly. After that, as time went on and
she began to know his habits, she became more bold—although bold is
scarcely the word to use in connection with Jennie. She became
venturesome much as a mouse might; she would risk Vesta’s presence on
the assurance of even short absences—two or three days. She even got
into the habit of keeping a few of Vesta’s toys at the apartment, so
that she could have something to play with when she came.

During these several visits from her child Jennie could not but realize
the lovely thing life would be were she only an honored wife and a
happy mother. Vesta was a most observant little girl. She could by her
innocent childish questions give a hundred turns to the dagger of
self-reproach which was already planted deeply in Jennie’s heart.

“Can I come to live with you?” was one of her simplest and most
frequently repeated questions. Jennie would reply that mamma could not
have her just yet, but that very soon now, just as soon as she possibly
could, Vesta should come to stay always.

“Don’t you know just when?” Vesta would ask.

“No, dearest, not just when. Very soon now. You won’t mind waiting a
little while. Don’t you like Mrs. Olsen?”

“Yes,” replied Vesta; “but then she ain’t got any nice things now.
She’s just got old things.” And Jennie, stricken to the heart, would
take Vesta to the toy shop, and load her down with a new assortment of
playthings.

Of course Lester was not in the least suspicious. His observation of
things relating to the home were rather casual. He went about his work
and his pleasures believing Jennie to be the soul of sincerity and
good-natured service, and it never occurred to him that there was
anything underhanded in her actions. Once he did come home sick in the
afternoon and found her absent—an absence which endured from two
o’clock to five. He was a little irritated and grumbled on her return,
but his annoyance was as nothing to her astonishment and fright when
she found him there. She blanched at the thought of his suspecting
something, and explained as best she could. She had gone to see her
washerwoman. She was slow about her marketing. She didn’t dream he was
there. She was sorry, too, that her absence had lost her an opportunity
to serve him. It showed her what a mess she was likely to make of it
all.

It happened that about three weeks after the above occurrence Lester
had occasion to return to Cincinnati for a week, and during this time
Jennie again brought Vesta to the flat; for four days there was the
happiest goings on between the mother and child.

Nothing would have come of this little reunion had it not been for an
oversight on Jennie’s part, the far-reaching effects of which she could
only afterward regret. This was the leaving of a little toy lamb under
the large leather divan in the front room, where Lester was wont to lie
and smoke. A little bell held by a thread of blue ribbon was fastened
about its neck, and this tinkled feebly whenever it was shaken. Vesta,
with the unaccountable freakishness of children had deliberately
dropped it behind the divan, an action which Jennie did not notice at
the time. When she gathered up the various playthings after Vesta’s
departure she overlooked it entirely, and there it rested, its innocent
eyes still staring upon the sunlit regions of toyland, when Lester
returned.

That same evening, when he was lying on the divan, quietly enjoying his
cigar and his newspaper, he chanced to drop the former, fully lighted.
Wishing to recover it before it should do any damage, he leaned over
and looked under the divan. The cigar was not in sight, so he rose and
pulled the lounge out, a move which revealed to him the little lamb
still standing where Vesta had dropped it. He picked it up, turning it
over and over, and wondering how it had come there.

A lamb! It must belong to some neighbor’s child in whom Jennie had
taken an interest, he thought. He would have to go and tease her about
this.

Accordingly he held the toy jovially before him, and, coming out into
the dining-room, where Jennie was working at the sideboard, he
exclaimed in a mock solemn voice, “Where did this come from?”

Jennie, who was totally unconscious of the existence of this evidence
of her duplicity, turned, and was instantly possessed with the idea
that he had suspected all and was about to visit his just wrath upon
her. Instantly the blood flamed in her cheeks and as quickly left them.

“Why, why!” she stuttered, “it’s a little toy I bought.”

“I see it is,” he returned genially, her guilty tremor not escaping his
observation, but having at the same time no explicable significance to
him. “It’s frisking around a mighty lone sheepfold.”

He touched the little bell at its throat, while Jennie stood there,
unable to speak. It tinkled feebly, and then he looked at her again.
His manner was so humorous that she could tell he suspected nothing.
However, it was almost impossible for her to recover her
self-possession.

“What’s ailing you?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied.

“You look as though a lamb was a terrible shock to you.”

“I forgot to take it out from there, that was all,” she went on
blindly.

“It looks as though it has been played with enough,” he added more
seriously, and then seeing that the discussion was evidently painful to
her, he dropped it. The lamb had not furnished him the amusement that
he had expected.

Lester went back into the front room, stretched himself out and thought
it over. Why was she nervous? What was there about a toy to make her
grow pale? Surely there was no harm in her harboring some youngster of
the neighborhood when she was alone—having it come in and play. Why
should she be so nervous? He thought it over, but could come to no
conclusion.

Nothing more was said about the incident of the toy lamb. Time might
have wholly effaced the impression from Lester’s memory had nothing
else intervened to arouse his suspicions; but a mishap of any kind
seems invariably to be linked with others which follow close upon its
heels.

One evening when Lester happened to be lingering about the flat later
than usual the door bell rang, and, Jennie being busy in the kitchen,
Lester went himself to open the door. He was greeted by a middle-aged
lady, who frowned very nervously upon him, and inquired in broken
Swedish accents for Jennie.

“Wait a moment,” said Lester; and stepping to the rear door he called
her.

Jennie came, and seeing who the visitor was, she stepped nervously out
in the hall and closed the door after her. The action instantly struck
Lester as suspicious. He frowned and determined to inquire thoroughly
into the matter. A moment later Jennie reappeared. Her face was white
and her fingers seemed to be nervously seeking something to seize upon.

“What’s the trouble?” he inquired, the irritation he had felt the
moment before giving his voice a touch of gruffness.

“I’ve got to go out for a little while,” she at last managed to reply.

“Very well,” he assented unwillingly. “But you can tell me what’s the
trouble with you, can’t you? Where do you have to go?”

“I—I,” began Jennie, stammering. “I—have—”

“Yes,” he said grimly.

“I have to go on an errand,” she stumbled on. “I—I can’t wait. I’ll
tell you when I come back, Lester. Please don’t ask me now.”

She looked vainly at him, her troubled countenance still marked by
preoccupation and anxiety to get away, and Lester, who had never seen
this look of intense responsibility in her before, was moved and
irritated by it.

“That’s all right,” he said, “but what’s the use of all this secrecy?
Why can’t you come out and tell what’s the matter with you? What’s the
use of this whispering behind doors? Where do you have to go?”

He paused, checked by his own harshness, and Jennie, who was intensely
wrought up by the information she had received, as well as the unwonted
verbal castigation she was now enduring, rose to an emotional state
never reached by her before.

“I will, Lester, I will,” she exclaimed. “Only not now. I haven’t time.
I’ll tell you everything when I come back. Please don’t stop me now.”

She hurried to the adjoining chamber to get her wraps, and Lester, who
had even yet no clear conception of what it all meant, followed her
stubbornly to the door.

“See here,” he exclaimed in his vigorous, brutal way, “you’re not
acting right. What’s the matter with you? I want to know.”

He stood in the doorway, his whole frame exhibiting the pugnacity and
settled determination of a man who is bound to be obeyed. Jennie,
troubled and driven to bay, turned at last.

“It’s my child, Lester,” she exclaimed. “It’s dying. I haven’t time to
talk. Oh, please don’t stop me. I’ll tell you everything when I come
back.”

“Your child!” he exclaimed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I couldn’t help it,” she returned. “I was afraid—I should have told
you long ago. I meant to only—only—Oh, let me go now, and I’ll tell you
all when I come back!”

He stared at her in amazement; then he stepped aside, unwilling to
force her any further for the present. “Well, go ahead,” he said
quietly. “Don’t you want some one to go along with you?”

“No,” she replied. “Mrs. Olsen is right here. I’ll go with her.”

She hurried forth, white-faced, and he stood there, pondering. Could
this be the woman he had thought he knew? Why, she had been deceiving
him for years. Jennie! The white-faced! The simple!

He choked a little as he muttered:

“Well, I’ll be damned!”




CHAPTER XXIX


The reason why Jennie had been called was nothing more than one of
those infantile seizures the coming and result of which no man can
predict two hours beforehand. Vesta had been seriously taken with
membranous croup only a few hours before, and the development since had
been so rapid that the poor old Swedish mother was half frightened to
death herself, and hastily despatched a neighbor to say that Vesta was
very ill and Mrs. Kane was to come at once. This message, delivered as
it was in a very nervous manner by one whose only object was to bring
her, had induced the soul-racking fear of death in Jennie and caused
her to brave the discovery of Lester in the manner described. Jennie
hurried on anxiously, her one thought being to reach her child before
the arm of death could interfere and snatch it from her, her mind
weighed upon by a legion of fears. What if it should already be too
late when she got there; what if Vesta already should be no more.
Instinctively she quickened her pace and as the street lamps came and
receded in the gloom she forgot all the sting of Lester’s words, all
fear that he might turn her out and leave her alone in a great city
with a little child to care for, and remembered only the fact that her
Vesta was very ill, possibly dying, and that she was the direct cause
of the child’s absence from her; that perhaps but for the want of her
care and attention Vesta might be well to-night.

“If I can only get there,” she kept saying to herself; and then, with
that frantic unreason which is the chief characteristic of the
instinct-driven mother: “I might have known that God would punish me
for my unnatural conduct. I might have known—I might have known.”

When she reached the gate she fairly sped up the little walk and into
the house, where Vesta was lying pale, quiet, and weak, but
considerably better. Several Swedish neighbors and a middle-aged
physician were in attendance, all of whom looked at her curiously as
she dropped beside the child’s bed and spoke to her.

Jennie’s mind had been made up. She had sinned, and sinned grievously,
against her daughter, but now she would make amends so far as possible.
Lester was very dear to her, but she would no longer attempt to deceive
him in anything, even if he left her—she felt an agonized stab, a pain
at the thought—she must still do the one right thing. Vesta must not be
an outcast any longer. Her mother must give her a home. Where Jennie
was, there must Vesta be.

Sitting by the bedside in this humble Swedish cottage, Jennie realized
the fruitlessness of her deception, the trouble and pain it had created
in her home, the months of suffering it had given her with Lester, the
agony it had heaped upon her this night—and to what end? The truth had
been discovered anyhow. She sat there and meditated, not knowing what
next was to happen, while Vesta quieted down, and then went soundly to
sleep.

Lester, after recovering from the first heavy import of this discovery,
asked himself some perfectly natural questions. “Who was the father of
the child? How old was it? How did it chance to be in Chicago, and who
was taking care of it?” He could ask, but he could not answer; he knew
absolutely nothing.

Curiously, now, as he thought, his first meeting with Jennie at Mrs.
Bracebridge’s came back to him. What was it about her then that had
attracted him? What made him think, after a few hours’ observation,
that he could seduce her to do his will? What was it—moral looseness,
or weakness, or what? There must have been art in the sorry affair, the
practised art of the cheat, and, in deceiving such a confiding nature
as his, she had done even more than practise deception—she had been
ungrateful.

Now the quality of ingratitude was a very objectionable thing to
Lester—the last and most offensive trait of a debased nature, and to be
able to discover a trace of it in Jennie was very disturbing. It is
true that she had not exhibited it in any other way before—quite to the
contrary—but nevertheless he saw strong evidences of it now, and it
made him very bitter in his feeling toward her. How could she be guilty
of any such conduct toward him? Had he not picked her up out of
nothing, so to speak, and befriended her?

He moved from his chair in this silent room and began to pace slowly to
and fro, the weightiness of this subject exercising to the full his
power of decision. She was guilty of a misdeed which he felt able to
condemn. The original concealment was evil; the continued deception
more. Lastly, there was the thought that her love after all had been
divided, part for him, part for the child, a discovery which no man in
his position could contemplate with serenity. He moved irritably as he
thought of it, shoved his hands in his pockets and walked to and fro
across the floor.

That a man of Lester’s temperament should consider himself wronged by
Jennie merely because she had concealed a child whose existence was due
to conduct no more irregular than was involved later in the yielding of
herself to him was an example of those inexplicable perversions of
judgment to which the human mind, in its capacity of keeper of the
honor of others, seems permanently committed. Lester, aside from his
own personal conduct (for men seldom judge with that in the balance),
had faith in the ideal that a woman should reveal herself completely to
the one man with whom she is in love; and the fact that she had not
done so was a grief to him. He had asked her once tentatively about her
past. She begged him not to press her. That was the time she should
have spoken of any child. Now—he shook his head.

His first impulse, after he had thought the thing over, was to walk out
and leave her. At the same time he was curious to hear the end of this
business. He did put on his hat and coat, however, and went out,
stopping at the first convenient saloon to get a drink. He took a car
and went down to the club, strolling about the different rooms and
chatting with several people whom he encountered. He was restless and
irritated; and finally, after three hours of meditation, he took a cab
and returned to his apartment.

The distraught Jennie, sitting by her sleeping child, was at last made
to realize, by its peaceful breathing that all danger was over. There
was nothing more that she could do for Vesta, and now the claims of the
home that she had deserted began to reassert themselves, the promise to
Lester and the need of being loyal to her duties unto the very end.
Lester might possibly be waiting for her. It was just probable that he
wished to hear the remainder of her story before breaking with her
entirely. Although anguished and frightened by the certainty, as she
deemed it, of his forsaking her, she nevertheless felt that it was no
more than she deserved—a just punishment for all her misdoings.

When Jennie arrived at the flat it was after eleven, and the hall light
was already out. She first tried the door, and then inserted her key.
No one stirred, however, and, opening the door, she entered in the
expectation of seeing Lester sternly confronting her. He was not there,
however. The burning gas had merely been an oversight on his part. She
glanced quickly about, but seeing only the empty room, she came
instantly to the other conclusion, that he had forsaken her—and so
stood there, a meditative, helpless figure.

“Gone!” she thought.

At this moment his footsteps sounded on the stairs. He came in with his
derby hat pulled low over his broad forehead, close to his sandy
eyebrows, and with his overcoat buttoned up closely about his neck. He
took off the coat without looking at Jennie and hung it on the rack.
Then he deliberately took off his hat and hung that up also. When he
was through he turned to where she was watching him with wide eyes.

“I want to know about this thing now from beginning to end,” he began.
“Whose child is that?”

Jennie wavered a moment, as one who might be going to take a leap in
the dark, then opened her lips mechanically and confessed:

“It’s Senator Brander’s.”

“Senator Brander!” echoed Lester, the familiar name of the dead but
still famous statesman ringing with shocking and unexpected force in
his ears. “How did you come to know him?”

“We used to do his washing for him,” she rejoined simply—“my mother and
I.”

Lester paused, the baldness of the statements issuing from her sobering
even his rancorous mood. “Senator Brander’s child,” he thought to
himself. So that great representative of the interests of the common
people was the undoer of her—a self-confessed washerwoman’s daughter. A
fine tragedy of low life all this was.

“How long ago was this?” he demanded, his face the picture of a
darkling mood.

“It’s been nearly six years now,” she returned.

He calculated the time that had elapsed since he had known her, and
then continued:

“How old is the child?”

“She’s a little over five.”

Lester moved a little. The need for serious thought made his tone more
peremptory but less bitter.

“Where have you been keeping her all this time?”

“She was at home until you went to Cincinnati last spring. I went down
and brought her then.”

“Was she there the times I came to Cleveland?”

“Yes,” said Jennie; “but I didn’t let her come out anywhere where you
could see her.”

“I thought you said you told your people that you were married,” he
exclaimed, wondering how this relationship of the child to the family
could have been adjusted.

“I did,” she replied, “but I didn’t want to tell you about her. They
thought all the time I intended to.”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

“Because I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“I didn’t know what was going to become of me when I went with you,
Lester. I didn’t want to do her any harm if I could help it. I was
ashamed, afterward; when you said you didn’t like children I was
afraid.”

“Afraid I’d leave you?”

“Yes.”

He stopped, the simplicity of her answers removing a part of the
suspicion of artful duplicity which had originally weighed upon him.
After all, there was not so much of that in it as mere wretchedness of
circumstance and cowardice of morals. What a family she must have! What
queer non-moral natures they must have to have brooked any such a
combination of affairs!

“Didn’t you know that you’d be found out in the long run?” he at last
demanded. “Surely you might have seen that you couldn’t raise her that
way. Why didn’t you tell me in the first place? I wouldn’t have thought
anything of it then.”

“I know,” she said. “I wanted to protect her.”

“Where is she now?” he asked.

Jennie explained.

She stood there, the contradictory aspect of these questions and of his
attitude puzzling even herself. She did try to explain them after a
time, but all Lester could gain was that she had blundered along
without any artifice at all—a condition that was so manifest that, had
he been in any other position than that he was, he might have pitied
her. As it was, the revelation concerning Brander was hanging over him,
and he finally returned to that.

“You say your mother used to do washing for him. How did you come to
get in with him?”

Jennie, who until now had borne his questions with unmoving pain,
winced at this. He was now encroaching upon the period that was by far
the most distressing memory of her life. What he had just asked seemed
to be a demand upon her to make everything clear.

“I was so young, Lester,” she pleaded. “I was only eighteen. I didn’t
know. I used to go to the hotel where he was stopping and get his
laundry, and at the end of the week I’d take it to him again.”

She paused, and as he took a chair, looking as if he expected to hear
the whole story, she continued: “We were so poor. He used to give me
money to give to my mother. I didn’t know.”

She paused again, totally unable to go on, and he, seeing that it would
be impossible for her to explain without prompting, took up his
questioning again—eliciting by degrees the whole pitiful story. Brander
had intended to marry her. He had written to her, but before he could
come to her he died.

The confession was complete. It was followed by a period of five
minutes, in which Lester said nothing at all; he put his arm on the
mantel and stared at the wall, while Jennie waited, not knowing what
would follow—not wishing to make a single plea. The clock ticked
audibly. Lester’s face betrayed no sign of either thought or feeling.
He was now quite calm, quite sober, wondering what he should do. Jennie
was before him as the criminal at the bar. He, the righteous, the
moral, the pure of heart, was in the judgment seat. Now to sentence
her—to make up his mind what course of action he should pursue.

It was a disagreeable tangle, to be sure, something that a man of his
position and wealth really ought not to have anything to do with. This
child, the actuality of it, put an almost unbearable face upon the
whole matter—and yet he was not quite prepared to speak. He turned
after a time, the silvery tinkle of the French clock on the mantel
striking three and causing him to become aware of Jennie, pale,
uncertain, still standing as she had stood all this while.

“Better go to bed,” he said at last, and fell again to pondering this
difficult problem.

But Jennie continued to stand there wide-eyed, expectant, ready to hear
at any moment his decision as to her fate. She waited in vain, however.
After a long time of musing he turned and went to the clothes-rack near
the door.

“Better go to bed,” he said, indifferently. “I’m going out.”

She turned instinctively, feeling that even in this crisis there was
some little service that she might render, but he did not see her. He
went out, vouchsafing no further speech.

She looked after him, and as his footsteps sounded on the stair she
felt as if she were doomed and hearing her own death-knell. What had
she done? What would he do now? She stood there a dissonance of
despair, and when the lower door clicked moved her hand out of the
agony of her suppressed hopelessness.

“Gone!” she thought. “Gone!”

In the light of a late dawn she was still sitting there pondering, her
state far too urgent for idle tears.




CHAPTER XXX


The sullen, philosophic Lester was not so determined upon his future
course of action as he appeared to be. Stern as was his mood, he did
not see, after all, exactly what grounds he had for complaint. And yet
the child’s existence complicated matters considerably. He did not like
to see the evidence of Jennie’s previous misdeeds walking about in the
shape of a human being; but, as a matter of fact, he admitted to
himself that long ago he might have forced Jennie’s story out of her if
he had gone about it in earnest. She would not have lied, he knew that.
At the very outset he might have demanded the history of her past. He
had not done so; well, now it was too late. The one thing it did fix in
his mind was that it would be useless to ever think of marrying her. It
couldn’t be done, not by a man in his position. The best solution of
the problem was to make reasonable provision for Jennie and then leave
her. He went to his hotel with his mind made up, but he did not
actually say to himself that he would do it at once.

It is an easy thing for a man to theorize in a situation of this kind,
quite another to act. Our comforts, appetites and passions grow with
usage, and Jennie was not only a comfort, but an appetite, with him.
Almost four years of constant association had taught him so much about
her and himself that he was not prepared to let go easily or quickly.
It was too much of a wrench. He could think of it bustling about the
work of a great organization during the daytime, but when night came it
was a different matter. He could be lonely, too, he discovered much to
his surprise, and it disturbed him.

One of the things that interested him in this situation was Jennie’s
early theory that the intermingling of Vesta with him and her in this
new relationship would injure the child. Just how did she come by that
feeling, he wanted to know? His place in the world was better than
hers, yet it dawned on him after a time that there might have been
something in her point of view. She did not know who he was or what he
would do with her. He might leave her shortly. Being uncertain, she
wished to protect her baby. That wasn’t so bad. Then again, he was
curious to know what the child was like. The daughter of a man like
Senator Brander might be somewhat of an infant. He was a brilliant man
and Jennie was a charming woman. He thought of this, and, while it
irritated him, it aroused his curiosity. He ought to go back and see
the child—he was really entitled to a view of it—but he hesitated
because of his own attitude in the beginning. It seemed to him that he
really ought to quit, and here he was parleying with himself.

The truth was that he couldn’t. These years of living with Jennie had
made him curiously dependent upon her. Who had ever been so close to
him before? His mother loved him, but her attitude toward him had not
so much to do with real love as with ambition. His father—well, his
father was a man, like himself. All of his sisters were distinctly
wrapped up in their own affairs; Robert and he were temperamentally
uncongenial. With Jennie he had really been happy, he had truly lived.
She was necessary to him; the longer he stayed away from her the more
he wanted her. He finally decided to have a straight-out talk with her,
to arrive at some sort of understanding. She ought to get the child and
take care of it. She must understand that he might eventually want to
quit. She ought to be made to feel that a definite change had taken
place, though no immediate break might occur. That same evening he went
out to the apartment. Jennie heard him enter, and her heart began to
flutter. Then she took her courage in both hands, and went to meet him.

“There’s just one thing to be done about this as far as I can see,”
began Lester, with characteristic directness.

“Get the child and bring her here where you can take care of her.
There’s no use leaving her in the hands of strangers.”

“I will, Lester,” said Jennie submissively. “I always wanted to.”

“Very well, then, you’d better do it at once.” He took an evening
newspaper out of his pocket and strolled toward one of the front
windows; then he turned to her. “You and I might as well understand
each other, Jennie,” he went on. “I can see how this thing came about.
It was a piece of foolishness on my part not to have asked you before,
and made you tell me. It was silly for you to conceal it, even if you
didn’t want the child’s life mixed with mine. You might have known that
it couldn’t be done. That’s neither here nor there, though, now. The
thing that I want to point out is that one can’t live and hold a
relationship such as ours without confidence. You and I had that, I
thought. I don’t see my way clear to ever hold more than a tentative
relationship with you on this basis. The thing is too tangled. There’s
too much cause for scandal.”

“I know,” said Jennie.

“Now, I don’t propose to do anything hasty. For my part I don’t see why
things can’t go on about as they are—certainly for the present—but I
want you to look the facts in the face.”

Jennie sighed. “I know, Lester,” she said, “I know.”

He went to the window and stared out. There were some trees in the
yard, where the darkness was settling. He wondered how this would
really come out, for he liked a home atmosphere. Should he leave the
apartment and go to his club?

“You’d better get the dinner,” he suggested, after a time, turning
toward her irritably; but he did not feel so distant as he looked. It
was a shame that life could not be more decently organized. He strolled
back to his lounge, and Jennie went about her duties. She was thinking
of Vesta, of her ungrateful attitude toward Lester, of his final
decision never to marry her. So that was how one dream had been wrecked
by folly.

She spread the table, lighted the pretty silver candles, made his
favorite biscuit, put a small leg of lamb in the oven to roast, and
washed some lettuce-leaves for a salad. She had been a diligent student
of a cook-book for some time, and she had learned a good deal from her
mother. All the time she was wondering how the situation would work
out. He would leave her eventually—no doubt of that. He would go away
and marry some one else.

“Oh, well,” she thought finally, “he is not going to leave me right
away—that is something. And I can bring Vesta here.” She sighed as she
carried the things to the table. If life would only give her Lester and
Vesta together—but that hope was over.




CHAPTER XXXI


There was peace and quiet for some time after this storm. Jennie went
the next day and brought Vesta away with her. The joy of the reunion
between mother and child made up for many other worries. “Now I can do
by her as I ought,” she thought; and three or four times during the day
she found herself humming a little song.

Lester came only occasionally at first. He was trying to make himself
believe that he ought to do something toward reforming his life—toward
bringing about that eventual separation which he had suggested. He did
not like the idea of a child being in this apartment—particularly that
particular child. He fought his way through a period of calculated
neglect, and then began to return to the apartment more regularly. In
spite of all its drawbacks, it was a place of quiet, peace, and very
notable personal comfort.

During the first days of Lester’s return it was difficult for Jennie to
adjust matters so as to keep the playful, nervous, almost
uncontrollable child from annoying the staid, emphatic,
commercial-minded man. Jennie gave Vesta a severe talking to the first
night Lester telephoned that he was coming, telling her that he was a
very bad-tempered man who didn’t like children, and that she mustn’t go
near him. “You mustn’t talk,” she said. “You mustn’t ask questions. Let
mamma ask you what you want. And don’t reach, ever.”

Vesta agreed solemnly, but her childish mind hardly grasped the full
significance of the warning.

Lester came at seven. Jennie, who had taken great pains to array Vesta
as attractively as possible, had gone into her bedroom to give her own
toilet a last touch. Vesta was supposedly in the kitchen. As a matter
of fact, she had followed her mother to the door of the sitting-room,
where now she could be plainly seen. Lester hung up his hat and coat,
then, turning, he caught his first glimpse. The child looked very
sweet—he admitted that at a glance. She was arrayed in a blue-dotted,
white flannel dress, with a soft roll collar and cuffs, and the costume
was completed by white stockings and shoes. Her corn-colored ringlets
hung gaily about her face. Blue eyes, rosy lips, rosy cheeks completed
the picture. Lester stared, almost inclined to say something, but
restrained himself. Vesta shyly retreated.

When Jennie came out he commented on the fact that Vesta had arrived.
“Rather sweet-looking child,” he said. “Do you have much trouble in
making her mind?”

“Not much,” she returned.

Jennie went on to the dining-room, and Lester overheard a scrap of
their conversation.

“Who are he?” asked Vesta.

“Sh! That’s your Uncle Lester. Didn’t I tell you you mustn’t talk?”

“Are he your uncle?”

“No, dear. Don’t talk now. Run into the kitchen.”

“Are he only my uncle?”

“Yes. Now run along.”

“All right.”

In spite of himself Lester had to smile.

What might have followed if the child had been homely, misshapen,
peevish, or all three, can scarcely be conjectured. Had Jennie been
less tactful, even in the beginning, he might have obtained a
disagreeable impression. As it was, the natural beauty of the child,
combined with the mother’s gentle diplomacy in keeping her in the
background, served to give him that fleeting glimpse of innocence and
youth which is always pleasant. The thought struck him that Jennie had
been the mother of a child all these years; she had been separated from
it for months at a time; she had never even hinted at its existence,
and yet her affection for Vesta was obviously great. “It’s queer,” he
said. “She’s a peculiar woman.”

One morning Lester was sitting in the parlor reading his paper when he
thought he heard something stir. He turned, and was surprised to see a
large blue eye fixed upon him through the crack of a neighboring
door—the effect was most disconcerting. It was not like the ordinary
eye, which, under such embarrassing circumstances, would have been
immediately withdrawn; it kept its position with deliberate boldness.
He turned his paper solemnly and looked again. There was the eye. He
turned it again. Still was the eye present. He crossed his legs and
looked again. Now the eye was gone.

This little episode, unimportant in itself, was yet informed with the
saving grace of comedy, a thing to which Lester was especially
responsive. Although not in the least inclined to relax his attitude of
aloofness, he found his mind, in the minutest degree, tickled by the
mysterious appearance; the corners of his mouth were animated by a
desire to turn up. He did not give way to the feeling, and stuck by his
paper, but the incident remained very clearly in his mind. The young
wayfarer had made her first really important impression upon him.

Not long after this Lester was sitting one morning at breakfast, calmly
eating his chop and conning his newspaper, when he was aroused by
another visitation—this time not quite so simple. Jennie had given
Vesta her breakfast, and set her to amuse herself alone until Lester
should leave the house. Jennie was seated at the table, pouring out the
coffee, when Vesta suddenly appeared, very business-like in manner, and
marched through the room. Lester looked up, and Jennie colored and
arose.

“What is it, Vesta?” she inquired, following her.

By this time, however, Vesta had reached the kitchen, secured a little
broom, and returned, a droll determination lighting her face.

“I want my little broom,” she exclaimed and marched sedately past, at
which manifestation of spirit Lester again twitched internally, this
time allowing the slightest suggestion of a smile to play across his
mouth.

The final effect of this intercourse was gradually to break down the
feeling of distaste Lester had for the child, and to establish in its
place a sort of tolerant recognition of her possibilities as a human
being.

The developments of the next six months were of a kind to further relax
the strain of opposition which still existed in Lester’s mind. Although
not at all resigned to the somewhat tainted atmosphere in which he was
living, he yet found himself so comfortable that he could not persuade
himself to give it up. It was too much like a bed of down. Jennie was
too worshipful. The condition of unquestioned liberty, so far as all
his old social relationships were concerned, coupled with the privilege
of quiet, simplicity, and affection in the home was too inviting. He
lingered on, and began to feel that perhaps it would be just as well to
let matters rest as they were.

During this period his friendly relations with the little Vesta
insensibly strengthened. He discovered that there was a real flavor of
humor about Vesta’s doings, and so came to watch for its development.
She was forever doing something interesting, and although Jennie
watched over her with a care that was in itself a revelation to him,
nevertheless Vesta managed to elude every effort to suppress her and
came straight home with her remarks. Once, for example, she was sawing
away at a small piece of meat upon her large plate with her big knife,
when Lester remarked to Jennie that it might be advisable to get her a
little breakfast set.

“She can hardly handle these knives.”

“Yes,” said Vesta instantly. “I need a little knife. My hand is just so
very little.”

She held it up. Jennie, who never could tell what was to follow,
reached over and put it down, while Lester with difficulty restrained a
desire to laugh.

Another morning, not long after, she was watching Jennie put the lumps
of sugar in Lester’s cup, when she broke in with, “I want two lumps in
mine, mamma.”

“No, dearest,” replied Jennie, “you don’t need any in yours. You have
milk to drink.”

“Uncle Lester has two,” she protested.

“Yes,” returned Jennie; “but you’re only a little girl. Besides you
mustn’t say anything like that at the table. It isn’t nice.”

“Uncle Lester eats too much sugar,” was her immediate rejoinder, at
which that fine gourmet smiled broadly.

“I don’t know about that,” he put in, for the first time deigning to
answer her directly. “That sounds like the fox and grapes to me.” Vesta
smiled back at him, and now that the ice was broken she chattered on
unrestrainedly. One thing led to another, and at last Lester felt as
though, in a way, the little girl belonged to him; he was willing even
that she should share in such opportunities as his position and wealth
might make possible—provided, of course, that he stayed with Jennie,
and that they worked out some arrangement which would not put him
hopelessly out of touch with the world which was back of him, and which
he had to keep constantly in mind.




CHAPTER XXXII


The following spring the show-rooms and warehouse were completed, and
Lester removed his office to the new building. Heretofore, he had been
transacting all his business affairs at the Grand Pacific and the club.
From now on he felt himself to be firmly established in Chicago—as if
that was to be his future home. A large number of details were thrown
upon him—the control of a considerable office force, and the handling
of various important transactions. It took away from him the need of
traveling, that duty going to Amy’s husband, under the direction of
Robert. The latter was doing his best to push his personal interests,
not only through the influence he was bringing to bear upon his
sisters, but through his reorganization of the factory. Several men
whom Lester was personally fond of were in danger of elimination. But
Lester did not hear of this, and Kane senior was inclined to give
Robert a free hand. Age was telling on him. He was glad to see some one
with a strong policy come up and take charge. Lester did not seem to
mind. Apparently he and Robert were on better terms than ever before.

Matters might have gone on smoothly enough were it not for the fact
that Lester’s private life with Jennie was not a matter which could be
permanently kept under cover. At times he was seen driving with her by
people who knew him in a social and commercial way. He was for
brazening it out on the ground that he was a single man, and at liberty
to associate with anybody he pleased. Jennie might be any young woman
of good family in whom he was interested. He did not propose to
introduce her to anybody if he could help it, and he always made it a
point to be a fast traveler in driving, in order that others might not
attempt to detain and talk to him. At the theater, as has been said,
she was simply “Miss Gerhardt.”

The trouble was that many of his friends were also keen observers of
life. They had no quarrel to pick with Lester’s conduct. Only he had
been seen in other cities, in times past, with this same woman. She
must be some one whom he was maintaining irregularly. Well, what of it?
Wealth and youthful spirits must have their fling. Rumors came to
Robert, who, however, kept his own counsel. If Lester wanted to do this
sort of thing, well and good. But there must come a time when there
would be a show-down.

This came about in one form about a year and a half after Lester and
Jennie had been living in the north side apartment. It so happened
that, during a stretch of inclement weather in the fall, Lester was
seized with a mild form of grip. When he felt the first symptoms he
thought that his indisposition would be a matter of short duration, and
tried to overcome it by taking a hot bath and a liberal dose of
quinine. But the infection was stronger than he counted on; by morning
he was flat on his back, with a severe fever and a splitting headache.

His long period of association with Jennie had made him incautious.
Policy would have dictated that he should betake himself to his hotel
and endure his sickness alone. As a matter of fact, he was very glad to
be in the house with her. He had to call up the office to say that he
was indisposed and would not be down for a day or so; then he yielded
himself comfortably to her patient ministrations.

Jennie, of course, was delighted to have Lester with her, sick or well.
She persuaded him to see a doctor and have him prescribe. She brought
him potions of hot lemonade, and bathed his face and hands in cold
water over and over. Later, when he was recovering, she made him
appetizing cups of beef-tea or gruel.

It was during this illness that the first real contretemps occurred.
Lester’s sister Louise, who had been visiting friends in St. Paul, and
who had written him that she might stop off to see him on her way,
decided upon an earlier return than she had originally planned. While
Lester was sick at his apartment she arrived in Chicago. Calling up the
office, and finding that he was not there and would not be down for
several days, she asked where he could be reached.

“I think he is at his rooms in the Grand Pacific,” said an incautious
secretary. “He’s not feeling well.” Louise, a little disturbed,
telephoned to the Grand Pacific, and was told that Mr. Kane had not
been there for several days—did not, as a matter of fact, occupy his
rooms more than one or two days a week. Piqued by this, she telephoned
his club.

It so happened that at the club there was a telephone boy who had
called up the apartment a number of times for Lester himself. He had
not been cautioned not to give its number—as a matter of fact, it had
never been asked for by any one else. When Louise stated that she was
Lester’s sister, and was anxious to find him, the boy replied, “I think
he lives at 19 Schiller Place.”

“Whose address is that you’re giving?” inquired a passing clerk.

“Mr. Kane’s.”

“Well, don’t be giving out addresses. Don’t you know that yet?”

The boy apologized, but Louise had hung up the receiver and was gone.

About an hour later, curious as to this third residence of her brother,
Louise arrived at Schiller Place. Ascending the steps—it was a
two-apartment house—she saw the name of Kane on the door leading to the
second floor. Ringing the bell, she was opened to by Jennie, who was
surprised to see so fashionably attired a young woman.

“This is Mr. Kane’s apartment, I believe,” began Louise,
condescendingly, as she looked in at the open door behind Jennie. She
was a little surprised to meet a young woman, but her suspicions were
as yet only vaguely aroused.

“Yes,” replied Jennie.

“He’s sick, I believe. I’m his sister. May I come in?”

Jennie, had she had time to collect her thoughts, would have tried to
make some excuse, but Louise, with the audacity of her birth and
station, swept past before Jennie could say a word. Once inside Louise
looked about her inquiringly. She found herself in the sitting-room,
which gave into the bedroom where Lester was lying. Vesta happened to
be playing in one corner of the room, and stood up to eye the
new-comer. The open bedroom showed Lester quite plainly lying in bed, a
window to the left of him, his eyes closed.

“Oh, there you are, old fellow!” exclaimed Louise. “What’s ailing you?”
she hurried on.

Lester, who at the sound of her voice had opened his eyes, realized in
an instant how things were. He pulled himself up on one elbow, but
words failed him.

“Why, hello, Louise,” he finally forced himself to say. “Where did you
come from?”

“St. Paul. I came back sooner than I thought,” she answered lamely, a
sense of something wrong irritating her. “I had a hard time finding
you, too. Who’s your—” she was about to say “pretty housekeeper,” but
turned to find Jennie dazedly gathering up certain articles in the
adjoining room and looking dreadfully distraught.

Lester cleared his throat hopelessly.

His sister swept the place with an observing eye. It took in the home
atmosphere, which was both pleasing and suggestive. There was a dress
of Jennie’s lying across a chair, in a familiar way, which caused Miss
Kane to draw herself up warily. She looked at her brother, who had a
rather curious expression in his eyes—he seemed slightly nonplussed,
but cool and defiant.

“You shouldn’t have come out here,” said Lester finally, before Louise
could give vent to the rising question in her mind.

“Why shouldn’t I?” she exclaimed, angered at the brazen confession.
“You’re my brother, aren’t you? Why should you have any place that I
couldn’t come. Well, I like that—and from you to me.”

“Listen, Louise,” went on Lester, drawing himself up further on one
elbow. “You know as much about life as I do. There is no need of our
getting into an argument. I didn’t know you were coming, or I would
have made other arrangements.”

“Other arrangements, indeed,” she sneered. “I should think as much. The
idea!”

She was greatly irritated to think that she had fallen into this trap;
it was really disgraceful of Lester.

“I wouldn’t be so haughty about it,” he declared, his color rising.
“I’m not apologizing to you for my conduct. I’m saying I would have
made other arrangements, which is a very different thing from begging
your pardon. If you don’t want to be civil, you needn’t.”

“Why, Lester Kane!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flaming. “I thought
better of you, honestly I did. I should think you would be ashamed of
yourself living here in open—” she paused without using the word—“and
our friends scattered all over the city. It’s terrible! I thought you
had more sense of decency and consideration.”

“Decency nothing,” he flared. “I tell you I’m not apologizing to you.
If you don’t like this you know what you can do.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “This from my own brother! And for the sake of
that creature! Whose child is that?” she demanded, savagely and yet
curiously.

“Never mind, it’s not mine. If it were it wouldn’t make any difference.
I wish you wouldn’t busy yourself about my affairs.”

Jennie, who had been moving about the dining-room beyond the
sitting-room, heard the cutting references to herself. She winced with
pain.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I won’t any more,” retorted Louise. “I should
think, though, that you, of all men, would be above anything like
this—and that with a woman so obviously beneath you. Why, I thought she
was—” she was again going to add “your housekeeper,” but she was
interrupted by Lester, who was angry to the point of brutality.

“Never mind what you thought she was,” he growled. “She’s better than
some who do the so-called superior thinking. I know what you think.
It’s neither here nor there, I tell you. I’m doing this, and I don’t
care what you think. I have to take the blame. Don’t bother about me.”

“Well, I won’t, I assure you,” she flung back. “It’s quite plain that
your family means nothing to you. But if you had any sense of decency,
Lester Kane, you would never let your sister be trapped into coming
into a place like this. I’m disgusted, that’s all, and so will the
others be when they hear of it.”

She turned on her heel and walked scornfully out, a withering look
being reserved for Jennie, who had unfortunately stepped near the door
of the dining-room. Vesta had disappeared. Jennie came in a little
while later and closed the door. She knew of nothing to say. Lester,
his thick hair pushed back from his vigorous face, leaned back moodily
on his pillow. “What a devilish trick of fortune,” he thought. Now she
would go home and tell it to the family. His father would know, and his
mother. Robert, Imogene, Amy all would hear. He would have no
explanation to make—she had seen. He stared at the wall meditatively.

Meanwhile Jennie, moving about her duties, also found food for
reflection. So this was her real position in another woman’s eyes. Now
she could see what the world thought. This family was as aloof from her
as if it lived on another planet. To his sisters and brothers, his
father and mother, she was a bad woman, a creature far beneath him
socially, far beneath him mentally and morally, a creature of the
streets. And she had hoped somehow to rehabilitate herself in the eyes
of the world. It cut her as nothing before had ever done. The thought
tore a great, gaping wound in her sensibilities. She was really low and
vile in her—Louise’s—eyes, in the world’s eyes, basically so in
Lester’s eyes. How could it be otherwise? She went about numb and
still, but the ache of defeat and disgrace was under it all. Oh, if she
could only see some way to make herself right with the world, to live
honorably, to be decent. How could that possibly be brought about? It
ought to be—she knew that. But how?




CHAPTER XXXIII


Outraged in her family pride, Louise lost no time in returning to
Cincinnati, where she told the story of her discovery, embellished with
many details. According to her, she was met at the door by a
“silly-looking, white-faced woman,” who did not even offer to invite
her in when she announced her name, but stood there “looking just as
guilty as a person possibly could.” Lester also had acted shamefully,
having outbrazened the matter to her face. When she had demanded to
know whose the child was he had refused to tell her. “It isn’t mine,”
was all he would say.

“Oh dear, oh dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Kane, who was the first to hear the
story. “My son, my Lester! How could he have done it!”

“And such a creature!” exclaimed Louise emphatically, as though the
words needed to be reiterated to give them any shadow of reality.

“I went there solely because I thought I could help him,” continued
Louise. “I thought when they said he was indisposed that he might be
seriously ill. How should I have known?”

“Poor Lester!” exclaimed her mother. “To think he would come to
anything like that!”

Mrs. Kane turned the difficult problem over in her mind and, having no
previous experiences whereby to measure it, telephoned for old
Archibald, who came out from the factory and sat through the discussion
with a solemn countenance. So Lester was living openly with a woman of
whom they had never heard. He would probably be as defiant and
indifferent as his nature was strong. The standpoint of parental
authority was impossible. Lester was a centralized authority in
himself, and if any overtures for a change of conduct were to be made,
they would have to be very diplomatically executed.

Archibald Kane returned to the manufactory sore and disgusted, but
determined that something ought to be done. He held a consultation with
Robert, who confessed that he had heard disturbing rumors from time to
time, but had not wanted to say anything. Mrs. Kane suggested that
Robert might go to Chicago and have a talk with Lester.

“He ought to see that this thing, if continued, is going to do him
irreparable damage,” said Mr. Kane. “He cannot hope to carry it off
successfully. Nobody can. He ought to marry her or he ought to quit. I
want you to tell him that for me.”

“All well and good,” said Robert, “but who’s going to convince him? I’m
sure I don’t want the job.”

“I hope to,” said old Archibald, “eventually; but you’d better go up
and try, anyhow. It can’t do any harm. He might come to his senses.”

“I don’t believe it,” replied Robert. “He’s a strong man. You see how
much good talk does down here. Still, I’ll go if it will relieve your
feelings any. Mother wants it.”

“Yes, yes,” said his father distractedly, “better go.”

Accordingly Robert went. Without allowing himself to anticipate any
particular measure of success in this adventure, he rode pleasantly
into Chicago confident in the reflection that he had all the powers of
morality and justice on his side.

Upon Robert’s arrival, the third morning after Louise’s interview, he
called up the warerooms, but Lester was not there. He then telephoned
to the house, and tactfully made an appointment. Lester was still
indisposed, but he preferred to come down to the office, and he did. He
met Robert in his cheerful, nonchalant way, and together they talked
business for a time. Then followed a pregnant silence.

“Well, I suppose you know what brought me up here,” began Robert
tentatively.

“I think I could make a guess at it,” Lester replied.

“They were all very much worried over the fact that you were
sick—mother particularly. You’re not in any danger of having a relapse,
are you?”

“I think not.”

“Louise said there was some sort of a peculiar _ménage_ she ran into up
here. You’re not married, are you?”

“No.”

“The young woman Louise saw is just—” Robert waved his hand
expressively.

Lester nodded.

“I don’t want to be inquisitive, Lester. I didn’t come up for that. I’m
simply here because the family felt that I ought to come. Mother was so
very much distressed that I couldn’t do less than see you for her
sake”—he paused, and Lester, touched by the fairness and respect of his
attitude, felt that mere courtesy at least made some explanation due.

“I don’t know that anything I can say will help matters much,” he
replied thoughtfully. “There’s really nothing to be said. I have the
woman and the family has its objections. The chief difficulty about the
thing seems to be the bad luck in being found out.”

He stopped, and Robert turned over the substance of this worldly
reasoning in his mind. Lester was very calm about it. He seemed, as
usual, to be most convincingly sane.

“You’re not contemplating marrying her, are you?” queried Robert
hesitatingly.

“I hadn’t come to that,” answered Lester coolly.

They looked at each other quietly for a moment, and then Robert turned
his glance to the distant scene of the city.

“It’s useless to ask whether you are seriously in love with her, I
suppose,” ventured Robert.

“I don’t know whether I’d be able to discuss that divine afflatus with
you or not,” returned Lester, with a touch of grim humor. “I have never
experienced the sensation myself. All I know is that the lady is very
pleasing to me.”

“Well, it’s all a question of your own well-being and the family’s,
Lester,” went on Robert, after another pause. “Morality doesn’t seem to
figure in it anyway—at least you and I can’t discuss that together.
Your feelings on that score naturally relate to you alone. But the
matter of your own personal welfare seems to me to be substantial
enough ground to base a plea on. The family’s feelings and pride are
also fairly important. Father’s the kind of a man who sets more store
by the honor of his family than most men. You know that as well as I
do, of course.”

“I know how father feels about it,” returned Lester. “The whole
business is as clear to me as it is to any of you, though off-hand I
don’t see just what’s to be done about it. These matters aren’t always
of a day’s growth, and they can’t be settled in a day. The girl’s here.
To a certain extent I’m responsible that she is here. While I’m not
willing to go into details, there’s always more in these affairs than
appears on the court calendar.”

“Of course I don’t know what your relations with her have been,”
returned Robert, “and I’m not curious to know, but it does look like a
bit of injustice all around, don’t you think—unless you intend to marry
her?” This last was put forth as a feeler.

“I might be willing to agree to that, too,” was Lester’s baffling
reply, “if anything were to be gained by it. The point is, the woman is
here, and the family is in possession of the fact. Now if there is
anything to be done I have to do it. There isn’t anybody else who can
act for me in this matter.”

Lester lapsed into a silence, and Robert rose and paced the floor,
coming back after a time to say: “You say you haven’t any idea of
marrying her—or rather you haven’t come to it. I wouldn’t, Lester. It
seems to me you would be making the mistake of your life, from every
point of view. I don’t want to orate, but a man of your position has so
much to lose; you can’t afford to do it. Aside from family
considerations, you have too much at stake. You’d be simply throwing
your life away—”

He paused, with his right hand held out before him, as was customary
when he was deeply in earnest, and Lester felt the candor and
simplicity of this appeal. Robert was not criticizing him now. He was
making an appeal to him, and this was somewhat different.

The appeal passed without comment, however, and then Robert began on a
new tack, this time picturing old Archibald’s fondness for Lester and
the hope he had always entertained that he would marry some well-to-do
Cincinnati girl, Catholic, if agreeable to him, but at least worthy of
his station. And Mrs. Kane felt the same way; surely Lester must
realize that.

“I know just how all of them feel about it,” Lester interrupted at
last, “but I don’t see that anything’s to be done right now.”

“You mean that you don’t think it would be policy for you to give her
up just at present?”

“I mean that she’s been exceptionally good to me, and that I’m morally
under obligations to do the best I can by her. What that may be, I
can’t tell.”

“To live with her?” inquired Robert coolly.

“Certainly not to turn her out bag and baggage if she has been
accustomed to live with me,” replied Lester.

Robert sat down again, as if he considered his recent appeal futile.

“Can’t family reasons persuade you to make some amicable arrangements
with her and let her go?”

“Not without due consideration of the matter; no.”

“You don’t think you could hold out some hope that the thing will end
quickly—something that would give me a reasonable excuse for softening
down the pain of it to the family?”

“I would be perfectly willing to do anything which would take away the
edge of this thing for the family, but the truth’s the truth, and I
can’t see any room for equivocation between you and me. As I’ve said
before, these relationships are involved with things which make it
impossible to discuss them—unfair to me, unfair to the woman. No one
can see how they are to be handled, except the people that are in them,
and even they can’t always see. I’d be a damned dog to stand up here
and give you my word to do anything except the best I can.”

Lester stopped, and now Robert rose and paced the floor again, only to
come back after a time and say, “You don’t think there’s anything to be
done just at present?”

“Not at present.”

“Very well, then, I expect I might as well be going. I don’t know that
there’s anything else we can talk about.”

“Won’t you stay and take lunch with me? I think I might manage to get
down to the hotel if you’ll stay.”

“No, thank you,” answered Robert. “I believe I can make that one
o’clock train for Cincinnati. I’ll try, anyhow.”

They stood before each other now, Lester pale and rather flaccid,
Robert clear, wax-like, well-knit, and shrewd, and one could see the
difference time had already made. Robert was the clean, decisive man,
Lester the man of doubts. Robert was the spirit of business energy and
integrity embodied, Lester the spirit of commercial self-sufficiency,
looking at life with an uncertain eye. Together they made a striking
picture, which was none the less powerful for the thoughts that were
now running through their minds.

“Well,” said the older brother, after a time, “I don’t suppose there is
anything more I can say. I had hoped to make you feel just as we do
about this thing, but of course you are your own best judge of this. If
you don’t see it now, nothing I could say would make you. It strikes me
as a very bad move on your part though.”

Lester listened. He said nothing, but his face expressed an unchanged
purpose.

Robert turned for his hat, and they walked to the office door together.

“I’ll put the best face I can on it,” said Robert, and walked out.




CHAPTER XXXIV


In this world of ours the activities of animal life seem to be limited
to a plane or circle, as if that were an inherent necessity to the
creatures of a planet which is perforce compelled to swing about the
sun. A fish, for instance, may not pass out of the circle of the seas
without courting annihilation; a bird may not enter the domain of the
fishes without paying for it dearly. From the parasites of the flowers
to the monsters of the jungle and the deep we see clearly the
circumscribed nature of their movements—the emphatic manner in which
life has limited them to a sphere; and we are content to note the
ludicrous and invariably fatal results which attend any effort on their
part to depart from their environment.

In the case of man, however, the operation of this theory of
limitations has not as yet been so clearly observed. The laws governing
our social life are not so clearly understood as to permit of a clear
generalization. Still, the opinions, pleas, and judgments of society
serve as boundaries which are none the less real for being intangible.
When men or women err—that is, pass out from the sphere in which they
are accustomed to move—it is not as if the bird had intruded itself
into the water, or the wild animal into the haunts of man. Annihilation
is not the immediate result. People may do no more than elevate their
eyebrows in astonishment, laugh sarcastically, lift up their hands in
protest. And yet so well defined is the sphere of social activity that
he who departs from it is doomed. Born and bred in this environment,
the individual is practically unfitted for any other state. He is like
a bird accustomed to a certain density of atmosphere, and which cannot
live comfortably at either higher or lower level.

Lester sat down in his easy-chair by the window after his brother had
gone and gazed ruminatively out over the flourishing city. Yonder was
spread out before him life with its concomitant phases of energy, hope,
prosperity, and pleasure, and here he was suddenly struck by a wind of
misfortune and blown aside for the time being—his prospects and
purposes dissipated. Could he continue as cheerily in the paths he had
hitherto pursued? Would not his relations with Jennie be necessarily
affected by this sudden tide of opposition? Was not his own home now a
thing of the past so far as his old easy-going relationship was
concerned? All the atmosphere of unstained affection would be gone out
of it now. That hearty look of approval which used to dwell in his
father’s eye—would it be there any longer? Robert, his relations with
the manufactory, everything that was a part of his old life, had been
affected by this sudden intrusion of Louise.

“It’s unfortunate,” was all that he thought to himself, and therewith
turned from what he considered senseless brooding to the consideration
of what, if anything, was to be done.

“I’m thinking I’d take a run up to Mt. Clemens to-morrow, or Thursday
anyhow, if I feel strong enough,” he said to Jennie after he had
returned. “I’m not feeling as well as I might. A few days will do me
good.” He wanted to get off by himself and think. Jennie packed his bag
for him at the given time, and he departed, but he was in a sullen,
meditative mood.

During the week that followed he had ample time to think it all over,
the result of his cogitations being that there was no need of making a
decisive move at present. A few weeks more, one way or the other, could
not make any practical difference. Neither Robert nor any other member
of the family was at all likely to seek another conference with him.
His business relations would necessarily go on as usual, since they
were coupled with the welfare of the manufactory; certainly no attempt
to coerce him would be attempted. But the consciousness that he was at
hopeless variance with his family weighed upon him. “Bad business,” he
meditated—“bad business.” But he did not change.

For the period of a whole year this unsatisfactory state of affairs
continued. Lester did not go home for six months; then an important
business conference demanding his presence, he appeared and carried it
off quite as though nothing important had happened. His mother kissed
him affectionately, if a little sadly; his father gave him his
customary greeting, a hearty handshake; Robert, Louise, Amy, Imogene,
concertedly, though without any verbal understanding, agreed to ignore
the one real issue. But the feeling of estrangement was there, and it
persisted. Hereafter his visits to Cincinnati were as few and far
between as he could possibly make them.




CHAPTER XXXV


In the meantime Jennie had been going through a moral crisis of her
own. For the first time in her life, aside from the family attitude,
which had afflicted her greatly, she realized what the world thought of
her. She was bad—she knew that. She had yielded on two occasions to the
force of circumstances which might have been fought out differently. If
only she had had more courage! If she did not always have this haunting
sense of fear! If she could only make up her mind to do the right
thing! Lester would never marry her. Why should he? She loved him, but
she could leave him, and it would be better for him. Probably her
father would live with her if she went back to Cleveland. He would
honor her for at last taking a decent stand. Yet the thought of leaving
Lester was a terrible one to her—he had been so good. As for her
father, she was not sure whether he would receive her or not.

After the tragic visit of Louise she began to think of saving a little
money, laying it aside as best she could from her allowance. Lester was
generous and she had been able to send home regularly fifteen dollars a
week to maintain the family—as much as they had lived on before,
without any help from the outside. She spent twenty dollars to maintain
the table, for Lester required the best of everything—fruits, meats,
desserts, liquors, and what not. The rent was fifty-five dollars, with
clothes and extras a varying sum. Lester gave her fifty dollars a week,
but somehow it had all gone. She thought how she might economize but
this seemed wrong.

Better go without taking anything, if she were going, was the thought
that came to her. It was the only decent thing to do.

She thought over this week after week, after the advent of Louise,
trying to nerve herself to the point where she could speak or act.
Lester was consistently generous and kind, but she felt at times that
he himself might wish it. He was thoughtful, abstracted. Since the
scene with Louise it seemed to her that he had been a little different.
If she could only say to him that she was not satisfied with the way
she was living, and then leave. But he himself had plainly indicated
after his discovery of Vesta that her feelings on that score could not
matter so very much to him, since he thought the presence of the child
would definitely interfere with his ever marrying her. It was her
presence he wanted on another basis. And he was so forceful, she could
not argue with him very well. She decided if she went it would be best
to write a letter and tell him why. Then maybe when he knew how she
felt he would forgive her and think nothing more about it.

The condition of the Gerhardt family was not improving. Since Jennie
had left Martha had married. After several years of teaching in the
public schools of Cleveland she had met a young architect, and they
were united after a short engagement. Martha had been always a little
ashamed of her family, and now, when this new life dawned, she was
anxious to keep the connection as slight as possible. She barely
notified the members of the family of the approaching marriage—Jennie
not at all—and to the actual ceremony she invited only Bass and George.
Gerhardt, Veronica, and William resented the slight. Gerhardt ventured
upon no comment. He had had too many rebuffs. But Veronica was angry.
She hoped that life would give her an opportunity to pay her sister
off. William, of course, did not mind particularly. He was interested
in the possibilities of becoming an electrical engineer, a career which
one of his school-teachers had pointed out to him as being attractive
and promising.

Jennie heard of Martha’s marriage after it was all over, a note from
Veronica giving her the main details. She was glad from one point of
view, but realized that her brothers and sisters were drifting away
from her.

A little while after Martha’s marriage Veronica and William went to
reside with George, a break which was brought about by the attitude of
Gerhardt himself. Ever since his wife’s death and the departure of the
other children he had been subject to moods of profound gloom, from
which he was not easily aroused. Life, it seemed, was drawing to a
close for him, although he was only sixty-five years of age. The
earthly ambitions he had once cherished were gone forever. He saw
Sebastian, Martha, and George out in the world practically ignoring
him, contributing nothing at all to a home which should never have
taken a dollar from Jennie. Veronica and William were restless. They
objected to leaving school and going to work, apparently preferring to
live on money which Gerhardt had long since concluded was not being
come by honestly. He was now pretty well satisfied as to the true
relations of Jennie and Lester. At first he had believed them to be
married, but the way Lester had neglected Jennie for long periods, the
humbleness with which she ran at his beck and call, her fear of telling
him about Vesta—somehow it all pointed to the same thing. She had not
been married at home. Gerhardt had never had sight of her marriage
certificate. Since she was away she might have been married, but he did
not believe it.

The real trouble was that Gerhardt had grown intensely morose and
crotchety, and it was becoming impossible for young people to live with
him. Veronica and William felt it. They resented the way in which he
took charge of the expenditures after Martha left. He accused them of
spending too much on clothes and amusements, he insisted that a smaller
house should be taken, and he regularly sequestered a part of the money
which Jennie sent, for what purpose they could hardly guess. As a
matter of fact, Gerhardt was saving as much as possible in order to
repay Jennie eventually. He thought it was sinful to go on in this way,
and this was his one method, outside of his meager earnings, to redeem
himself. If his other children had acted rightly by him he felt that he
would not now be left in his old age the recipient of charity from one,
who, despite her other good qualities, was certainly not leading a
righteous life. So they quarreled.

It ended one winter month when George agreed to receive his complaining
brother and sister on condition that they should get something to do.
Gerhardt was nonplussed for a moment, but invited them to take the
furniture and go their way. His generosity shamed them for the moment;
they even tentatively invited him to come and live with them, but this
he would not do. He would ask the foreman of the mill he watched for
the privilege of sleeping in some out-of-the-way garret. He was always
liked and trusted. And this would save him a little money.

So in a fit of pique he did this, and there was seen the spectacle of
an old man watching through a dreary season of nights, in a lonely
trafficless neighborhood while the city pursued its gaiety elsewhere.
He had a wee small corner in the topmost loft of a warehouse away from
the tear and grind of the factory proper. Here Gerhardt slept by day.
In the afternoon he would take a little walk, strolling toward the
business center, or out along the banks of the Cuyahoga, or the lake.
As a rule his hands were below his back, his brow bent in meditation.
He would even talk to himself a little—an occasional “By chops!” or “So
it is” being indicative of his dreary mood. At dusk he would return,
taking his stand at the lonely gate which was his post of duty. His
meals he secured at a nearby workingmen’s boarding-house, such as he
felt he must have.

The nature of the old German’s reflections at this time were of a
peculiarly subtle and somber character. What was this thing—life? What
did it all come to after the struggle, and the worry, and the grieving?
Where does it all go to? People die; you hear nothing more from them.
His wife, now, she had gone. Where had her spirit taken its flight?

Yet he continued to hold some strongly dogmatic convictions. He
believed there was a hell, and that people who sinned would go there.
How about Mrs. Gerhardt? How about Jennie? He believed that both had
sinned woefully. He believed that the just would be rewarded in heaven.
But who were the just? Mrs. Gerhardt had not had a bad heart. Jennie
was the soul of generosity. Take his son Sebastian. Sebastian was a
good boy, but he was cold, and certainly indifferent to his father.
Take Martha—she was ambitious, but obviously selfish. Somehow the
children, outside of Jennie, seemed self-centered. Bass walked off when
he got married, and did nothing more for anybody. Martha insisted that
she needed all she made to live on. George had contributed for a little
while, but had finally refused to help out. Veronica and William had
been content to live on Jennie’s money so long as he would allow it,
and yet they knew it was not right. His very existence, was it not a
commentary on the selfishness of his children? And he was getting so
old. He shook his head. Mystery of mysteries. Life was truly strange,
and dark, and uncertain. Still he did not want to go and live with any
of his children. Actually they were not worthy of him—none but Jennie,
and she was not good. So he grieved.

This woeful condition of affairs was not made known to Jennie for some
time. She had been sending her letters to Martha, but, on her leaving,
Jennie had been writing directly to Gerhardt. After Veronica’s
departure Gerhardt wrote to Jennie saying that there was no need of
sending any more money. Veronica and William were going to live with
George. He himself had a good place in a factory, and would live there
a little while. He returned her a moderate sum that he had saved—one
hundred and fifteen dollars—with the word that he would not need it.

Jennie did not understand, but as the others did not write, she was not
sure but what it might be all right—her father was so determined. But
by degrees, however, a sense of what it really must mean overtook her—a
sense of something wrong, and she worried, hesitating between leaving
Lester and going to see about her father, whether she left him or not.
Would he come with her? Not here certainly. If she were married, yes,
possibly. If she were alone—probably. Yet if she did not get some work
which paid well they would have a difficult time. It was the same old
problem. What could she do? Nevertheless, she decided to act. If she
could get five or six dollars a week they could live. This hundred and
fifteen dollars which Gerhardt had saved would tide them over the worst
difficulties perhaps.




CHAPTER XXXVI


The trouble with Jennie’s plan was that it did not definitely take into
consideration Lester’s attitude. He did care for her in an elemental
way, but he was hedged about by the ideas of the conventional world in
which he had been reared. To say that he loved her well enough to take
her for better or worse—to legalize her anomalous position and to face
the world bravely with the fact that he had chosen a wife who suited
him—was perhaps going a little too far, but he did really care for her,
and he was not in a mood, at this particular time, to contemplate
parting with her for good.

Lester was getting along to that time of life when his ideas of
womanhood were fixed and not subject to change. Thus far, on his own
plane and within the circle of his own associates, he had met no one
who appealed to him as did Jennie. She was gentle, intelligent,
gracious, a handmaiden to his every need; and he had taught her the
little customs of polite society, until she was as agreeable a
companion as he cared to have. He was comfortable, he was satisfied—why
seek further?

But Jennie’s restlessness increased day by day. She tried writing out
her views, and started a half dozen letters before she finally worded
one which seemed, partially at least, to express her feelings. It was a
long letter for her, and it ran as follows:

“Lester dear, When you get this I won’t be here, and I want you not to
think harshly of me until you have read it all. I am taking Vesta and
leaving, and I think it is really better that I should. Lester, I ought
to do it. You know when you met me we were very poor, and my condition
was such that I didn’t think any good man would ever want me. When you
came along and told me you loved me I was hardly able to think just
what I ought to do. You made me love you, Lester, in spite of myself.
    “You know I told you that I oughtn’t to do anything wrong any more
    and that I wasn’t good, but somehow when you were near me I
    couldn’t think just right, and I didn’t see just how I was to get
    away from you. Papa was sick at home that time, and there was
    hardly anything in the house to eat. We were all doing so poorly.
    My brother George didn’t have good shoes, and mamma was so worried.
    I have often thought, Lester, if mamma had not been compelled to
    worry so much she might be alive to-day. I thought if you liked me
    and I really liked you—I love you, Lester—maybe it wouldn’t make so
    much difference about me. You know you told me right away you would
    like to help my family, and I felt that maybe that would be the
    right thing to do. We were so terribly poor.
    “Lester, dear, I am ashamed to leave you this way; it seems so
    mean, but if you knew how I have been feeling these days you would
    forgive me. Oh, I love you, Lester, I do, I do. But for months
    past—ever since your sister came—I felt that I was doing wrong, and
    that I oughtn’t to go on doing it, for I know how terribly wrong it
    is. It was wrong for me ever to have anything to do with Senator
    Brander, but I was such a girl then—I hardly knew what I was doing.
    It was wrong of me not to tell you about Vesta when I first met
    you, though I thought I was doing right when I did it. It was
    terribly wrong of me to keep her here all that time concealed,
    Lester, but I was afraid of you then—afraid of what you would say
    and do. When your sister Louise came it all came over me somehow,
    clearly, and I have never been able to think right about it since.
    It can’t be right, Lester, but I don’t blame you. I blame myself.
    “I don’t ask you to marry me, Lester. I know how you feel about me
    and how you feel about your family, and I don’t think it would be
    right. They would never want you to do it, and it isn’t right that
    I should ask you. At the same time I know I oughtn’t to go on
    living this way. Vesta is getting along where she understands
    everything. She thinks you are her really truly uncle. I have
    thought of it all so much. I have thought a number of times that I
    would try to talk to you about it, but you frighten me when you get
    serious, and I don’t seem to be able to say what I want to. So I
    thought if I could just write you this and then go you would
    understand. You do, Lester, don’t you? You won’t be angry with me?
    I know it’s for the best for you and for me. I ought to do it.
    Please forgive me, Lester, please; and don’t think of me any more.
    I will get along. But I love you—oh yes, I do—and I will never be
    grateful enough for all you have done for me. I wish you all the
    luck that can come to you. Please forgive me, Lester. I love you,
    yes, I do. I love you.


“JENNIE.


“P. S. I expect to go to Cleveland with papa. He needs me. He is all
alone. But don’t come for me, Lester. It’s best that you shouldn’t.”


She put this in an envelope, sealed it, and, having hidden it in her
bosom, for the time being, awaited the hour when she could conveniently
take her departure.

It was several days before she could bring herself to the actual
execution of the plan, but one afternoon, Lester, having telephoned
that he would not be home for a day or two, she packed some necessary
garments for herself and Vesta in several trunks, and sent for an
expressman. She thought of telegraphing her father that she was coming;
but, seeing he had no home, she thought it would be just as well to go
and find him. George and Veronica had not taken all the furniture. The
major portion of it was in storage—so Gerhardt had written. She might
take that and furnish a little home or flat. She was ready for the end,
waiting for the expressman, when the door opened and in walked Lester.

For some unforeseen reason he had changed his mind. He was not in the
least psychic or intuitional, but on this occasion his feelings had
served him a peculiar turn. He had thought of going for a day’s
duck-shooting with some friends in the Kankakee Marshes south of
Chicago, but had finally changed his mind; he even decided to go out to
the house early. What prompted this he could not have said.

As he neared the house he felt a little peculiar about coming home so
early; then at the sight of the two trunks standing in the middle of
the room he stood dumfounded. What did it mean—Jennie dressed and ready
to depart? And Vesta in a similar condition? He stared in amazement,
his brown eyes keen in inquiry.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Why—why—” she began, falling back. “I was going away.”

“Where to?”

“I thought I would go to Cleveland,” she replied.

“What for?”

“Why—why—I meant to tell you, Lester, that I didn’t think I ought to
stay here any longer this way. I didn’t think it was right. I thought
I’d tell you, but I couldn’t. I wrote you a letter.”

“A letter,” he exclaimed. “What the deuce are you talking about? Where
is the letter?”

“There,” she said, mechanically pointing to a small center-table where
the letter lay conspicuous on a large book.

“And you were really going to leave me, Jennie, with just a letter?”
said Lester, his voice hardening a little as he spoke. “I swear to
heaven you are beyond me. What’s the point?” He tore open the envelope
and looked at the beginning. “Better send Vesta from the room,” he
suggested.

She obeyed. Then she came back and stood there pale and wide-eyed,
looking at the wall, at the trunks, and at him. Lester read the letter
thoughtfully. He shifted his position once or twice, then dropped the
paper on the floor.

“Well, I’ll tell you, Jennie,” he said finally, looking at her
curiously and wondering just what he was going to say. Here again was
his chance to end this relationship if he wished. He couldn’t feel that
he did wish it, seeing how peacefully things were running. They had
gone so far together it seemed ridiculous to quit now. He truly loved
her—there was no doubt of that. Still he did not want to marry
her—could not very well. She knew that. Her letter said as much. “You
have this thing wrong,” he went on slowly. “I don’t know what comes
over you at times, but you don’t view the situation right. I’ve told
you before that I can’t marry you—not now, anyhow. There are too many
big things involved in this, which you don’t know anything about. I
love you, you know that. But my family has to be taken into
consideration, and the business. You can’t see the difficulties raised
on these scores, but I can. Now I don’t want you to leave me. I care
too much about you. I can’t prevent you, of course. You can go if you
want to. But I don’t think you ought to want to. You don’t really, do
you? Sit down a minute.”

Jennie, who had been counting on getting away without being seen, was
now thoroughly nonplussed. To have him begin a quiet argument—a plea as
it were. It hurt her. He, Lester, pleading with her, and she loved him
so.

She went over to him, and he took her hand.

“Now, listen,” he said. “There’s really nothing to be gained by your
leaving me at present. Where did you say you were going?”

“To Cleveland,” she replied.

“Well, how did you expect to get along?”

“I thought I’d take papa, if he’d come with me—he’s alone now—and get
something to do, maybe.”

“Well, what can you do, Jennie, different from what you ever have done?
You wouldn’t expect to be a lady’s maid again, would you? Or clerk in a
store?”

“I thought I might get some place as a housekeeper,” she suggested. She
had been counting up her possibilities, and this was the most promising
idea that had occurred to her.

“No, no,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “There’s nothing to that.
There’s nothing in this whole move of yours except a notion. Why, you
won’t be any better off morally than you are right now. You can’t undo
the past. It doesn’t make any difference, anyhow. I can’t marry you
now. I might in the future, but I can’t tell anything about that, and I
don’t want to promise anything. You’re not going to leave me though
with my consent, and if you were going I wouldn’t have you dropping
back into any such thing as you’re contemplating. I’ll make some
provision for you. You don’t really want to leave me, do you, Jennie?”

Against Lester’s strong personality and vigorous protest Jennie’s own
conclusions and decisions went to pieces. Just the pressure of his hand
was enough to upset her. Now she began to cry.

“Don’t cry, Jennie,” he said. “This thing may work out better than you
think. Let it rest for a while. Take off your things. You’re not going
to leave me any more, are you?”

“No-o-o!” she sobbed.

He took her in his lap. “Let things rest as they are,” he went on.
“It’s a curious world. Things can’t be adjusted in a minute. They may
work out. I’m putting up with some things myself that I ordinarily
wouldn’t stand for.”

He finally saw her restored to comparative calmness, smiling sadly
through her tears.

“Now you put those things away,” he said genially, pointing to the
trunks. “Besides, I want you to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?” asked Jennie.

“No more concealment of anything, do you hear? No more thinking things
out for yourself, and acting without my knowing anything about it. If
you have anything on your mind, I want you to come out with it. I’m not
going to eat you! Talk to me about whatever is troubling you. I’ll help
you solve it, or, if I can’t, at least there won’t be any concealment
between us.”

“I know, Lester,” she said earnestly, looking him straight in the eyes.
“I promise I’ll never conceal anything any more—truly I won’t. I’ve
been afraid, but I won’t be now. You can trust me.”

“That sounds like what you ought to be,” he replied. “I know you will.”
And he let her go.

A few days later, and in consequence of this agreement, the future of
Gerhardt came up for discussion. Jennie had been worrying about him for
several days; now it occurred to her that this was something to talk
over with Lester. Accordingly, she explained one night at dinner what
had happened in Cleveland. “I know he is very unhappy there all alone,”
she said, “and I hate to think of it. I was going to get him if I went
back to Cleveland. Now I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Why don’t you send him some money?” he inquired.

“He won’t take any more money from me, Lester,” she explained. “He
thinks I’m not good—not acting right. He doesn’t believe I’m married.”

“He has pretty good reason, hasn’t he?” said Lester calmly.

“I hate to think of him sleeping in a factory. He’s so old and lonely.”

“What’s the matter with the rest of the family in Cleveland? Won’t they
do anything for him? Where’s your brother Bass?”

“I think maybe they don’t want him, he’s so cross,” she said simply.

“I hardly know what to suggest in that case,” smiled Lester. “The old
gentleman oughtn’t to be so fussy.”

“I know,” she said, “but he’s old now, and he has had so much trouble.”

Lester ruminated for a while, toying with his fork. “I’ll tell you what
I’ve been thinking, Jennie,” he said finally. “There’s no use living
this way any longer, if we’re going to stick it out. I’ve been thinking
that we might take a house out in Hyde Park. It’s something of a run
from the office, but I’m not much for this apartment life. You and
Vesta would be better off for a yard. In that case you might bring your
father on to live with us. He couldn’t do any harm pottering about;
indeed, he might help keep things straight.”

“Oh, that would just suit papa, if he’d come,” she replied. “He loves
to fix things, and he’d cut the grass and look after the furnace. But
he won’t come unless he’s sure I’m married.”

“I don’t know how that could be arranged unless you could show the old
gentleman a marriage certificate. He seems to want something that can’t
be produced very well. A steady job he’d have running the furnace of a
country house,” he added meditatively.

Jennie did not notice the grimness of the jest. She was too busy
thinking what a tangle she had made of her life. Gerhardt would not
come now, even if they had a lovely home to share with him. And yet he
ought to be with Vesta again. She would make him happy.

She remained lost in a sad abstraction, until Lester, following the
drift of her thoughts, said: “I don’t see how it can be arranged.
Marriage certificate blanks aren’t easily procurable. It’s bad
business—a criminal offense to forge one, I believe. I wouldn’t want to
be mixed up in that sort of thing.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to do anything like that, Lester. I’m just sorry
papa is so stubborn. When he gets a notion you can’t change him.”

“Suppose we wait until we get settled after moving,” he suggested.
“Then you can go to Cleveland and talk to him personally. You might be
able to persuade him.” He liked her attitude toward her father. It was
so decent that he rather wished he could help her carry out her scheme.
While not very interesting, Gerhardt was not objectionable to Lester,
and if the old man wanted to do the odd jobs around a big place, why
not?




CHAPTER XXXVII


The plan for a residence in Hyde Park was not long in taking shape.
After several weeks had passed, and things had quieted down again,
Lester invited Jennie to go with him to South Hyde Park to look for a
house. On the first trip they found something which seemed to suit
admirably—an old-time home of eleven large rooms, set in a lawn fully
two hundred feet square and shaded by trees which had been planted when
the city was young. It was ornate, homelike, peaceful. Jennie was
fascinated by the sense of space and country, although depressed by the
reflection that she was not entering her new home under the right
auspices. She had vaguely hoped that in planning to go away she was
bringing about a condition under which Lester might have come after her
and married her. Now all that was over. She had promised to stay, and
she would have to make the best of it. She suggested that they would
never know what to do with so much room, but he waved that aside. “We
will very likely have people in now and then,” he said. “We can furnish
it up anyhow, and see how it looks.” He had the agent make out a
five-year lease, with an option for renewal, and set at once the forces
to work to put the establishment in order.

The house was painted and decorated, the lawn put in order, and
everything done to give the place a trim and satisfactory appearance.
There was a large, comfortable library and sitting-room, a big
dining-room, a handsome reception-hall, a parlor, a large kitchen,
serving-room, and in fact all the ground-floor essentials of a
comfortable home. On the second floor were bedrooms, baths, and the
maid’s room. It was all very comfortable and harmonious, and Jennie
took an immense pride and pleasure in getting things in order.

Immediately after moving in, Jennie, with Lester’s permission, wrote to
her father asking him to come to her. She did not say that she was
married, but left it to be inferred. She descanted on the beauty of the
neighborhood, the size of the yard, and the manifold conveniences of
the establishment. “It is so very nice,” she added, “you would like it,
papa. Vesta is here and goes to school every day. Won’t you come and
stay with us? It’s so much better than living in a factory. And I would
like to have you so.”

Gerhardt read this letter with a solemn countenance, Was it really
true? Would they be taking a larger house if they were not permanently
united? After all these years and all this lying? Could he have been
mistaken? Well, it was high time—but should he go? He had lived alone
this long time now—should he go to Chicago and live with Jennie? Her
appeal did touch him, but somehow he decided against it. That would be
too generous an acknowledgment of the fact that there had been fault on
his side as well as on hers.

Jennie was disappointed at Gerhardt’s refusal. She talked it over with
Lester, and decided that she would go on to Cleveland and see him.
Accordingly, she made the trip, hunted up the factory, a great rumbling
furniture concern in one of the poorest sections of the city, and
inquired at the office for her father. The clerk directed her to a
distant warehouse, and Gerhardt was informed that a lady wished to see
him. He crawled out of his humble cot and came down, curious as to who
it could be. When Jennie saw him in his dusty, baggy clothes, his hair
gray, his eye brows shaggy, coming out of the dark door, a keen sense
of the pathetic moved her again. “Poor papa!” she thought. He came
toward her, his inquisitorial eye softened a little by his
consciousness of the affection that had inspired her visit. “What are
you come for?” he asked cautiously.

“I want you to come home with me, papa,” she pleaded yearningly. “I
don’t want you to stay here any more. I can’t think of you living alone
any longer.”

“So,” he said, nonplussed, “that brings you?”

“Yes,” she replied; “Won’t you? Don’t stay here.”

“I have a good bed,” he explained by way of apology for his state.

“I know,” she replied, “but we have a good home now and Vesta is there.
Won’t you come? Lester wants you to.”

“Tell me one thing,” he demanded. “Are you married?”

“Yes,” she replied, lying hopelessly. “I have been married a long time.
You can ask Lester when you come.” She could scarcely look him in the
face, but she managed somehow, and he believed her.

“Well,” he said, “it is time.”

“Won’t you come, papa?” she pleaded.

He threw out his hands after his characteristic manner. The urgency of
her appeal touched him to the quick. “Yes, I come,” he said, and
turned; but she saw by his shoulders what was happening. He was crying.

“Now, papa?” she pleaded.

For answer he walked back into the dark warehouse to get his things.




CHAPTER XXXVIII


Gerhardt, having become an inmate of the Hyde Park home, at once
bestirred himself about the labors which he felt instinctively
concerned him. He took charge of the furnace and the yard, outraged at
the thought that good money should be paid to any outsider when he had
nothing to do. The trees, he declared to Jennie, were in a dreadful
condition. If Lester would get him a pruning knife and a saw he would
attend to them in the spring. In Germany they knew how to care for such
things, but these Americans were so shiftless. Then he wanted tools and
nails, and in time all the closets and shelves were put in order. He
found a Lutheran Church almost two miles away, and declared that it was
better than the one in Cleveland. The pastor, of course, was a
heaven-sent son of divinity. And nothing would do but that Vesta must
go to church with him regularly.

Jennie and Lester settled down into the new order of living with some
misgivings; certain difficulties were sure to arise. On the North Side
it had been easy for Jennie to shun neighbors and say nothing. Now they
were occupying a house of some pretensions; their immediate neighbors
would feel it their duty to call, and Jennie would have to play the
part of an experienced hostess. She and Lester had talked this
situation over. It might as well be understood here, he said, that they
were husband and wife. Vesta was to be introduced as Jennie’s daughter
by her first marriage, her husband, a Mr. Stover (her mother’s maiden
name), having died immediately after the child’s birth. Lester, of
course, was the stepfather. This particular neighborhood was so far
from the fashionable heart of Chicago that Lester did not expect to run
into many of his friends. He explained to Jennie the ordinary
formalities of social intercourse, so that when the first visitor
called Jennie might be prepared to receive her. Within a fortnight this
first visitor arrived in the person of Mrs. Jacob Stendahl, a woman of
considerable importance in this particular section. She lived five
doors from Jennie—the houses of the neighborhood were all set in
spacious lawns—and drove up in her carriage, on her return from her
shopping, one afternoon.

“Is Mrs. Kane in?” she asked of Jeannette, the new maid.

“I think so, mam,” answered the girl. “Won’t you let me have your
card?”

The card was given and taken to Jennie, who looked at it curiously.

When Jennie came into the parlor Mrs. Stendahl, a tall dark,
inquisitive-looking woman, greeted her most cordially.

“I thought I would take the liberty of intruding on you,” she said most
winningly. “I am one of your neighbors. I live on the other side of the
street, some few doors up. Perhaps you have seen the house—the one with
the white stone gate-posts.”

“Oh, yes indeed,” replied Jennie. “I know it well. Mr. Kane and I were
admiring it the first day we came out here.”

“I know of your husband, of course, by reputation. My husband is
connected with the Wilkes Frog and Switch Company.”

Jennie bowed her head. She knew that the latter concern must be
something important and profitable from the way in which Mrs. Stendahl
spoke of it.

“We have lived here quite a number of years, and I know how you must
feel coming as a total stranger to a new section of the city. I hope
you will find time to come in and see me some afternoon. I shall be
most pleased. My regular reception day is Thursday.”

“Indeed I shall,” answered Jennie, a little nervously, for the ordeal
was a trying one. “I appreciate your goodness in calling. Mr. Kane is
very busy as a rule, but when he is at home I am sure he would be most
pleased to meet you and your husband.”

“You must both come over some evening,” replied Mrs. Stendahl. “We lead
a very quiet life. My husband is not much for social gatherings. But we
enjoy our neighborhood friends.”

Jennie smiled her assurances of good-will. She accompanied Mrs.
Stendahl to the door, and shook hands with her. “I’m so glad to find
you so charming,” observed Mrs. Stendahl frankly.

“Oh, thank you,” said Jennie flushing a little. “I’m sure I don’t
deserve so much praise.”

“Well, now I will expect you some afternoon. Good-by,” and she waved a
gracious farewell.

“That wasn’t so bad,” thought Jennie as she watched Mrs. Stendahl drive
away. “She is very nice, I think. I’ll tell Lester about her.”

Among the other callers were a Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael Burke, a Mrs.
Hanson Field, and a Mrs. Timothy Ballinger—all of whom left cards, or
stayed to chat a few minutes. Jennie found herself taken quite
seriously as a woman of importance, and she did her best to support the
dignity of her position. And, indeed, she did exceptionally well. She
was most hospitable and gracious. She had a kindly smile and a manner
wholly natural; she succeeded in making a most favorable impression.
She explained to her guests that she had been living on the North Side
until recently, that _her husband,_ Mr. Kane, had long wanted to have a
home in Hyde Park, that her father and daughter were living here, and
that Lester was the child’s stepfather. She said she hoped to repay all
these nice attentions and to be a good neighbor.

Lester heard about these calls in the evening, for he did not care to
meet these people. Jennie came to enjoy it in a mild way. She liked
making new friends, and she was hoping that something definite could be
worked out here which would make Lester look upon her as a good wife
and an ideal companion. Perhaps, some day, he might really want to
marry her.

First impressions are not always permanent, as Jennie was soon to
discover. The neighborhood had accepted her perhaps a little too
hastily, and now rumors began to fly about. A Mrs. Sommerville, calling
on Mrs. Craig, one of Jennie’s near neighbors, intimated that she knew
who Lester was—“oh, yes, indeed. You know, my dear,” she went on, “his
reputation is just a little—” she raised her eyebrows and her hand at
the same time.

“You don’t say!” commented her friend curiously. “He looks like such a
staid, conservative person.”

“Oh, no doubt, in a way, he is,” went on Mrs. Sommerville. “His family
is of the very best. There was some young woman he went with—so my
husband tells me. I don’t know whether this is the one or not, but she
was introduced as a Miss Gorwood, or some such name as that, when they
were living together as husband and wife on the North Side.”

“Tst! Tst! Tst!” clicked Mrs. Craig with her tongue at this astonishing
news. “You don’t tell me! Come to think of it, it must be the same
woman. Her father’s name is Gerhardt.”

“Gerhardt!” exclaimed Mrs. Sommerville. “Yes, that’s the name. It seems
to me that there was some earlier scandal in connection with her—at
least there was a child. Whether he married her afterward or not, I
don’t know. Anyhow, I understand his family will not have anything to
do with her.”

“How very interesting!” exclaimed Mrs. Craig. “And to think he should
have married her afterward, if he really did. I’m sure you can’t tell
with whom you’re coming in contact these days, can you?”

“It’s so true. Life does get badly mixed at times. She appears to be a
charming woman.”

“Delightful!” exclaimed Mrs. Craig. “Quite naive. I was really taken
with her.”

“Well, it may be,” went on her guest, “that this isn’t the same woman
after all. I may be mistaken.”

“Oh, I hardly think so. Gerhardt! She told me they had been living on
the North Side.”

“Then I’m sure it’s the same person. How curious that you should speak
of her!”

“It is, indeed,” went on Mrs. Craig, who was speculating as to what her
attitude toward Jennie should be in the future.

Other rumors came from other sources. There were people who had seen
Jennie and Lester out driving on the North Side, who had been
introduced to her as Miss Gerhardt, who knew what the Kane family
thought. Of course her present position, the handsome house, the wealth
of Lester, the beauty of Vesta—all these things helped to soften the
situation. She was apparently too circumspect, too much the good wife
and mother, too really nice to be angry with; but she had a past, and
that had to be taken into consideration.

An opening bolt of the coming storm fell upon Jennie one day when
Vesta, returning from school, suddenly asked: “Mamma, who was my papa?”

“His name was Stover, dear,” replied her mother, struck at once by the
thought that there might have been some criticism—that some one must
have been saying something. “Why do you ask?”

“Where was I born?” continued Vesta, ignoring the last inquiry, and
interested in clearing up her own identity.

“In Columbus, Ohio, pet. Why?”

“Anita Ballinger said I didn’t have any papa, and that you weren’t ever
married when you had me. She said I wasn’t a really, truly girl at
all—just a nobody. She made me so mad I slapped her.”

Jennie’s face grew rigid. She sat staring straight before her. Mrs.
Ballinger had called, and Jennie had thought her peculiarly gracious
and helpful in her offer of assistance, and now her little daughter had
said this to Vesta. Where did the child hear it?

“You mustn’t pay any attention to her, dearie,” said Jennie at last.
“She doesn’t know. Your papa was Mr. Stover, and you were born in
Columbus. You mustn’t fight other little girls. Of course they say
nasty things when they fight—sometimes things they don’t really mean.
Just let her alone and don’t go near her any more. Then she won’t say
anything to you.”

It was a lame explanation, but it satisfied Vesta for the time being.
“I’ll slap her if she tries to slap me,” she persisted.

“You mustn’t go near her, pet, do you hear? Then she can’t try to slap
you,” returned her mother. “Just go about your studies, and don’t mind
her. She can’t quarrel with you if you don’t let her.”

Vesta went away leaving Jennie brooding over her words. The neighbors
were talking. Her history was becoming common gossip. How had they
found out.

It is one thing to nurse a single thrust, another to have the wound
opened from time to time by additional stabs. One day Jennie, having
gone to call on Mrs. Hanson Field, who was her immediate neighbor, met
a Mrs. Williston Baker, who was there taking tea. Mrs. Baker knew of
the Kanes, of Jennie’s history on the North Side, and of the attitude
of the Kane family. She was a thin, vigorous, intellectual woman,
somewhat on the order of Mrs. Bracebridge, and very careful of her
social connections. She had always considered Mrs. Field a woman of the
same rigid circumspectness of attitude, and when she found Jennie
calling there she was outwardly calm but inwardly irritated. “This is
Mrs. Kane, Mrs. Baker,” said Mrs. Field, introducing her guests with a
smiling countenance. Mrs. Baker looked at Jennie ominously.

“Mrs. Lester Kane?” she inquired.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Fields.

“Indeed,” she went on freezingly. “I’ve heard a great deal about Mrs.—”
accenting the word “Mrs.—Lester Kane.”

She turned to Mrs. Field, ignoring Jennie completely, and started an
intimate conversation in which Jennie could have no possible share.
Jennie stood helplessly by, unable to formulate a thought which would
be suitable to so trying a situation. Mrs. Baker soon announced her
departure, although she had intended to stay longer. “I can’t remain
another minute,” she said; “I promised Mrs. Neil that I would stop in
to see her to-day. I’m sure I’ve bored you enough already as it is.”

She walked to the door, not troubling to look at Jennie until she was
nearly out of the room. Then she looked in her direction, and gave her
a frigid nod.

“We meet such curious people now and again,” she observed finally to
her hostess as she swept away.

Mrs. Field did not feel able to defend Jennie, for she herself was in
no notable social position, and was endeavoring, like every other
middle-class woman of means, to get along. She did not care to offend
Mrs. Williston Baker, who was socially so much more important than
Jennie. She came back to where Jennie was sitting, smiling
apologetically, but she was a little bit flustered. Jennie was out of
countenance, of course. Presently she excused herself and went home.
She had been cut deeply by the slight offered her, and she felt that
Mrs. Field realized that she had made a mistake in ever taking her up.
There would be no additional exchange of visits there—that she knew.
The old hopeless feeling came over her that her life was a failure. It
couldn’t be made right, or, if it could, it wouldn’t be. Lester was not
inclined to marry her and put her right.

Time went on and matters remained very much as they were. To look at
this large house, with its smooth lawn and well grown trees, its vines
clambering about the pillars of the veranda and interlacing themselves
into a transparent veil of green; to see Gerhardt pottering about the
yard, Vesta coming home from school, Lester leaving in the morning in
his smart trap—one would have said that here is peace and plenty, no
shadow of unhappiness hangs over this charming home.

And as a matter of fact existence with Lester and Jennie did run
smoothly. It is true that the neighbors did not call any more, or only
a very few of them, and there was no social life to speak of; but the
deprivation was hardly noticed; there was so much in the home life to
please and interest. Vesta was learning to play the piano, and to play
quite well. She had a good ear for music. Jennie was a charming figure
in blue, lavender, and olive-green house-gowns as she went about her
affairs, sewing, dusting, getting Vesta off to school, and seeing that
things generally were put to rights. Gerhardt busied himself about his
multitudinous duties, for he was not satisfied unless he had his hands
into all the domestic economies of the household. One of his
self-imposed tasks was to go about the house after Lester, or the
servants, turning out the gas-jets or electric-light bulbs which might
accidentally have been left burning. That was a sinful extravagance.

Again, Lester’s expensive clothes, which he carelessly threw aside
after a few month’s use, were a source of woe to the thrifty old
German. Moreover, he grieved over splendid shoes discarded because of a
few wrinkles in the leather or a slightly run down heel or sole.
Gerhardt was for having them repaired, but Lester answered the old
man’s querulous inquiry as to what was wrong “with them shoes” by
saying that they weren’t comfortable any more.

“Such extravagance!” Gerhardt complained to Jennie. “Such waste! No
good can come of anything like that, It will mean want one of these
days.”

“He can’t help it, papa,” Jennie excused. “That’s the way he was
raised.”

“Ha! A fine way to be raised. These Americans, they know nothing of
economy. They ought to live in Germany awhile. Then they would know
what a dollar can do.”

Lester heard something of this through Jennie, but he only smiled.
Gerhardt was amusing to him.

Another grievance was Lester’s extravagant use of matches. He had the
habit of striking a match, holding it while he talked, instead of
lighting his cigar, and then throwing it away. Sometimes he would begin
to light a cigar two or three minutes before he would actually do so,
tossing aside match after match. There was a place out in one corner of
the veranda where he liked to sit of a spring or summer evening,
smoking and throwing away half-burned matches. Jennie would sit with
him, and a vast number of matches would be lit and flung out on the
lawn. At one time, while engaged in cutting the grass, Gerhardt found,
to his horror, not a handful, but literally boxes of half-burned
match-sticks lying unconsumed and decaying under the fallen blades. He
was discouraged, to say the least. He gathered up this damning evidence
in a newspaper and carried it back into the sitting-room where Jennie
was sewing.

“See here, what I find!” he demanded. “Just look at that! That man, he
has no more sense of economy than a—than a—” the right term failed him.
“He sits and smokes, and this is the way he uses matches. Five cents a
box they cost—five cents. How can a man hope to do well and carry on
like that, I like to know. Look at them.”

Jennie looked. She shook her head. “Lester is extravagant,” she said.

Gerhardt carried them to the basement. At least they should be burned
in the furnace. He would have used them as lighters for his own pipe,
sticking them in the fire to catch a blaze, only old newspapers were
better, and he had stacks of these—another evidence of his lord and
master’s wretched, spendthrift disposition. It was a sad world to work
in. Almost everything was against him. Still he fought as valiantly as
he could against waste and shameless extravagance. His own economies
were rigid. He would wear the same suit of black—cut down from one of
Lester’s expensive investments of years before—every Sunday for a
couple of years. Lester’s shoes, by a little stretch of the
imagination, could be made to seem to fit, and these he wore. His old
ties also—the black ones—they were fine. If he could have cut down
Lester’s shirts he would have done so; he did make over the underwear,
with the friendly aid of the cook’s needle. Lester’s socks, of course,
were just right. There was never any expense for Gerhardt’s clothing.

The remaining stock of Lester’s discarded clothing—shoes, shirts,
collars, suits, ties, and what not—he would store away for weeks and
months, and then, in a sad and gloomy frame of mind, he would call in a
tailor, or an old-shoe man, or a ragman, and dispose of the lot at the
best price he could. He learned that all second-hand clothes men were
sharks; that there was no use in putting the least faith in the
protests of any rag dealer or old-shoe man. They all lied. They all
claimed to be very poor, when as a matter of fact they were actually
rolling in wealth. Gerhardt had investigated these stories; he had
followed them up; he had seen what they were doing with the things he
sold them.

“Scoundrels!” he declared. “They offer me ten cents for a pair of
shoes, and then I see them hanging out in front of their places marked
two dollars. Such robbery! My God! They could afford to give me a
dollar.”

Jennie smiled. It was only to her that he complained, for he could
expect no sympathy from’ Lester. So far as his own meager store of
money was concerned, he gave the most of it to his beloved church,
where he was considered to be a model of propriety, honesty, faith—in
fact, the embodiment of all the virtues.

And so, for all the ill winds that were beginning to blow socially,
Jennie was now leading the dream years of her existence. Lester, in
spite of the doubts which assailed him at times as to the wisdom of his
career, was invariably kind and considerate, and he seemed to enjoy his
home life.

“Everything all right?” she would ask when he came in of an evening.

“Sure!” he would answer, and pinch her chin or cheek.

She would follow him in while Jeannette, always alert, would take his
coat and hat. In the winter-time they would sit in the library before
the big grate-fire. In the spring, summer, or fall Lester preferred to
walk out on the porch, one corner of which commanded a sweeping view of
the lawn and the distant street, and light his before-dinner cigar.
Jennie would sit on the side of his chair and stroke his head. “Your
hair is not getting the least bit thin, Lester; aren’t you glad?” she
would say; or, “Oh, see how your brow is wrinkled now. You mustn’t do
that. You didn’t change your tie, mister, this morning. Why didn’t you?
I laid one out for you.”

“Oh, I forgot,” he would answer, or he would cause the wrinkles to
disappear, or laughingly predict that he would soon be getting bald if
he wasn’t so now.

In the drawing-room or library, before Vesta and Gerhardt, she was not
less loving, though a little more circumspect. She loved odd puzzles
like pigs in clover, the spider’s hole, baby billiards, and the like.
Lester shared in these simple amusements. He would work by the hour, if
necessary, to make a difficult puzzle come right. Jennie was clever at
solving these mechanical problems. Sometimes she would have to show him
the right method, and then she would be immensely pleased with herself.
At other times she would stand behind him watching, her chin on his
shoulder, her arms about his neck. He seemed not to mind—indeed, he was
happy in the wealth of affection she bestowed. Her cleverness, her
gentleness, her tact created an atmosphere which was immensely
pleasing; above all her youth and beauty appealed to him. It made him
feel young, and if there was one thing Lester objected to, it was the
thought of drying up into an aimless old age. “I want to keep young, or
die young,” was one of his pet remarks; and Jennie came to understand.
She was glad that she was so much younger now for his sake.

Another pleasant feature of the home life was Lester’s steadily
increasing affection for Vesta. The child would sit at the big table in
the library in the evening conning her books, while Jennie would sew,
and Gerhardt would read his interminable list of German Lutheran
papers. It grieved the old man that Vesta should not be allowed to go
to a German Lutheran parochial school, but Lester would listen to
nothing of the sort. “We’ll not have any thick-headed German training
in this,” he said to Jennie, when she suggested that Gerhardt had
complained. “The public schools are good enough for any child. You tell
him to let her alone.”

There were really some delightful hours among the four. Lester liked to
take the little seven-year-old school-girl between his knees and tease
her. He liked to invert the so-called facts of life, to propound its
paradoxes, and watch how the child’s budding mind took them. “What’s
water?” he would ask; and being informed that it was “what we drink,”
he would stare and say, “That’s so, but what is it? Don’t they teach
you any better than that?”

“Well, it is what we drink, isn’t it?” persisted Vesta.

“The fact that we drink it doesn’t explain what it is,” he would
retort. “You ask your teacher what water is”; and then he would leave
her with this irritating problem troubling her young soul.

Food, china, her dress, anything was apt to be brought back to its
chemical constituents, and he would leave her to struggle with these
dark suggestions of something else back of the superficial appearance
of things until she was actually in awe of him. She had a way of
showing him how nice she looked before she started to school in the
morning, a habit that arose because of his constant criticism of her
appearance. He wanted her to look smart, he insisted on a big bow of
blue ribbon for her hair, he demanded that her shoes be changed from
low quarter to high boots with the changing character of the seasons’
and that her clothing be carried out on a color scheme suited to her
complexion and disposition.

“That child’s light and gay by disposition. Don’t put anything somber
on her,” he once remarked.

Jennie had come to realize that he must be consulted in this, and would
say, “Run to your papa and show him how you look.”

Vesta would come and turn briskly around before him, saying, “See.”

“Yes. You’re all right. Go on”; and on she would go.

He grew so proud of her that on Sundays and some week-days when they
drove he would always have her in between them. He insisted that Jennie
send her to dancing-school, and Gerhardt was beside himself with rage
and grief. “Such irreligion!” he complained to Jennie. “Such devil’s
fol-de-rol. Now she goes to dance. What for? To make a no-good out of
her—a creature to be ashamed of?”

“Oh no, papa,” replied Jennie. “It isn’t as bad as that. This is an
awful nice school. Lester says she has to go.”

“Lester, Lester; that man! A fine lot he knows about what is good for a
child. A card-player, a whisky-drinker!”

“Now, hush, papa; I won’t have you talk like that,” Jennie would reply
warmly. “He’s a good man, and you know it.”

“Yes, yes, a good man. In some things, maybe. Not in this. No.”

He went away groaning. When Lester was near he said nothing, and Vesta
could wind him around her finger.

“Oh you,” she would say, pulling at his arm or rubbing his grizzled
cheek. There was no more fight in Gerhardt when Vesta did this. He lost
control of himself—something welled up and choked his throat. “Yes, I
know how you do,” he would exclaim.

Vesta would tweak his ear.

“Stop now!” he would say. “That is enough.”

It was noticeable, however, that she did not have to stop unless she
herself willed it. Gerhardt adored the child, and she could do anything
with him; he was always her devoted servitor.




CHAPTER XXXIX


During this period the dissatisfaction of the Kane family with Lester’s
irregular habit of life grew steadily stronger. That it could not help
but become an open scandal, in the course of time, was sufficiently
obvious to them. Rumors were already going about. People seemed to
understand in a wise way, though nothing was ever said directly. Kane
senior could scarcely imagine what possessed his son to fly in the face
of conventions in this manner. If the woman had been some one of
distinction—some sorceress of the stage, or of the world of art, or
letters, his action would have been explicable if not commendable, but
with this creature of very ordinary capabilities, as Louise had
described her, this putty-faced nobody—he could not possibly understand
it.

Lester was his son, his favorite son; it was too bad that he had not
settled down in the ordinary way. Look at the women in Cincinnati who
knew him and liked him. Take Letty Pace, for instance. Why in the name
of common sense had he not married her? She was good looking,
sympathetic, talented. The old man grieved bitterly, and then, by
degrees, he began to harden. It seemed a shame that Lester should treat
him so. It wasn’t natural, or justifiable, or decent. Archibald Kane
brooded over it until he felt that some change ought to be enforced,
but just what it should be he could not say. Lester was his own boss,
and he would resent any criticism of his actions. Apparently, nothing
could be done.

Certain changes helped along an approaching denouement. Louise married
not many months after her very disturbing visit to Chicago, and then
the home property was fairly empty except for visiting grandchildren.
Lester did not attend the wedding, though he was invited. For another
thing, Mrs. Kane died, making a readjustment of the family will
necessary. Lester came home on this occasion, grieved to think he had
lately seen so little of his mother—that he had caused her so much
pain—but he had no explanation to make. His father thought at the time
of talking to him, but put it off because of his obvious gloom. He went
back to Chicago, and there were more months of silence.

After Mrs. Kane’s death and Louise’s marriage, the father went to live
with Robert, for his three grandchildren afforded him his greatest
pleasure in his old age. The business, except for the final adjustment
which would come after his death, was in Robert’s hands. The latter was
consistently agreeable to his sisters and their husbands and to his
father, in view of the eventual control he hoped to obtain. He was not
a sycophant in any sense of the word, but a shrewd, cold business man,
far shrewder than his brother gave him credit for. He was already
richer than any two of the other children put together, but he chose to
keep his counsel and to pretend modesty of fortune. He realized the
danger of envy, and preferred a Spartan form of existence, putting all
the emphasis on inconspicuous but very ready and very hard cash. While
Lester was drifting Robert was working—working all the time.

Robert’s scheme for eliminating his brother from participation in the
control of the business was really not very essential, for his father,
after long brooding over the details of the Chicago situation, had come
to the definite conclusion that any large share of his property ought
not to go to Lester. Obviously, Lester was not so strong a man as he
had thought him to be. Of the two brothers, Lester might be the bigger
intellectually or sympathetically—artistically and socially there was
no comparison—but Robert got commercial results in a silent, effective
way. If Lester was not going to pull himself together at this stage of
the game, when would he? Better leave his property to those who would
take care of it. Archibald Kane thought seriously of having his lawyer
revise his will in such a way that, unless Lester should reform, he
would be cut off with only a nominal income. But he decided to give
Lester one more chance—to make a plea, in fact, that he should abandon
his false way of living, and put himself on a sound basis before the
world. It wasn’t too late. He really had a great future. Would he
deliberately choose to throw it away? Old Archibald wrote Lester that
he would like to have a talk with him at his convenience, and within
the lapse of thirty-six hours Lester was in Cincinnati.

“I thought I’d have one more talk with you, Lester, on a subject that’s
rather difficult for me to bring up,” began the elder Kane. “You know
what I’m referring to?”

“Yes, I know,” replied Lester, calmly.

“I used to think, when I was much younger that my son’s matrimonial
ventures would never concern me, but I changed my views on that score
when I got a little farther along. I began to see through my business
connections how much the right sort of a marriage helps a man, and then
I got rather anxious that my boys should marry well. I used to worry
about you, Lester, and I’m worrying yet. This recent connection you’ve
made has caused me no end of trouble. It worried your mother up to the
very last. It was her one great sorrow. Don’t you think you have gone
far enough with it? The scandal has reached down here. What it is in
Chicago I don’t know, but it can’t be a secret. That can’t help the
house in business there. It certainly can’t help you. The whole thing
has gone on so long that you have injured your prospects all around,
and yet you continue. Why do you?”

“I suppose because I love her,” Lester replied.

“You can’t be serious in that,” said his father. “If you had loved her,
you’d have married her in the first place. Surely you wouldn’t take a
woman and live with her as you have with this woman for years,
disgracing her and yourself, and still claim that you love her. You may
have a passion for her, but it isn’t love.”

“How do you know I haven’t married her?” inquired Lester coolly. He
wanted to see how his father would take to that idea.

“You’re not serious!” The old gentleman propped himself up on his arms
and looked at him.

“No, I’m not,” replied Lester, “but I might be. I might marry her.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed his father vigorously. “I can’t believe it. I
can’t believe a man of your intelligence would do a thing like that,
Lester. Where is your judgment? Why, you’ve lived in open adultery with
her for years, and now you talk of marrying her. Why, in heaven’s name,
if you were going to do anything like that, didn’t you do it in the
first place? Disgrace your parents, break your mother’s heart, injure
the business, become a public scandal, and then marry the cause of it?
I don’t believe it.”

Old Archibald got up.

“Don’t get excited, father,” said Lester quickly. “We won’t get
anywhere that way. I say I might marry her. She’s not a bad woman, and
I wish you wouldn’t talk about her as you do. You’ve never seen her.
You know nothing about her.”

“I know enough,” insisted old Archibald, determinedly. “I know that no
good woman would act as she has done. Why, man, she’s after your money.
What else could she want? It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

“Father,” said Lester, his voice lowering ominously, “why do you talk
like that? You never saw the woman. You wouldn’t know her from Adam’s
off ox. Louise comes down here and gives an excited report, and you
people swallow it whole. She isn’t as bad as you think she is, and I
wouldn’t use the language you’re using about her if I were you. You’re
doing a good woman an injustice, and you won’t, for some reason, be
fair.”

“Fair! Fair!” interrupted Archibald. “Talk about being fair. Is it fair
to me, to your family, to your dead mother to take a woman of the
streets and live with her? Is it—”

“Stop now, father,” exclaimed Lester, putting up his hand. “I warn you.
I won’t listen to talk like that. You’re talking about the woman that
I’m living with—that I may marry. I love you, but I won’t have you
saying things that aren’t so. She isn’t a woman of the streets. You
know, as well as you know anything, that I wouldn’t take up with a
woman of that kind. We’ll have to discuss this in a calmer mood, or I
won’t stay here. I’m sorry. I’m awfully sorry. But I won’t listen to
any such language as that.”

Old Archibald quieted himself. In spite of his opposition, he respected
his son’s point of view. He sat back in his chair and stared at the
floor. “How was he to handle this thing?” he asked himself.

“Are you living in the same place?” he finally inquired.

“No, we’ve moved out to Hyde Park. I’ve taken a house out there.”

“I hear there’s a child. Is that yours?”

“No.”

“Have you any children of your own?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s a God’s blessing.”

Lester merely scratched his chin.

“And you insist you will marry her?” Archibald went on.

“I didn’t say that,” replied his son. “I said I might.”

“Might! Might!” exclaimed his father, his anger bubbling again. “What a
tragedy! You with your prospects! Your outlook! How do you suppose I
can seriously contemplate entrusting any share of my fortune to a man
who has so little regard for what the world considers as right and
proper? Why, Lester, this carriage business, your family, your personal
reputation appear to be as nothing at all to you. I can’t understand
what has happened to your pride. It seems like some wild, impossible
fancy.”

“It’s pretty hard to explain, father, and I can’t do it very well. I
simply know that I’m in this affair, and that I’m bound to see it
through. It may come out all right. I may not marry her—I may. I’m not
prepared now to say what I’ll do. You’ll have to wait. I’ll do the best
I can.”

Old Archibald merely shook his head disapprovingly.

“You’ve made a bad mess of this, Lester,” he said finally. “Surely you
have. But I suppose you are determined to go your way. Nothing that I
have said appears to move you.”

“Not now, father. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I warn you, then, that, unless you show some consideration for
the dignity of your family and the honor of your position it will make
a difference in my will. I can’t go on countenancing this thing, and
not be a party to it morally and every other way. I won’t do it. You
can leave her, or you can marry her. You certainly ought to do one or
the other. If you leave her, everything will be all right. You can make
any provision for her you like. I have no objection to that. I’ll
gladly pay whatever you agree to. You will share with the rest of the
children, just as I had planned. If you marry her it will make a
difference. Now do as you please. But don’t blame me. I love you. I’m
your father. I’m doing what I think is my bounden duty. Now you think
that over and let me know.”

Lester sighed. He saw how hopeless this argument was. He felt that his
father probably meant what he said, but how could he leave Jennie, and
justify himself to himself? Would his father really cut him off? Surely
not. The old gentleman loved him even now—he could see it. Lester felt
troubled and distressed; this attempt at coercion irritated him. The
idea—he, Lester Kane, being made to do such a thing to throw Jennie
down. He stared at the floor.

Old Archibald saw that he had let fly a telling bullet.

“Well,” said Lester finally, “there’s no use of our discussing it any
further now—that’s certain, isn’t it? I can’t say what I’ll do. I’ll
have to take time and think. I can’t decide this offhand.”

The two looked at each other. Lester was sorry for the world’s attitude
and for his father’s keen feeling about the affair. Kane senior was
sorry for his son, but he was determined to see the thing through. He
wasn’t sure whether he had converted Lester or not, but he was hopeful.
Maybe he would come around yet.

“Good-by, father,” said Lester, holding out his hand. “I think I’ll try
and make that two-ten train. There isn’t anything else you wanted to
see me about?”

“No.”

The old man sat there after Lester had gone, thinking deeply. What a
twisted career! What an end to great possibilities? What a foolhardy
persistence in evil and error! He shook his head. Robert was wiser. He
was the one to control a business. He was cool and conservative. If
Lester were only like that. He thought and thought. It was a long time
before he stirred. And still, in the bottom of his heart, his erring
son continued to appeal to him.




CHAPTER XL


Lester returned to Chicago. He realized that he had offended his father
seriously, how seriously he could not say. In all his personal
relations with old Archibald he had never seen him so worked up. But
even now Lester did not feel that the breach was irreparable; he hardly
realized that it was necessary for him to act decisively if he hoped to
retain his father’s affection and confidence. As for the world at
large, what did it matter how much people talked or what they said. He
was big enough to stand alone. But was he? People turn so quickly from
weakness or the shadow of it. To get away from failure—even the mere
suspicion of it—that seems to be a subconscious feeling with the
average man and woman; we all avoid non-success as though we fear that
it may prove contagious. Lester was soon to feel the force of this
prejudice.

One day Lester happened to run across Berry Dodge, the millionaire head
of Dodge, Holbrook & Kingsbury, a firm that stood in the dry-goods
world, where the Kane Company stood in the carriage world. Dodge had
been one of Lester’s best friends. He knew him as intimately as he knew
Henry Bracebridge, of Cleveland, and George Knowles, of Cincinnati. He
visited at his handsome home on the North Shore Drive, and they met
constantly in a business and social way. But since Lester had moved out
to Hyde Park, the old intimacy had lapsed. Now they came face to face
on Michigan Avenue near the Kane building.

“Why, Lester, I’m glad to see you again,” said Dodge.

He extended a formal hand, and seemed just a little cool. “I hear
you’ve gone and married since I saw you.”

“No, nothing like that,” replied Lester, easily, with the air of one
who prefers to be understood in the way of the world sense.

“Why so secret about it, if you have?” asked Dodge, attempting to
smile, but with a wry twist to the corners of his mouth. He was trying
to be nice, and to go through a difficult situation gracefully. “We
fellows usually make a fuss about that sort of thing. You ought to let
your friends know.”

“Well,” said Lester, feeling the edge of the social blade that was
being driven into him, “I thought I’d do it in a new way. I’m not much
for excitement in that direction, anyhow.”

“It is a matter of taste, isn’t it?” said Dodge a little absently.
“You’re living in the city, of course?”

“In Hyde Park.”

“That’s a pleasant territory. How are things otherwise?” And he deftly
changed the subject before waving him a perfunctory farewell.

Lester missed at once the inquiries which a man like Dodge would have
made if he had really believed that he was married. Under ordinary
circumstances his friend would have wanted to know a great deal about
the new Mrs. Kane. There would have been all those little familiar
touches common to people living on the same social plane. Dodge would
have asked Lester to bring his wife over to see them, would have
definitely promised to call. Nothing of the sort happened, and Lester
noticed the significant omission.

It was the same with the Burnham Moores, the Henry Aldriches, and a
score of other people whom he knew equally well. Apparently they all
thought that he had married and settled down. They were interested to
know where he was living, and they were rather disposed to joke him
about being so very secretive on the subject, but they were not willing
to discuss the supposed Mrs. Kane. He was beginning to see that this
move of his was going to tell against him notably.

One of the worst stabs—it was the cruelest because, in a way, it was
the most unintentional—he received from an old acquaintance, Will
Whitney, at the Union Club. Lester was dining there one evening, and
Whitney met him in the main reading-room as he was crossing from the
cloak-room to the cigar-stand. The latter was a typical society figure,
tall, lean, smooth-faced, immaculately garbed, a little cynical, and
to-night a little the worse for liquor. “Hi, Lester!” he called out,
“what’s this talk about a _ménage_ of yours out in Hyde Park? Say,
you’re going some. How are you going to explain all this to your wife
when you get married?”

“I don’t have to explain it,” replied Lester irritably. “Why should you
be so interested in my affairs? You’re not living in a stone house, are
you?”

“Say, ha! ha! that’s pretty good now, isn’t it? You didn’t marry that
little beauty you used to travel around with on the North Side, did
you? Eh, now! Ha, ha! Well, I swear. You married! You didn’t, now, did
you?”

“Cut it out, Whitney,” said Lester roughly. “You’re talking wild.”

“Pardon, Lester,” said the other aimlessly, but sobering. “I beg your
pardon. Remember, I’m just a little warm. Eight whisky-sours straight
in the other room there. Pardon. I’ll talk to you some time when I’m
all right. See, Lester? Eh! Ha! ha! I’m a little loose, that’s right.
Well, so long! Ha! ha!”

Lester could not get over that cacophonous “ha! ha!” It cut him, even
though it came from a drunken man’s mouth. “That little beauty you used
to travel with on the North Side. You didn’t marry her, did you?” He
quoted Whitney’s impertinences resentfully. George! But this was
getting a little rough! He had never endured anything like this
before—he, Lester Kane. It set him thinking. Certainly he was paying
dearly for trying to do the kind thing by Jennie.




CHAPTER XLI


But worse was to follow. The American public likes gossip about
well-known people, and the Kanes were wealthy and socially prominent.
The report was that Lester, one of its principal heirs, had married a
servant girl. He, an heir to millions! Could it be possible? What a
piquant morsel for the newspapers! Very soon the paragraphs began to
appear. A small society paper, called the _South Side Budget,_ referred
to him anonymously as “the son of a famous and wealthy carriage
manufacturer of Cincinnati,” and outlined briefly what it knew of the
story. “Of Mrs. ——” it went on, sagely, “not so much is known, except
that she once worked in a well-known Cleveland society family as a maid
and was, before that, a working-girl in Columbus, Ohio. After such a
picturesque love-affair in high society, who shall say that romance is
dead?”

Lester saw this item. He did not take the paper, but some kind soul
took good care to see that a copy was marked and mailed to him. It
irritated him greatly, for he suspected at once that it was a scheme to
blackmail him. But he did not know exactly what to do about it. He
preferred, of course, that such comments should cease, but he also
thought that if he made any effort to have them stopped he might make
matters worse. So he did nothing. Naturally, the paragraph in the
_Budget_ attracted the attention of other newspapers. It sounded like a
good story, and one Sunday editor, more enterprising than the others,
conceived the notion of having this romance written up. A full-page
Sunday story with a scare-head such as “Sacrifices Millions for His
Servant Girl Love,” pictures of Lester, Jennie, the house at Hyde Park,
the Kane manufactory at Cincinnati, the warehouse on Michigan
Avenue—certainly, such a display would make a sensation. The Kane
Company was not an advertiser in any daily or Sunday paper. The
newspaper owed him nothing. If Lester had been forewarned he might have
put a stop to the whole business by putting an advertisement in the
paper or appealing to the publisher. He did not know, however, and so
was without power to prevent the publication. The editor made a
thorough job of the business. Local newspaper men in Cincinnati,
Cleveland, and Columbus were instructed to report by wire whether
anything of Jennie’s history was known in their city. The Bracebridge
family in Cleveland was asked whether Jennie had ever worked there. A
garbled history of the Gerhardts was obtained from Columbus. Jennie’s
residence on the North Side, for several years prior to her supposed
marriage, was discovered and so the whole story was nicely pieced
together. It was not the idea of the newspaper editor to be cruel or
critical, but rather complimentary. All the bitter things, such as the
probable illegitimacy of Vesta, the suspected immorality of Lester and
Jennie in residing together as man and wife, the real grounds of the
well-known objections of his family to the match, were ignored. The
idea was to frame up a Romeo and Juliet story in which Lester should
appear as an ardent, self-sacrificing lover, and Jennie as a poor and
lovely working-girl, lifted to great financial and social heights by
the devotion of her millionaire lover. An exceptional newspaper artist
was engaged to make scenes depicting the various steps of the romance
and the whole thing was handled in the most approved yellow-journal
style. There was a picture of Lester obtained from his Cincinnati
photographer for a consideration; Jennie had been surreptitiously
“snapped” by a staff artist while she was out walking.

And so, apparently out of a clear sky, the story appeared—highly
complimentary, running over with sugary phrases, but with all the dark,
sad facts looming up in the background. Jennie did not see it at first.
Lester came across the page accidentally, and tore it out. He was
stunned and chagrined beyond words. “To think the damned newspaper
would do that to a private citizen who was quietly minding his own
business!” he thought. He went out of the house, the better to conceal
his deep inward mortification. He avoided the more populous parts of
the town, particularly the down-town section, and rode far out on
Cottage Grove Avenue to the open prairie. He wondered, as the
trolley-car rumbled along, what his friends were thinking—Dodge, and
Burnham Moore, and Henry Aldrich, and the others. This was a smash,
indeed. The best he could do was to put a brave face on it and say
nothing, or else wave it off with an indifferent motion of the hand.
One thing was sure—he would prevent further comment. He returned to the
house calmer, his self-poise restored, but he was eager for Monday to
come in order that he might get in touch with his lawyer, Mr. Watson.
But when he did see Mr. Watson it was soon agreed between the two men
that it would be foolish to take any legal action. It was the part of
wisdom to let the matter drop. “But I won’t stand for anything more,”
concluded Lester.

“I’ll attend to that,” said the lawyer, consolingly.

Lester got up. “It’s amazing—this damned country of ours!” he
exclaimed. “A man with a little money hasn’t any more privacy than a
public monument.”

“A man with a little money,” said Mr. Watson, “is just like a cat with
a bell around its neck. Every rat knows exactly where it is and what it
is doing.”

“That’s an apt simile,” assented Lester, bitterly.

Jennie knew nothing of this newspaper story for several days. Lester
felt that he could not talk it over, and Gerhardt never read the wicked
Sunday newspapers. Finally, one of Jennie’s neighborhood friends, less
tactful than the others, called her attention to the fact of its
appearance by announcing that she had seen it. Jennie did not
understand at first. “A story about me?” she exclaimed.

“You and Mr. Kane, yes,” replied her guest. “Your love romance.”

Jennie colored swiftly. “Why, I hadn’t seen it,” she said. “Are you
sure it was about us?”

“Why, of course,” laughed Mrs. Stendahl. “How could I be mistaken? I
have the paper over at the house. I’ll send Marie over with it when I
get back. You look very sweet in your picture.”

Jennie winced.

“I wish you would,” she said, weakly.

She was wondering where they had secured her picture, what the article
said. Above all, she was dismayed to think of its effect upon Lester.
Had he seen the article? Why had he not spoken to her about it?

The neighbor’s daughter brought over the paper, and Jennie’s heart
stood still as she glanced at the title-page. There it all
was—uncompromising and direct. How dreadfully conspicuous the
headline—“This Millionaire Fell in Love With This Lady’s Maid,” which
ran between a picture of Lester on the left and Jennie on the right.
There was an additional caption which explained how Lester, son of the
famous carriage family of Cincinnati, had sacrificed great social
opportunity and distinction to marry his heart’s desire. Below were
scattered a number of other pictures—Lester addressing Jennie in the
mansion of Mrs. Bracebridge, Lester standing with her before an
imposing and conventional-looking parson, Lester driving with her in a
handsome victoria, Jennie standing beside the window of an imposing
mansion (the fact that it was a mansion being indicated by most
sumptuous-looking hangings) and gazing out on a very modest
working-man’s cottage pictured in the distance. Jennie felt as though
she must die for very shame. She did not so much mind what it meant to
her, but Lester, Lester, how must he feel? And his family? Now they
would have another club with which to strike him and her. She tried to
keep calm about it, to exert emotional control, but again the tears
would rise, only this time they were tears of opposition to defeat. She
did not want to be hounded this way. She wanted to be let alone. She
was trying to do right now. Why couldn’t the world help her, instead of
seeking to push her down?




CHAPTER XLII


The fact that Lester had seen this page was made perfectly clear to
Jennie that evening, for he brought it home himself, having concluded,
after mature deliberation, that he ought to. He had told her once that
there was to be no concealment between them, and this thing, coming so
brutally to disturb their peace, was nevertheless a case in point. He
had decided to tell her not to think anything of it—that it did not
make much difference, though to him it made all the difference in the
world. The effect of this chill history could never be undone. The
wise—and they included all his social world and many who were not of
it—could see just how he had been living. The article which accompanied
the pictures told how he had followed Jennie from Cleveland to Chicago,
how she had been coy and distant and that he had to court her a long
time to win her consent. This was to explain their living together on
the North Side. Lester realized that this was an asinine attempt to
sugar-coat the true story and it made him angry. Still he preferred to
have it that way rather than in some more brutal vein. He took the
paper out of his pocket when he arrived at the house, spreading it on
the library table. Jennie, who was close by, watched him, for she knew
what was coming.

“Here’s something that will interest you, Jennie,” he said dryly,
pointing to the array of text and pictures.

“I’ve already seen it, Lester,” she said wearily. “Mrs. Stendahl showed
it to me this afternoon. I was wondering whether you had.”

“Rather high-flown description of my attitude, isn’t it? I didn’t know
I was such an ardent Romeo.”

“I’m awfully sorry, Lester,” said Jennie, reading behind the dry face
of humor the serious import of this affair to him. She had long since
learned that Lester did not express his real feeling, his big ills in
words. He was inclined to jest and make light of the inevitable, the
inexorable. This light comment merely meant “this matter cannot be
helped, so we will make the best of it.”

“Oh, don’t feel badly about it,” he went on. “It isn’t anything which
can be adjusted now. They probably meant well enough. We just happen to
be in the limelight.”

“I understand,” said Jennie, coming over to him. “I’m sorry, though,
anyway.” Dinner was announced a moment later and the incident was
closed.

But Lester could not dismiss the thought that matters were getting in a
bad way. His father had pointed it out to him rather plainly at the
last interview, and now this newspaper notoriety had capped the climax.
He might as well abandon his pretension to intimacy with his old world.
It would have none of him, or at least the more conservative part of it
would not. There were a few bachelors, a few gay married men, some
sophisticated women, single and married, who saw through it all and
liked him just the same, but they did not make society. He was
virtually an outcast, and nothing could save him but to reform his
ways; in other words, he must give up Jennie once and for all.

But he did not want to do this. The thought was painful to
him—objectionable in every way. Jennie was growing in mental acumen.
She was beginning to see things quite as clearly as he did. She was not
a cheap, ambitious, climbing creature. She was a big woman and a good
one. It would be a shame to throw her down, and besides she was
good-looking. He was forty-six and she was twenty-nine; and she looked
twenty-four or five. It is an exceptional thing to find beauty, youth,
compatibility, intelligence, your own point of view—softened and
charmingly emotionalized—in another. He had made his bed, as his father
had said. He had better lie on it.

It was only a little while after this disagreeable newspaper incident
that Lester had word that his father was quite ill and failing; it
might be necessary for him to go to Cincinnati at any moment. Pressure
of work was holding him pretty close when the news came that his father
was dead. Lester, of course, was greatly shocked and grieved, and he
returned to Cincinnati in a retrospective and sorrowful mood. His
father had been a great character to him—a fine and interesting old
gentleman entirely aside from his relationship to him as his son. He
remembered him now dandling him upon his knee as a child, telling him
stories of his early life in Ireland, and of his subsequent commercial
struggle when he was a little older, impressing the maxims of his
business career and his commercial wisdom on him as he grew to manhood.
Old Archibald had been radically honest. It was to him that Lester owed
his instincts for plain speech and direct statement of fact. “Never
lie,” was Archibald’s constant, reiterated statement. “Never try to
make a thing look different from what it is to you. It’s the breath of
life—truth—it’s the basis of real worth, while commercial success—it
will make a notable character of any one who will stick to it.” Lester
believed this. He admired his father intensely for his rigid insistence
on truth, and now that he was really gone he felt sorry. He wished he
might have been spared to be reconciled to him. He half fancied that
old Archibald would have liked Jennie if he had known her. He did not
imagine that he would ever have had the opportunity to straighten
things out, although he still felt that Archibald would have liked her.

When he reached Cincinnati it was snowing, a windy, blustery snow. The
flakes were coming down thick and fast. The traffic of the city had a
muffled sound. When he stepped down from the train he was met by Amy,
who was glad to see him in spite of all their past differences. Of all
the girls she was the most tolerant. Lester put his arms about her, and
kissed her.

“It seems like old times to see you, Amy,” he said, “your coming to
meet me this way. How’s the family? I suppose they’re all here. Well,
poor father, his time had to come. Still, he lived to see everything
that he wanted to see. I guess he was pretty well satisfied with the
outcome of his efforts.”

“Yes,” replied Amy, “and since mother died he was very lonely.”

They rode up to the house in kindly good feeling, chatting of old times
and places. All the members of the immediate family, and the various
relatives, were gathered in the old family mansion. Lester exchanged
the customary condolences with the others, realizing all the while that
his father had lived long enough. He had had a successful life, and had
fallen like a ripe apple from the tree. Lester looked at him where he
lay in the great parlor, in his black coffin, and a feeling of the
old-time affection swept over him. He smiled at the clean-cut,
determined, conscientious face.

“The old gentleman was a big man all the way through,” he said to
Robert, who was present. “We won’t find a better figure of a man soon.”

“We will not,” said his brother, solemnly.

After the funeral it was decided to read the will at once. Louise’s
husband was anxious to return to Buffalo; Lester was compelled to be in
Chicago. A conference of the various members of the family was called
for the second day after the funeral, to be held at the offices of
Messrs. Knight, Keatley & O’Brien, counselors of the late manufacturer.

As Lester rode to the meeting he had the feeling that his father had
not acted in any way prejudicial to his interests. It had not been so
very long since they had had their last conversation; he had been
taking his time to think about things, and his father had given him
time. He always felt that he had stood well with the old gentleman,
except for his alliance with Jennie. His business judgment had been
valuable to the company. Why should there be any discrimination against
him? He really did not think it possible.

When they reached the offices of the law firm, Mr. O’Brien, a short,
fussy, albeit comfortable-looking little person, greeted all the
members of the family and the various heirs and assigns with a hearty
handshake. He had been personal counsel to Archibald Kane for twenty
years. He knew his whims and idiosyncrasies, and considered himself
very much in the light of a father confessor. He liked all the
children, Lester especially.

“Now I believe we are all here,” he said, finally, extracting a pair of
large horn reading-glasses from his coat pocket and looking sagely
about. “Very well. We might as well proceed to business. I will just
read the will without any preliminary remarks.”

He turned to his desk, picked up a paper lying upon it, cleared his
throat, and began.

It was a peculiar document, in some respects, for it began with all the
minor bequests; first, small sums to old employees, servants, and
friends. It then took up a few institutional bequests, and finally came
to the immediate family, beginning with the girls. Imogene, as a
faithful and loving daughter was left a sixth of the stock of the
carriage company and a fourth of the remaining properties of the
deceased, which roughly aggregated (the estate—not her share) about
eight hundred thousand dollars. Amy and Louise were provided for in
exactly the same proportion. The grandchildren were given certain
little bonuses for good conduct, when they should come of age. Then it
took up the cases of Robert and Lester.

“Owing to certain complications which have arisen in the affairs of my
son Lester,” it began, “I deem it my duty to make certain conditions
which shall govern the distribution of the remainder of my property, to
wit: One-fourth of the stock of the Kane Manufacturing Company and
one-fourth of the remainder of my various properties, real, personal,
moneys, stocks and bonds, to go to my beloved son Robert, in
recognition of the faithful performance of his duty, and one-fourth of
the stock of the Kane Manufacturing Company and the remaining fourth of
my various properties, real, personal, moneys, stocks and bonds, to be
held in trust by him for the benefit of his brother Lester, until such
time as such conditions as may hereinafter be set forth shall have been
complied with. And it is my wish and desire that my children shall
concur in his direction of the Kane Manufacturing Company, and of such
other interests as are entrusted to him, until such time as he shall
voluntarily relinquish such control, or shall indicate another
arrangement which shall be better.”

Lester swore under his breath. His cheeks changed color, but he did not
move. He was not inclined to make a show. It appeared that he was not
even mentioned separately.

The conditions “hereinafter set forth” dealt very fully with his case,
however, though they were not read aloud to the family at the time, Mr.
O’Brien stating that this was in accordance with their father’s wish.
Lester learned immediately afterward that he was to have ten thousand a
year for three years, during which time he had the choice of doing
either one of two things: First, he was to leave Jennie, if he had not
already married her, and so bring his life into moral conformity with
the wishes of his father. In this event Lester’s share of the estate
was to be immediately turned over to him. Secondly, he might elect to
marry Jennie, if he had not already done so, in which case the ten
thousand a year, specifically set aside to him for three years, was to
be continued for life—but for his life only. Jennie was not to have
anything of it after his death. The ten thousand in question
represented the annual interest on two hundred shares of L. S. and M.
S. stock which were also to be held in trust until his decision had
been reached and their final disposition effected. If Lester refused to
marry Jennie, or to leave her, he was to have nothing at all after the
three years were up. At Lester’s death the stock on which his interest
was drawn was to be divided pro rata among the surviving members of the
family. If any heir or assign contested the will, his or her share was
thereby forfeited entirely.

It was astonishing to Lester to see how thoroughly his father had taken
his case into consideration. He half suspected, on reading these
conditions, that his brother Robert had had something to do with the
framing of them, but of course he could not be sure. Robert had not
given any direct evidence of enmity.

“Who drew this will?” he demanded of O’Brien, a little later.

“Well, we all had a hand in it,” replied O’Brien, a little
shamefacedly. “It was a very difficult document to draw up. You know,
Mr. Kane, there was no budging your father. He was adamant. He has come
very near defeating his own wishes in some of these clauses. Of course,
you know, we had nothing to do with its spirit. That was between you
and him. I hated very much to have to do it.”

“Oh, I understand all that!” said Lester. “Don’t let that worry you.”

Mr. O’Brien was very grateful.

During the reading of the will Lester had sat as stolid as an ox.

He got up after a time, as did the others, assuming an air of
nonchalance. Robert, Amy, Louise and Imogene all felt shocked, but not
exactly, not unqualifiedly regretful. Certainly Lester had acted very
badly. He had given his father great provocation.

“I think the old gentleman has been a little rough in this,” said
Robert, who had been sitting next him. “I certainly did not expect him
to go as far as that. So far as I am concerned some other arrangement
would have been satisfactory.”

Lester smiled grimly. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

Imogene, Amy, and Louise were anxious to be consolatory, but they did
not know what to say. Lester had brought it all on himself. “I don’t
think papa acted quite right, Lester,” ventured Amy, but Lester waved
her away almost gruffly.

“I can stand it,” he said.

He figured out, as he stood there, what his income would be in case he
refused to comply with his father’s wishes. Two hundred shares of L. S.
and M. S., in open market, were worth a little over one thousand each.
They yielded from five to six per cent., sometimes more, sometimes
less. At this rate he would have ten thousand a year, not more.

The family gathering broke up, each going his way, and Lester returned
to his sister’s house. He wanted to get out of the city quickly, gave
business as an excuse to avoid lunching with any one, and caught the
earliest train back to Chicago. As he rode he meditated.

So this was how much his father really cared for him! Could it really
be so? He, Lester Kane, ten thousand a year, for only three years, and
then longer only on condition that he married Jennie! “Ten thousand a
year,” he thought, “and that for three years! Good Lord! Any smart
clerk can earn that. To think he should have done that to me!”




CHAPTER XLIII


This attempt at coercion was the one thing which would definitely set
Lester in opposition to his family, at least for the time being. He had
realized clearly enough of late that he had made a big mistake; first
in not having married Jennie, thus avoiding scandal; and in the second
place in not having accepted her proposition at the time when she
wanted to leave him; There were no two ways about it, he had made a
mess of this business. He could not afford to lose his fortune
entirely. He did not have enough money of his own. Jennie was unhappy,
he could see that. Why shouldn’t she be? He was unhappy. Did he want to
accept the shabby ten thousand a year, even if he were willing to marry
her? Finally, did he want to lose Jennie, to have her go out of his
life once and for all? He could not make up his mind; the problem was
too complicated.

When Lester returned to his home, after the funeral, Jennie saw at once
that something was amiss with him, something beyond a son’s natural
grief for his father’s death was weighing upon his spirits. What was
it, she wondered. She tried to draw near to him sympathetically, but
his wounded spirit could not be healed so easily. When hurt in his
pride he was savage and sullen—he could have struck any man who
irritated him. She watched him interestedly, wishing to do something
for him, but he would not give her his confidence. He grieved, and she
could only grieve with him.

Days passed, and now the financial situation which had been created by
his father’s death came up for careful consideration. The factory
management had to be reorganized. Robert would have to be made
president, as his father wished. Lester’s own relationship to the
business would have to come up for adjudication. Unless he changed his
mind about Jennie, he was not a stockholder. As a matter of fact, he
was not anything. To continue to be secretary and treasurer, it was
necessary that he should own at least one share of the company’s stock.
Would Robert give him any? Would Amy, Louise, or Imogene? Would they
sell him any? Would the other members of the family care to do anything
which would infringe on Robert’s prerogatives under the will? They were
all rather unfriendly to Lester at present, and he realized that he was
facing a ticklish situation. The solution was—to get rid of Jennie. If
he did that he would not need to be begging for stock. If he didn’t, he
was flying in the face of his father’s last will and testament. He
turned the matter over in his mind slowly and deliberately. He could
quite see how things were coming out. He must abandon either Jennie or
his prospects in life. What a dilemma!

Despite Robert’s assertion, that so far as he was concerned another
arrangement would have been satisfactory, he was really very well
pleased with the situation; his dreams were slowly nearing completion.
Robert had long had his plans perfected, not only for a thorough
reorganization of the company proper, but for an extension of the
business in the direction of a combination of carriage companies. If he
could get two or three of the larger organizations in the East and West
to join with him, selling costs could be reduced, over-production would
be avoided, and the general expenses could be materially scaled down.
Through a New York representative, he had been picking up stock in
outside carriage companies for some time and he was almost ready to
act. In the first place he would have himself elected president of the
Kane Company, and since Lester was no longer a factor, he could select
Amy’s husband as vice-president, and possibly some one other than
Lester as secretary and treasurer. Under the conditions of the will,
the stock and other properties set aside temporarily for Lester, in the
hope that he would come to his senses, were to be managed and voted by
Robert. His father had meant, obviously, that he, Robert, should help
him coerce his brother. He did not want to appear mean, but this was
such an easy way. It gave him a righteous duty to perform. Lester must
come to his senses or he must let Robert run the business to suit
himself.

Lester, attending to his branch duties in Chicago, foresaw the drift of
things. He realized now that he was permanently out of the company, a
branch manager at his brother’s sufferance, and the thought irritated
him greatly. Nothing had been said by Robert to indicate that such a
change had taken place—things went on very much as before—but Robert’s
suggestions were now obviously law. Lester was really his brother’s
employee at so much a year. It sickened his soul.

There came a time, after a few weeks, when he felt as if he could not
stand this any longer. Hitherto he had been a free and independent
agent. The approaching annual stockholder’s meeting which hitherto had
been a one-man affair and a formality, his father doing all the voting,
would be now a combination of voters, his brother presiding, his
sisters very likely represented by their husbands, and he not there at
all. It was going to be a great come-down, but as Robert had not said
anything about offering to give or sell him any stock which would
entitle him to sit as a director or hold any official position in the
company, he decided to write and resign. That would bring matters to a
crisis. It would show his brother that he felt no desire to be under
obligations to him in any way or to retain anything which was not
his—and gladly so—by right of ability and the desire of those with whom
he was associated. If he wanted to move back into the company by
deserting Jennie he would come in a very different capacity from that
of branch manager. He dictated a simple, straight-forward business
letter, saying:

“DEAR ROBERT, I know the time is drawing near when the company must be
reorganized under your direction. Not having any stock, I am not
entitled to sit as a director, or to hold the joint position of
secretary and treasurer. I want you to accept this letter as formal
notice of my resignation from both positions, and I want to have your
directors consider what disposition should be made of this position and
my services. I am not anxious to retain the branch-managership as a
branch-managership merely; at the same time I do not want to do
anything which will embarrass you in your plans for the future. You see
by this that I am not ready to accept the proposition laid down in
father’s will—at least, not at present. I would like a definite
understanding of how you feel in this matter. Will you write and let me
know?


“Yours,
“LESTER.”


Robert, sitting in his office at Cincinnati, considered this letter
gravely. It was like his brother to come down to “brass tacks.” If
Lester were only as cautious as he was straightforward and direct, what
a man he would be! But there was no guile in the man—no subtlety. He
would never do a snaky thing—and Robert knew, in his own soul, that to
succeed greatly one must. “You have to be ruthless at times—you have to
be subtle,” Robert would say to himself. “Why not face the facts to
yourself when you are playing for big stakes?” He would, for one, and
he did.

Robert felt that although Lester was a tremendously decent fellow and
his brother, he wasn’t pliable enough to suit his needs. He was too
outspoken, too inclined to take issue. If Lester yielded to his
father’s wishes, and took possession of his share of the estate, he
would become, necessarily, an active partner in the affairs of the
company. Lester would be a barrier in Robert’s path. Did Robert want
this? Decidedly he did not. He much preferred that Lester should hold
fast to Jennie, for the present at least, and so be quietly shelved by
his own act.

After long consideration, Robert dictated a politic letter. He hadn’t
made up his mind yet just what he wanted to do. He did not know what
his sisters’ husbands would like. A consultation would have to be held.
For his part, he would be very glad to have Lester remain as secretary
and treasurer, if it could be arranged. Perhaps it would be better to
let the matter rest for the present.

Lester cursed. What did Robert mean by beating around the bush? He knew
well enough how it could be arranged. One share of stock would be
enough for Lester to qualify. Robert was afraid of him—that was the
basic fact. Well, he would not retain any branch-managership, depend on
that. He would resign at once. Lester accordingly wrote back, saying
that he had considered all sides, and had decided to look after some
interests of his own, for the time being. If Robert could arrange it,
he would like to have some one come on to Chicago and take over the
branch agency. Thirty days would be time enough. In a few days came a
regretful reply, saying that Robert was awfully sorry, but that if
Lester was determined he did not want to interfere with any plans he
might have in view. Imogene’s husband, Jefferson Midgely, had long
thought he would like to reside in Chicago. He could undertake the work
for the time being.

Lester smiled. Evidently Robert was making the best of a very subtle
situation. Robert knew that he, Lester, could sue and tie things up,
and also that he would be very loath to do so. The newspapers would get
hold of the whole story. This matter of his relationship to Jennie was
in the air, anyhow. He could best solve the problem by leaving her. So
it all came back to that.




CHAPTER XLIV


For a man of Lester’s years—he was now forty-six—to be tossed out in
the world without a definite connection, even though he did have a
present income (including this new ten thousand) of fifteen thousand a
year, was a disturbing and discouraging thing. He realized now that,
unless he made some very fortunate and profitable arrangements in the
near future, his career was virtually at an end. Of course he could
marry Jennie. That would give him the ten thousand for the rest of his
life, but it would also end his chance of getting his legitimate share
of the Kane estate. Again, he might sell out the seventy-five thousand
dollars’ worth of moderate interest-bearing stocks, which now yielded
him about five thousand, and try a practical investment of some
kind—say a rival carriage company. But did he want to jump in, at this
stage of the game, and begin a running fight on his father’s old
organization? Moreover, it would be a hard row to hoe. There was the
keenest rivalry for business as it was, with the Kane Company very much
in the lead. Lester’s only available capital was his seventy-five
thousand dollars. Did he want to begin in a picayune, obscure way? It
took money to get a foothold in the carriage business as things were
now.

The trouble with Lester was that, while blessed with a fine imagination
and considerable insight, he lacked the ruthless, narrow-minded
insistence on his individual superiority which is a necessary element
in almost every great business success. To be a forceful figure in the
business world means, as a rule, that you must be an individual of one
idea, and that idea the God-given one that life has destined you for a
tremendous future in the particular field you have chosen. It means
that one thing, a cake of soap, a new can-opener, a safety razor, or
speed-accelerator, must seize on your imagination with tremendous
force, burn as a raging flame, and make itself the be-all and end-all
of your existence. As a rule, a man needs poverty to help him to this
enthusiasm, and youth. The thing he has discovered, and with which he
is going to busy himself, must be the door to a thousand opportunities
and a thousand joys. Happiness must be beyond or the fire will not burn
as brightly as it might—the urge will not be great enough to make a
great success.

Lester did not possess this indispensable quality of enthusiasm. Life
had already shown him the greater part of its so-called joys. He saw
through the illusions that are so often and so noisily labeled
pleasure. Money, of course, was essential, and he had already had
money—enough to keep him comfortably. Did he want to risk it? He looked
about him thoughtfully. Perhaps he did. Certainly he could not
comfortably contemplate the thought of sitting by and watching other
people work for the rest of his days.

In the end he decided that he would bestir himself and look into
things. He was, as he said to himself, in no hurry; he was not going to
make a mistake. He would first give the trade, the people who were
identified with the manufacture and sale of carriages, time to realize
that he was out of the Kane Company, for the time being, anyhow, and
open to other connections. So he announced that he was leaving the Kane
Company and going to Europe, ostensibly for a rest. He had never been
abroad, and Jennie, too, would enjoy it. Vesta could be left at home
with Gerhardt and a maid, and he and Jennie would travel around a bit,
seeing what Europe had to show. He wanted to visit Venice and
Baden-Baden, and the great watering-places that had been recommended to
him. Cairo and Luxor and the Parthenon had always appealed to his
imagination. After he had had his outing he could come back and
seriously gather up the threads of his intentions.

The spring after his father died, he put his plan into execution. He
had wound up the work of the warerooms and with a pleasant deliberation
had studied out a tour. He made Jennie his confidante, and now, having
gathered together their traveling comforts they took a steamer from New
York to Liverpool. After a few weeks in the British Isles they went to
Egypt. From there they came back, through Greece and Italy, into
Austria and Switzerland, and then later, through France and Paris, to
Germany and Berlin. Lester was diverted by the novelty of the
experience and yet he had an uncomfortable feeling that he was wasting
his time. Great business enterprises were not built by travelers, and
he was not looking for health.

Jennie, on the other hand, was transported by what she saw, and enjoyed
the new life to the full. Before Luxor and Karnak—places which Jennie
had never dreamed existed—she learned of an older civilization,
powerful, complex, complete. Millions of people had lived and died
here, believing in other gods, other forms of government, other
conditions of existence. For the first time in her life Jennie gained a
clear idea of how vast the world is. Now from this point of view—of
decayed Greece, of fallen Rome, of forgotten Egypt, she saw how
pointless are our minor difficulties, our minor beliefs. Her father’s
Lutheranism—it did not seem so significant any more; and the social
economy of Columbus, Ohio—rather pointless, perhaps. Her mother had
worried so of what people—her neighbors—thought, but here were dead
worlds of people, some bad, some good. Lester explained that their
differences in standards of morals were due sometimes to climate,
sometimes to religious beliefs, and sometimes to the rise of peculiar
personalities like Mohammed. Lester liked to point out how small
conventions bulked in this, the larger world, and vaguely she began to
see. Admitting that she had been bad—locally it was important, perhaps,
but in the sum of civilization, in the sum of big forces, what did it
all amount to? They would be dead after a little while, she and Lester
and all these people. Did anything matter except goodness—goodness of
heart? What else was there that was real?




CHAPTER XLV


It was while traveling abroad that Lester came across, first at the
Carlton in London and later at Shepheards in Cairo, the one girl,
before Jennie, whom it might have been said he truly admired—Letty
Pace. He had not seen her for a long time, and she had been Mrs.
Malcolm Gerald for nearly four years, and a charming widow for nearly
two years more. Malcolm Gerald had been a wealthy man, having amassed a
fortune in banking and stock-brokering in Cincinnati, and he had left
Mrs. Malcolm Gerald very well off. She was the mother of one child, a
little girl, who was safely in charge of a nurse and maid at all times,
and she was invariably the picturesque center of a group of admirers
recruited from every capital of the civilized world. Letty Gerald was a
talented woman, beautiful, graceful, artistic, a writer of verse, an
omnivorous reader, a student of art, and a sincere and ardent admirer
of Lester Kane.

In her day she had truly loved him, for she had been a wise observer of
men and affairs, and Lester had always appealed to her as a real man.
He was so sane, she thought, so calm. He was always intolerant of sham,
and she liked him for it. He was inclined to wave aside the petty
little frivolities of common society conversation, and to talk of
simple and homely things. Many and many a time, in years past, they had
deserted a dance to sit out on a balcony somewhere, and talk while
Lester smoked. He had argued philosophy with her, discussed books,
described political and social conditions in other cities—in a word, he
had treated her like a sensible human being, and she had hoped and
hoped and hoped that he would propose to her. More than once she had
looked at his big, solid head with its short growth of hardy brown
hair, and wished that she could stroke it. It was a hard blow to her
when he finally moved away to Chicago; at that time she knew nothing of
Jennie, but she felt instinctively that her chance of winning him was
gone.

Then Malcolm Gerald, always an ardent admirer, proposed for something
like the sixty-fifth time, and she took him. She did not love him, but
she was getting along, and she had to marry some one. He was forty-four
when he married her, and he lived only four years—just long enough to
realize that he had married a charming, tolerant, broad-minded woman.
Then he died of pneumonia and Mrs. Gerald was a rich widow,
sympathetic, attractive, delightful in her knowledge of the world, and
with nothing to do except to live and to spend her money.

She was not inclined to do either indifferently. She had long since had
her ideal of a man established by Lester. These whipper-snappers of
counts, earls, lords, barons, whom she met in one social world and
another (for her friendship and connections had broadened notably with
the years), did not interest her a particle. She was terribly weary of
the superficial veneer of the titled fortune-hunter whom she met
abroad. A good judge of character, a student of men and manners, a
natural reasoner along sociologic and psychologic lines, she saw
through them and through the civilization which they represented. “I
could have been happy in a cottage with a man I once knew out in
Cincinnati,” she told one of her titled women friends who had been an
American before her marriage. “He was the biggest, cleanest, sanest
fellow. If he had proposed to me I would have married him if I had had
to work for a living myself.”

“Was he so poor?” asked her friend.

“Indeed he wasn’t. He was comfortably rich, but that did not make any
difference to me. It was the man I wanted.”

“It would have made a difference in the long run,” said the other.

“You misjudge me,” replied Mrs. Gerald. “I waited for him for a number
of years, and I know.”

Lester had always retained pleasant impressions and kindly memories of
Letty Pace, or Mrs. Gerald, as she was now. He had been fond of her in
a way, very fond. Why hadn’t he married her? He had asked himself that
question time and again. She would have made him an ideal wife, his
father would have been pleased, everybody would have been delighted.
Instead he had drifted and drifted, and then he had met Jennie; and
somehow, after that, he did not want her any more. Now after six years
of separation he met her again. He knew she was married. She was
vaguely aware he had had some sort of an affair—she had heard that he
had subsequently married the woman and was living on the South Side.
She did not know of the loss of his fortune. She ran across him first
in the Carlton one June evening. The windows were open, and the flowers
were blooming everywhere, odorous with that sense of new life in the
air which runs through the world when spring comes back. For the moment
she was a little beside herself. Something choked in her throat; but
she collected herself and extended a graceful arm and hand.

“Why, Lester Kane,” she exclaimed. “How do you do! I am so glad. And
this is Mrs. Kane? Charmed, I’m sure. It seems truly like a breath of
spring to see you again. I hope you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Kane, but I’m
delighted to see your husband. I’m ashamed to say how many years it is,
Lester, since I saw you last! I feel quite old when I think of it. Why,
Lester, think; it’s been all of six or seven years! And I’ve been
married and had a child, and poor Mr. Gerald has died, and oh, dear, I
don’t know what all hasn’t happened to me.”

“You don’t look it,” commented Lester, smiling. He was pleased to see
her again, for they had been good friends. She liked him still—that was
evident, and he truly liked her.

Jennie smiled. She was glad to see this old friend of Lester’s. This
woman, trailing a magnificent yellow lace train over pale,
mother-of-pearl satin, her round, smooth arms bare to the shoulder, her
corsage cut low and a dark red rose blowing at her waist, seemed to her
the ideal of what a woman should be. She liked looking at lovely women
quite as much as Lester; she enjoyed calling his attention to them, and
teasing him, in the mildest way, about their charms. “Wouldn’t you like
to run and talk to her, Lester, instead of to me?” she would ask when
some particularly striking or beautiful woman chanced to attract her
attention. Lester would examine her choice critically, for he had come
to know that her judge of feminine charms was excellent. “Oh, I’m
pretty well off where I am,” he would retort, looking into her eyes;
or, jestingly, “I’m not as young as I used to be, or I’d get in tow of
that.”

“Run on,” was her comment. “I’ll wait for you.”

“What would you do if I really should?”

“Why, Lester, I wouldn’t do anything. You’d come back to me, maybe.”

“Wouldn’t you care?”

“You know I’d care. But if you felt that you wanted to, I wouldn’t try
to stop you. I wouldn’t expect to be all in all to one man, unless he
wanted me to be.”

“Where do you get those ideas, Jennie?” he asked her once, curious to
test the breadth of her philosophy.

“Oh, I don’t know, why?”

“They’re so broad, so good-natured, so charitable. They’re not common,
that’s sure.”

“Why, I don’t think we ought to be selfish, Lester. I don’t know why.
Some women think differently, I know, but a man and a woman ought to
want to live together, or they ought not to—don’t you think? It doesn’t
make so much difference if a man goes off for a little while—just so
long as he doesn’t stay—if he wants to come back at all.”

Lester smiled, but he respected her for the sweetness of her point of
view—he had to.

To-night, when she saw this woman so eager to talk to Lester, she
realized at once that they must have a great deal in common to talk
over; whereupon she did a characteristic thing. “Won’t you excuse me
for a little while?” she asked, smiling. “I left some things uncared
for in our rooms. I’ll be back.”

She went away, remaining in her room as long as she reasonably could,
and Lester and Letty fell to discussing old times in earnest. He
recounted as much of his experiences as he deemed wise, and Letty
brought the history of her life up to date. “Now that you’re safely
married, Lester,” she said daringly, “I’ll confess to you that you were
the one man I always wanted to have propose to me—and you never did.”

“Maybe I never dared,” he said, gazing into her superb black eyes, and
thinking that perhaps she might know that he was not married. He felt
that she had grown more beautiful in every way. She seemed to him now
to be an ideal society figure-perfection itself—gracious, natural,
witty, the type of woman who mixes and mingles well, meeting each
new-comer upon the plane best suited to him or her.

“Yes, you thought! I know what you thought. Your real thought just left
the table.”

“Tut, tut, my dear. Not so fast. You don’t know what I thought.”

“Anyhow, I allow you some credit. She’s charming.”

“Jennie has her good points,” he replied simply.

“And are you happy?”

“Oh, fairly so. Yes, I suppose I’m happy—as happy as any one can be who
sees life as it is. You know I’m not troubled with many illusions.”

“Not any, I think, kind sir, if I know you.”

“Very likely, not any, Letty; but sometimes I wish I had a few. I think
I would be happier.”

“And I, too, Lester. Really, I look on my life as a kind of failure,
you know, in spite of the fact that I’m almost as rich as Croesus—not
quite. I think he had some more than I have.”

“What talk from you—you, with your beauty and talent, and money—good
heavens!”

“And what can I do with it? Travel, talk, shoo away silly
fortune-hunters. Oh, dear, sometimes I get so tired!”

Letty looked at Lester. In spite of Jennie, the old feeling came back.
Why should she have been cheated of him? They were as comfortable
together as old married people, or young lovers. Jennie had had no
better claim. She looked at him, and her eyes fairly spoke. He smiled a
little sadly.

“Here comes my wife,” he said. “We’ll have to brace up and talk of
other things. You’ll find her interesting—really.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied, and turned on Jennie a radiant smile.

Jennie felt a faint sense of misgiving. She thought vaguely that this
might be one of Lester’s old flames. This was the kind of woman he
should have chosen—not her. She was suited to his station in life, and
he would have been as happy—perhaps happier. Was he beginning to
realize it? Then she put away the uncomfortable thought; pretty soon
she would be getting jealous, and that would be contemptible.

Mrs. Gerald continued to be most agreeable in her attitude toward the
Kanes. She invited them the next day to join her on a drive through
Rotten Row. There was a dinner later at Claridge’s, and then she was
compelled to keep some engagement which was taking her to Paris. She
bade them both an affectionate farewell, and hoped that they would soon
meet again. She was envious, in a sad way, of Jennie’s good fortune.
Lester had lost none of his charm for her. If anything, he seemed
nicer, more considerate, more wholesome. She wished sincerely that he
were free. And Lester—subconsciously perhaps—was thinking the same
thing.

No doubt because of the fact that she was thinking of it, he had been
led over mentally all of the things which might have happened if he had
married her. They were so congenial now, philosophically, artistically,
practically. There was a natural flow of conversation between them all
the time, like two old comrades among men. She knew everybody in his
social sphere, which was equally hers, but Jennie did not. They could
talk of certain subtle characteristics of life in a way which was not
possible between him and Jennie, for the latter did not have the
vocabulary. Her ideas did not flow as fast as those of Mrs. Gerald.
Jennie had actually the deeper, more comprehensive, sympathetic, and
emotional note in her nature, but she could not show it in light
conversation. Actually she was living the thing she was, and that was
perhaps the thing which drew Lester to her. Just now, and often in
situations of this kind, she seemed at a disadvantage, and she was. It
seemed to Lester for the time being as if Mrs. Gerald would perhaps
have been a better choice after all—certainly as good, and he would not
now have this distressing thought as to his future.

They did not see Mrs. Gerald again until they reached Cairo. In the
gardens about the hotel they suddenly encountered her, or rather Lester
did, for he was alone at the time, strolling and smoking.

“Well, this is good luck,” he exclaimed. “Where do you come from?”

“Madrid, if you please. I didn’t know I was coming until last Thursday.
The Ellicotts are here. I came over with them. You know I wondered
where you might be. Then I remembered that you said you were going to
Egypt. Where is your wife?”

“In her bath, I fancy, at this moment. This warm weather makes Jennie
take to water. I was thinking of a plunge myself.”

They strolled about for a time. Letty was in light blue silk, with a
blue and white parasol held daintily over her shoulder, and looked very
pretty. “Oh, dear!” she suddenly ejaculated, “I wonder sometimes what I
am to do with myself. I can’t loaf always this way. I think I’ll go
back to the States to live.”

“Why don’t you?”

“What good would it do me? I don’t want to get married. I haven’t any
one to marry now—that I want.” She glanced at Lester significantly,
then looked away.

“Oh, you’ll find some one eventually,” he said, somewhat awkwardly.
“You can’t escape for long—not with your looks and money.”

“Oh, Lester, hush!”

“All right! Have it otherwise, if you want. I’m telling you.”

“Do you still dance?” she inquired lightly, thinking of a ball which
was to be given at the hotel that evening. He had danced so well a few
years before.

“Do I look it?”

“Now, Lester, you don’t mean to say that you have gone and abandoned
that last charming art. I still love to dance. Doesn’t Mrs. Kane?”

“No, she doesn’t care to. At least she hasn’t taken it up. Come to
think of it, I suppose that is my fault. I haven’t thought of dancing
in some time.”

It occurred to him that he hadn’t been going to functions of any kind
much for some time. The opposition his entanglement had generated had
put a stop to that.

“Come and dance with me to-night. Your wife won’t object. It’s a
splendid floor. I saw it this morning.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” replied Lester. “I’m not much in
practice. Dancing will probably go hard with me at my time of life.”

“Oh, hush, Lester,” replied Mrs. Gerald. “You make me feel old. Don’t
talk so sedately. Mercy alive, you’d think you were an old man!”

“I am in experience, my dear.”

“Pshaw, that simply makes us more attractive,” replied his old flame.




CHAPTER XLVI


That night after dinner the music was already sounding in the ball-room
of the great hotel adjacent to the palm-gardens when Mrs. Gerald found
Lester smoking on one of the verandas with Jennie by his side. The
latter was in white satin and white slippers, her hair lying a heavy,
enticing mass about her forehead and ears. Lester was brooding over the
history of Egypt, its successive tides or waves of rather weak-bodied
people; the thin, narrow strip of soil along either side of the Nile
that had given these successive waves of population sustenance; the
wonder of heat and tropic life, and this hotel with its modern
conveniences and fashionable crowd set down among ancient, soul-weary,
almost despairing conditions. He and Jennie had looked this morning on
the pyramids. They had taken a trolley to the Sphinx! They had watched
swarms of ragged, half-clad, curiously costumed men and boys moving
through narrow, smelly, albeit brightly colored, lanes and alleys.

“It all seems such a mess to me,” Jennie had said at one place. “They
are so dirty and oily. I like it, but somehow they seem tangled up,
like a lot of worms.”

Lester chuckled, “You’re almost right. But climate does it. Heat. The
tropics. Life is always mushy and sensual under these conditions. They
can’t help it.”

“Oh, I know that. I don’t blame them. They’re just queer.”

To-night he was brooding over this, the moon shining down into the
grounds with an exuberant, sensuous luster.

“Well, at last I’ve found you!” Mrs. Gerald exclaimed. “I couldn’t get
down to dinner, after all. Our party was so late getting back. I’ve
made your husband agree to dance with me, Mrs. Kane,” she went on
smilingly. She, like Lester and Jennie, was under the sensuous
influence of the warmth, the spring, the moonlight. There were rich
odors abroad, floating subtly from groves and gardens; from the remote
distance camel-bells were sounding and exotic cries, _“Ayah!”_ and
_“oosh! oosh!”_ as though a drove of strange animals were being rounded
up and driven through the crowded streets.

“You’re welcome to him,” replied Jennie pleasantly. “He ought to dance.
I sometimes wish I did.”

“You ought to take lessons right away then,” replied Lester genially.
“I’ll do my best to keep you company. I’m not as light on my feet as I
was once, but I guess I can get around.”

“Oh, I don’t want to dance that badly,” smiled Jennie. “But you two go
on, I’m going up-stairs in a little while, anyway.”

“Why don’t you come sit in the ball-room? I can’t do more than a few
rounds. Then we can watch the others,” said Lester rising.

“No. I think I’ll stay here. It’s so pleasant. You go. Take him, Mrs.
Gerald.”

Lester and Letty strolled away. They made a striking pair—Mrs. Gerald
in dark wine-colored silk, covered with glistening black beads, her
shapely arms and neck bare, and a flashing diamond of great size set
just above her forehead in her dark hair. Her lips were red, and she
had an engaging smile, showing an even row of white teeth between wide,
full, friendly lips. Lester’s strong, vigorous figure was well set off
by his evening clothes, he looked distinguished.

“That is the woman he should have married,” said Jennie to herself as
he disappeared. She fell into a reverie, going over the steps of her
past life. Sometimes it seemed to her now as if she had been living in
a dream. At other times she felt as though she were in that dream yet.
Life sounded in her ears much as this night did. She heard its cries.
She knew its large-mass features. But back of it were subtleties that
shaded and changed one into the other like the shifting of dreams. Why
had she been so attractive to men? Why had Lester been so eager to
follow her? Could she have prevented him? She thought of her life in
Columbus, when she carried coal; to-night she was in Egypt, at this
great hotel, the chatelaine of a suite of rooms, surrounded by every
luxury, Lester still devoted to her. He had endured so many things for
her! Why? Was she so wonderful? Brander had said so. Lester had told
her so. Still she felt humble, out of place, holding handfuls of jewels
that did not belong to her. Again she experienced that peculiar feeling
which had come over her the first time she went to New York with
Lester—namely, that this fairy existence could not endure. Her life was
fated. Something would happen. She would go back to simple things, to a
side street, a poor cottage, to old clothes.

And then as she thought of her home in Chicago, and the attitude of his
friends, she knew it must be so. She would never be received, even if
he married her. And she could understand why. She could look into the
charming, smiling face of this woman who was now with Lester, and see
that she considered her very nice, perhaps, but not of Lester’s class.
She was saying to herself now no doubt as she danced with Lester that
he needed some one like her. He needed some one who had been raised in
the atmosphere of the things to which he had been accustomed. He
couldn’t very well expect to find in her, Jennie, the familiarity with,
the appreciation of the niceties to, which he had always been
accustomed. She understood what they were. Her mind had awakened
rapidly to details of furniture, clothing, arrangement, decorations,
manner, forms, customs, but—she was not to the manner born.

If she went away Lester would return to his old world, the world of the
attractive, well-bred, clever woman who now hung upon his arm. The
tears came into Jennie’s eyes; she wished, for the moment, that she
might die. It would be better so. Meanwhile Lester was dancing with
Mrs. Gerald, or sitting out between the waltzes talking over old times,
old places, and old friends. As he looked at Letty he marveled at her
youth and beauty. She was more developed than formerly, but still as
slender and shapely as Diana. She had strength, too, in this smooth
body of hers, and her black eyes were liquid and lusterful.

“I swear, Letty,” he said impulsively, “you’re really more beautiful
than ever. You’re exquisite. You’ve grown younger instead of older.”

“You think so?” she smiled, looking up into his face.

“You know I do, or I wouldn’t say so. I’m not much on philandering.”

“Oh, Lester, you bear, can’t you allow a woman just a little coyness?
Don’t you know we all love to sip our praise, and not be compelled to
swallow it in one great mouthful?”

“What’s the point?” he asked. “What did I say?”

“Oh, nothing. You’re such a bear. You’re such a big, determined,
straightforward boy. But never mind. I like you. That’s enough, isn’t
it?”

“It surely is,” he said.

They strolled into the garden as the music ceased, and he squeezed her
arm softly. He couldn’t help it; she made him feel as if he owned her.
She wanted him to feel that way. She said to herself, as they sat
looking at the lanterns in the gardens, that if ever he were free, and
would come to her, she would take him. She was almost ready to take him
anyhow—only he probably wouldn’t. He was so straight-laced, so
considerate. He wouldn’t, like so many other men she knew, do a mean
thing. He couldn’t. Finally Lester rose and excused himself. He and
Jennie were going farther up the Nile in the morning—toward Karnak and
Thebes and the water-washed temples at Phylæ. They would have to start
at an unearthly early hour, and he must get to bed.

“When are you going home?” asked Mrs. Gerald, ruefully.

“In September.”

“Have you engaged your passage?”

“Yes; we sail from Hamburg on the ninth—the _Fulda_.”

“I may be going back in the fall,” laughed Letty. “Don’t be surprised
if I crowd in on the same boat with you. I’m very unsettled in my
mind.”

“Come along, for goodness sake,” replied Lester. “I hope you do....
I’ll see you to-morrow before we leave.” He paused, and she looked at
him wistfully.

“Cheer up,” he said, taking her hand. “You never can tell what life
will do. We sometimes find ourselves right when we thought we were all
wrong.”

He was thinking that she was sorry to lose him, and he was sorry that
she was not in a position to have what she wanted. As for himself, he
was saying that here was one solution that probably he would never
accept; yet it was a solution. Why had he not seen this years before?

“And yet she wasn’t as beautiful then as she is now, nor as wise, nor
as wealthy.” Maybe! Maybe! But he couldn’t be unfaithful to Jennie nor
wish her any bad luck. She had had enough without his willing, and had
borne it bravely.




CHAPTER XLVII


The trip home did bring another week with Mrs. Gerald, for after mature
consideration she had decided to venture to America for a while.
Chicago and Cincinnati were her destinations, and she hoped to see more
of Lester. Her presence was a good deal of a surprise to Jennie, and it
started her thinking again. She could see what the point was. If she
were out of the way Mrs. Gerald would marry Lester; that was certain.
As it was—well, the question was a complicated one. Letty was Lester’s
natural mate, so far as birth, breeding, and position went. And yet
Jennie felt instinctively that, on the large human side, Lester
preferred her. Perhaps time would solve the problem; in the mean time
the little party of three continued to remain excellent friends. When
they reached Chicago Mrs. Gerald went her way, and Jennie and Lester
took up the customary thread of their existence.

On his return from Europe Lester set to work in earnest to find a
business opening. None of the big companies made him any overtures,
principally because he was considered a strong man who was looking for
a control in anything he touched. The nature of his altered fortunes
had not been made public. All the little companies that he investigated
were having a hand-to-mouth existence, or manufacturing a product which
was not satisfactory to him. He did find one company in a small town in
northern Indiana which looked as though it might have a future. It was
controlled by a practical builder of wagons and carriages—such as
Lester’s father had been in his day—who, however, was not a good
business man. He was making some small money on an investment of
fifteen thousand dollars and a plant worth, say, twenty-five thousand.
Lester felt that something could be done here if proper methods were
pursued and business acumen exercised. It would be slow work. There
would never be a great fortune in it. Not in his lifetime. He was
thinking of making an offer to the small manufacturer when the first
rumors of a carriage trust reached him.

Robert had gone ahead rapidly with his scheme for reorganizing the
carriage trade. He showed his competitors how much greater profits
could be made through consolidation than through a mutually destructive
rivalry. So convincing were his arguments that one by one the big
carriage manufacturing companies fell into line. Within a few months
the deal had been pushed through, and Robert found himself president of
the United Carriage and Wagon Manufacturers’ Association, with a
capital stock of ten million dollars, and with assets aggregating
nearly three-fourths of that sum at a forced sale. He was a happy man.

While all this was going forward Lester was completely in the dark. His
trip to Europe prevented him from seeing three or four minor notices in
the newspapers of some of the efforts that were being made to unite the
various carriage and wagon manufactories. He returned to Chicago to
learn that Jefferson Midgely, Imogene’s husband, was still in full
charge of the branch and living in Evanston, but because of his quarrel
with his family he was in no position to get the news direct. Accident
brought it fast enough, however, and that rather irritatingly.

The individual who conveyed this information was none other than Mr.
Henry Bracebridge, of Cleveland, into whom he ran at the Union Club one
evening after he had been in the city a month.

“I hear you’re out of the old company,” Bracebridge remarked, smiling
blandly.

“Yes,” said Lester, “I’m out.”

“What are you up to now?”

“Oh, I have a deal of my own under consideration, I’m thinking
something of handling an independent concern.”

“Surely you won’t run counter to your brother? He has a pretty good
thing in that combination of his.”

“Combination! I hadn’t heard of it,” said Lester. “I’ve just got back
from Europe.”

“Well, you want to wake up, Lester,” replied Bracebridge. “He’s got the
biggest thing in your line. I thought you knew all about it. The
Lyman-Winthrop Company, the Myer-Brooks Company, the Woods Company—in
fact, five or six of the big companies are all in. Your brother was
elected president of the new concern. I dare say he cleaned up a couple
of millions out of the deal.”

Lester stared. His glance hardened a little.

“Well, that’s fine for Robert. I’m glad of it.”

Bracebridge could see that he had given him a vital stab.

“Well, so long, old man,” he exclaimed. “When you’re in Cleveland look
us up. You know how fond my wife is of you.”

“I know,” replied Lester. “By-by.”

He strolled away to the smoking-room, but the news took all the zest
out of his private venture. Where would he be with a shabby little
wagon company and his brother president of a carriage trust? Good
heavens! Robert could put him out of business in a year. Why, he
himself had dreamed of such a combination as this. Now his brother had
done it.

It is one thing to have youth, courage, and a fighting spirit to meet
the blows with which fortune often afflicts the talented. It is quite
another to see middle age coming on, your principal fortune possibly
gone, and avenue after avenue of opportunity being sealed to you on
various sides. Jennie’s obvious social insufficiency, the quality of
newspaper reputation which had now become attached to her, his father’s
opposition and death, the loss of his fortune, the loss of his
connection with the company, his brother’s attitude, this trust, all
combined in a way to dishearten and discourage him. He tried to keep a
brave face—and he had succeeded thus far, he thought, admirably, but
this last blow appeared for the time being a little too much. He went
home, the same evening that he heard the news, sorely disheartened.
Jennie saw it. She realized it, as a matter of fact, all during the
evening that he was away. She felt blue and despondent herself. When he
came home she saw what it was—something had happened to him. Her first
impulse was to say, “What is the matter, Lester?” but her next and
sounder one was to ignore it until he was ready to speak, if ever. She
tried not to let him see that she saw, coming as near as she might
affectionately without disturbing him.

“Vesta is so delighted with herself to-day,” she volunteered by way of
diversion. “She got such nice marks in school.”

“That’s good,” he replied solemnly.

“And she dances beautifully these days. She showed me some of her new
dances to-night. You haven’t any idea how sweet she looks.”

“I’m glad of it,” he grumbled. “I always wanted her to be perfect in
that. It’s time she was going into some good girls’ school, I think.”

“And papa gets in such a rage. I have to laugh. She teases him about
it—the little imp. She offered to teach him to dance to-night. If he
didn’t love her so he’d box her ears.”

“I can see that,” said Lester, smiling. “Him dancing! That’s pretty
good!”

“She’s not the least bit disturbed by his storming, either.”

“Good for her,” said Lester. He was very fond of Vesta, who was now
quite a girl.

So Jennie tripped on until his mood was modified a little, and then
some inkling of what had happened came out. It was when they were
retiring for the night. “Robert’s formulated a pretty big thing in a
financial way since we’ve been away,” he volunteered.

“What is it?” asked Jennie, all ears.

“Oh, he’s gotten up a carriage trust. It’s something which will take in
every manufactory of any importance in the country. Bracebridge was
telling me that Robert was made president, and that they have nearly
eight millions in capital.”

“You don’t say!” replied Jennie. “Well, then you won’t want to do much
with your new company, will you?”

“No; there’s nothing in that, just now,” he said. “Later on I fancy it
may be all right. I’ll wait and see how this thing comes out. You never
can tell what a trust like that will do.”

Jennie was intensely sorry. She had never heard Lester complain before.
It was a new note. She wished sincerely that she might do something to
comfort him, but she knew that her efforts were useless. “Oh, well,”
she said, “there are so many interesting things in this world. If I
were you I wouldn’t be in a hurry to do anything, Lester. You have so
much time.”

She didn’t trust herself to say anything more, and he felt that it was
useless to worry. Why should he? After all, he had an ample income that
was absolutely secure for two years yet. He could have more if he
wanted it. Only his brother was moving so dazzlingly onward, while he
was standing still—perhaps “drifting” would be the better word. It did
seem a pity; worst of all, he was beginning to feel a little uncertain
of himself.




CHAPTER XLVIII


Lester had been doing some pretty hard thinking, but so far he had been
unable to formulate any feasible plan for his re-entrance into active
life. The successful organization of Robert’s carriage trade trust had
knocked in the head any further thought on his part of taking an
interest in the small Indiana wagon manufactory. He could not be
expected to sink his sense of pride and place, and enter a petty
campaign for business success with a man who was so obviously his
financial superior. He had looked up the details of the combination,
and he found that Bracebridge had barely indicated how wonderfully
complete it was. There were millions in the combine. It would have
every little manufacturer by the throat. Should he begin now in a small
way and “pike along” in the shadow of his giant brother? He couldn’t
see it. It was too ignominious. He would be running around the country
trying to fight a new trust, with his own brother as his tolerant rival
and his own rightful capital arrayed against him. It couldn’t be done.
Better sit still for the time being. Something else might show up. If
not—well, he had his independent income and the right to come back into
the Kane Company if he wished. Did he wish? The question was always
with him.

It was while Lester was in this mood, drifting, that he received a
visit from Samuel E. Ross, a real estate dealer, whose great, wooden
signs might be seen everywhere on the windy stretches of prairie about
the city. Lester had seen Ross once or twice at the Union Club, where
he had been pointed out as a daring and successful real estate
speculator, and he had noticed his rather conspicuous offices at La
Salle and Washington streets. Ross was a magnetic-looking person of
about fifty years of age, tall, black-bearded, black-eyed, an arched,
wide-nostriled nose, and hair that curled naturally, almost
electrically. Lester was impressed with his lithe, cat-like figure, and
his long, thin, impressive white hands.

Mr. Ross had a real estate proposition to lay before Mr. Kane. Of
course Mr. Kane knew who he was. And Mr. Ross admitted fully that he
knew all about Mr. Kane. Recently, in conjunction with Mr. Norman Yale,
of the wholesale grocery firm of Yale, Simpson & Rice, he had developed
“Yalewood.” Mr. Kane knew of that?

Yes, Mr. Kane knew of that.

Only within six weeks the last lots in the Ridgewood section of
“Yalewood” had been closed out at a total profit of forty-two per cent.
He went over a list of other deals in real estate which he had put
through, all well-known properties. He admitted frankly that there were
failures in the business; he had had one or two himself. But the
successes far outnumbered the bad speculations, as every one knew. Now
Lester was no longer connected with the Kane Company. He was probably
looking for a good investment, and Mr. Ross had a proposition to lay
before him. Lester consented to listen, and Mr. Ross blinked his
cat-like eyes and started in.

The idea was that he and Lester should enter into a one-deal
partnership, covering the purchase and development of a forty-acre
tract of land lying between Fifty-fifth, Seventy-first, Halstead
streets, and Ashland Avenue, on the southwest side. There were
indications of a genuine real estate boom there—healthy, natural, and
permanent. The city was about to pave Fifty-fifth Street. There was a
plan to extend the Halstead Street car line far below its present
terminus. The Chicago, Burlington & Quincy, which ran near there, would
be glad to put a passenger station on the property. The initial cost of
the land would be forty thousand dollars which they would share
equally. Grading, paving, lighting, tree planting, surveying would
cost, roughly, an additional twenty-five thousand. There would be
expenses for advertising—say ten per cent, of the total investment for
two years, or perhaps three—a total of nineteen thousand five hundred
or twenty thousand dollars. All told, they would stand to invest
jointly the sum of ninety-five thousand, or possibly one hundred
thousand dollars, of which Lester’s share would be fifty thousand. Then
Mr. Ross began to figure on the profits.

The character of the land, its salability, and the likelihood of a rise
in value could be judged by the property adjacent, the sales that had
been made north of Fifty-fifth Street and east of Halstead. Take, for
instance, the Mortimer plot, at Halstead and Fifty-fifth streets, on
the south-east corner. Here was a piece of land that in 1882 was held
at forty-five dollars an acre. In 1886 it had risen to five hundred
dollars an acre, as attested by its sale to a Mr. John L. Slosson at
that time. In 1889, three years later, it had been sold to Mr. Mortimer
for one thousand per acre, precisely the figure at which this tract was
now offered. It could be parceled out into lots fifty by one hundred
feet at five hundred dollars per lot. Was there any profit in that?

Lester admitted that there was.

Ross went on, somewhat boastfully, to explain just how real estate
profits were made. It was useless for any outsider to rush into the
game, and imagine that he could do in a few weeks or years what trained
real estate speculators like himself had been working on for a quarter
of a century. There was something in prestige, something in taste,
something in psychic apprehension. Supposing that they went into the
deal, he, Ross, would be the presiding genius. He had a trained staff,
he controlled giant contractors, he had friends in the tax office, in
the water office, and in the various other city departments which made
or marred city improvements. If Lester would come in with him he would
make him some money—how much he would not say exactly—fifty thousand
dollars at the lowest—one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand in
all likelihood. Would Lester let him go into details, and explain just
how the scheme could be worked out? After a few days of quiet
cogitation, Lester decided to accede to Mr. Ross’s request; he would
look into this thing.




CHAPTER XLIX


The peculiarity of this particular proposition was that it had the
basic elements of success. Mr. Ross had the experience and the judgment
which were quite capable of making a success of almost anything he
undertook. He was in a field which was entirely familiar. He could
convince almost any able man if he could get his ear sufficiently long
to lay his facts before him.

Lester was not convinced at first, although, generally speaking, he was
interested in real estate propositions. He liked land. He considered it
a sound investment providing you did not get too much of it. He had
never invested in any, or scarcely any, solely because he had not been
in a realm where real estate propositions were talked of. As it was he
was landless and, in a way, jobless.

He rather liked Mr. Ross and his way of doing business. It was easy to
verify his statements, and he did verify them in several particulars.
There were his signs out on the prairie stretches, and here were his
ads in the daily papers. It seemed not a bad way at all in his idleness
to start and make some money.

The trouble with Lester was that he had reached the time where he was
not as keen for details as he had formerly been. All his work in recent
years—in fact, from the very beginning—had been with large
propositions, the purchasing of great quantities of supplies, the
placing of large orders, the discussion of things which were wholesale
and which had very little to do with the minor details which make up
the special interests of the smaller traders of the world. In the
factory his brother Robert had figured the pennies and nickels of
labor-cost, had seen to it that all the little leaks were shut off.
Lester had been left to deal with larger things, and he had
consistently done so. When it came to this particular proposition his
interest was in the wholesale phases of it, not the petty details of
selling. He could not help seeing that Chicago was a growing city, and
that land values must rise. What was now far-out prairie property would
soon, in the course of a few years, be well built-up suburban residence
territory. Scarcely any land that could be purchased now would fall in
value. It might drag in sales or increase, but it couldn’t fall. Ross
convinced him of this. He knew it of his own judgment to be true.

The several things on which he did not speculate sufficiently were the
life or health of Mr. Ross; the chance that some obnoxious neighborhood
growth would affect the territory he had selected as residence
territory; the fact that difficult money situations might reduce real
estate values—in fact, bring about a flurry of real estate liquidation
which would send prices crashing down and cause the failure of strong
promoters, even such promoters for instance, as Mr. Samuel E. Ross.

For several months he studied the situation as presented by his new
guide and mentor, and then, having satisfied himself that he was
reasonably safe, decided to sell some of the holdings which were
netting him a beggarly six per cent, and invest in this new
proposition. The first cash outlay was twenty thousand dollars for the
land, which was taken over under an operative agreement between himself
and Ross; this was run indefinitely—so long as there was any of this
land left to sell. The next thing was to raise twelve thousand five
hundred dollars for improvements, which he did, and then to furnish
some twenty-five hundred dollars more for taxes and unconsidered
expenses, items which had come up in carrying out the improvement work
which had been planned. It seemed that hard and soft earth made a
difference in grading costs, that trees would not always flourish as
expected, that certain members of the city water and gas departments
had to be “seen” and “fixed” before certain other improvements could be
effected. Mr. Ross attended to all this, but the cost of the
proceedings was something which had to be discussed, and Lester heard
it all.

After the land was put in shape, about a year after the original
conversation, it was necessary to wait until spring for the proper
advertising and booming of the new section; and this advertising began
to call at once for the third payment. Lester disposed of an additional
fifteen thousand dollars worth of securities in order to follow this
venture to its logical and profitable conclusion.

Up to this time he was rather pleased with his venture. Ross had
certainly been thorough and business-like in his handling of the
various details. The land was put in excellent shape. It was given a
rather attractive title—“Inwood,” although, as Lester noted, there was
precious little wood anywhere around there. But Ross assured him that
people looking for a suburban residence would be attracted by the name;
seeing the vigorous efforts in tree-planting that had been made to
provide for shade in the future, they would take the will for the deed.
Lester smiled.

The first chill wind that blew upon the infant project came in the form
of a rumor that the International Packing Company, one of the big
constituent members of the packing house combination at Halstead and
Thirty-ninth streets, had determined to desert the old group and lay
out a new packing area for itself. The papers explained that the
company intended to go farther south, probably below Fifty-fifth Street
and west of Ashland Avenue. This was the territory that was located due
west of Lester’s property, and the mere suspicion that the packing
company might invade the territory was sufficient to blight the
prospects of any budding real estate deal.

Ross was beside himself with rage. He decided, after quick
deliberation, that the best thing to do would be to boom the property
heavily, by means of newspaper advertising, and see if it could not be
disposed of before any additional damage was likely to be done to it.
He laid the matter before Lester, who agreed that this would be
advisable. They had already expended six thousand dollars in
advertising, and now the additional sum of three thousand dollars was
spent in ten days, to make it appear that In wood was an ideal
residence section, equipped with every modern convenience for the
home-lover, and destined to be one of the most exclusive and beautiful
suburbs of the city. It was “no go.” A few lots were sold, but the
rumor that the International Packing Company might come was persistent
and deadly; from any point of view, save that of a foreign population
neighborhood, the enterprise was a failure.

To say that Lester was greatly disheartened by this blow is to put it
mildly. Practically fifty thousand dollars, two-thirds of all his
earthly possessions, outside of his stipulated annual income, was tied
up here; and there were taxes to pay, repairs to maintain, actual
depreciation in value to face. He suggested to Ross that the area might
be sold at its cost value, or a loan raised on it, and the whole
enterprise abandoned; but that experienced real estate dealer was not
so sanguine. He had had one or two failures of this kind before. He was
superstitious about anything which did not go smoothly from the
beginning. If it didn’t go it was a hoodoo—a black shadow—and he wanted
no more to do with it. Other real estate men, as he knew to his cost,
were of the same opinion.

Some three years later the property was sold under the sheriff’s
hammer. Lester, having put in fifty thousand dollars all told,
recovered a trifle more than eighteen thousand; and some of his wise
friends assured him that he was lucky in getting off so easily.




CHAPTER L


While the real estate deal was in progress Mrs. Gerald decided to move
to Chicago. She had been staying in Cincinnati for a few months, and
had learned a great deal as to the real facts of Lester’s irregular
mode of life. The question whether or not he was really married to
Jennie remained an open one. The garbled details of Jennie’s early
years, the fact that a Chicago paper had written him up as a young
millionaire who was sacrificing his fortune for love of her, the
certainty that Robert had practically eliminated him from any voice in
the Kane Company, all came to her ears. She hated to think that Lester
was making such a sacrifice of himself. He had let nearly a year slip
by without doing anything. In two more years his chance would be gone.
He had said to her in London that he was without many illusions. Was
Jennie one? Did he really love her, or was he just sorry for her? Letty
wanted very much to find out for sure.

The house that Mrs. Gerald leased in Chicago was a most imposing one on
Drexel Boulevard. “I’m going to take a house in your town this winter,
and I hope to see a lot of you,” she wrote to Lester. “I’m awfully
bored with life here in Cincinnati. After Europe it’s so—well, you
know. I saw Mrs. Knowles on Saturday. She asked after you. You ought to
know that you have a loving friend in her. Her daughter is going to
marry Jimmy Severance in the spring.”

Lester thought of her coming with mingled feelings of pleasure and
uncertainty. She would be entertaining largely, of course. Would she
foolishly begin by attempting to invite him and Jennie? Surely not. She
must know the truth by this time. Her letter indicated as much. She
spoke of seeing a lot of him. That meant that Jennie would have to be
eliminated. He would have to make a clean breast of the whole affair to
Letty. Then she could do as she pleased about their future intimacy.
Seated in Letty’s comfortable boudoir one afternoon, facing a vision of
loveliness in pale yellow, he decided that he might as well have it out
with her. She would understand. Just at this time he was beginning to
doubt the outcome of the real estate deal, and consequently he was
feeling a little blue, and, as a concomitant, a little confidential. He
could not as yet talk to Jennie about his troubles.

“You know, Lester,” said Letty, by way of helping him to his
confession—the maid had brought tea for her and some brandy and soda
for him, and departed—“that I have been hearing a lot of things about
you since I’ve been back in this country. Aren’t you going to tell me
all about yourself? You know I have your real interests at heart.”

“What have you been hearing, Letty?” he asked, quietly.

“Oh, about your father’s will for one thing, and the fact that you’re
out of the company, and some gossip about Mrs. Kane which doesn’t
interest me very much. You know what I mean. Aren’t you going to
straighten things out, so that you can have what rightfully belongs to
you? It seems to me such a great sacrifice, Lester, unless, of course,
you are very much in love. Are you?” she asked archly.

Lester paused and deliberated before replying. “I really don’t know how
to answer that last question, Letty,” he said. “Sometimes I think that
I love her; sometimes I wonder whether I do or not. I’m going to be
perfectly frank with you. I was never in such a curious position in my
life before. You like me so much, and I—well, I don’t say what I think
of you,” he smiled. “But anyhow, I can talk to you frankly. I’m not
married.”

“I thought as much,” she said, as he paused.

“And I’m not married because I have never been able to make up my mind
just what to do about it. When I first met Jennie I thought her the
most entrancing girl I had ever laid eyes on.”

“That speaks volumes for my charms at that time,” interrupted his
_vis-a-vis._

“Don’t interrupt me if you want to hear this,” he smiled.

“Tell me one thing,” she questioned, “and then I won’t. Was that in
Cleveland?”

“Yes.”

“So I heard,” she assented.

“There was something about her so—”

“Love at first sight,” again interpolated Letty foolishly. Her heart
was hurting her. “I know.”

“Are you going to let me tell this?”

“Pardon me, Lester. I can’t help a twinge or two.”

“Well, anyhow, I lost my head. I thought she was the most perfect thing
under the sun, even if she was a little out of my world. This is a
democratic country. I thought that I could just take her, and
then—well, you know. That is where I made my mistake. I didn’t think
that would prove as serious as it did. I never cared for any other
woman but you before and—I’ll be frank—I didn’t know whether I wanted
to marry you. I thought I didn’t want to marry any woman. I said to
myself that I could just take Jennie, and then, after a while, when
things had quieted down some, we could separate. She would be well
provided for. I wouldn’t care very much. She wouldn’t care. You
understand.”

“Yes, I understand,” replied his confessor.

“Well, you see, Letty, it hasn’t worked out that way. She’s a woman of
a curious temperament. She possesses a world of feeling and emotion.
She’s not educated in the sense in which we understand that word, but
she has natural refinement and tact. She’s a good housekeeper. She’s an
ideal mother. She’s the most affectionate creature under the sun. Her
devotion to her mother and father was beyond words. Her love for her
daughter—she’s hers, not mine—is perfect. She hasn’t any of the graces
of the smart society woman. She isn’t quick at repartee. She can’t join
in any rapid-fire conversation. She thinks rather slowly, I imagine.
Some of her big thoughts never come to the surface at all, but you can
feel that she is thinking and that she is feeling.”

“You pay her a lovely tribute, Lester,” said Letty.

“I ought to,” he replied. “She’s a good woman, Letty; but, for all that
I have said, I sometimes think that it’s only sympathy that’s holding
me.”

“Don’t be too sure,” she said warningly.

“Yes, but I’ve gone through with a great deal. The thing for me to have
done was to have married her in the first place. There have been so
many entanglements since, so much rowing and discussion, that I’ve
rather lost my bearings. This will of father’s complicates matters. I
stand to lose eight hundred thousand if I marry her—really, a great
deal more, now that the company has been organized into a trust. I
might better say two millions. If I don’t marry her, I lose everything
outright in about two more years. Of course, I might pretend that I
have separated from her, but I don’t care to lie. I can’t work it out
that way without hurting her feelings, and she’s been the soul of
devotion. Right down in my heart, at this minute, I don’t know whether
I want to give her up. Honestly, I don’t know what the devil to do.”

Lester looked, lit a cigar in a far-off, speculative fashion, and
looked out of the window.

“Was there ever such a problem?” questioned Letty, staring at the
floor. She rose, after a few moments of silence, and put her hands on
his round, solid head. Her yellow, silken house-gown, faintly scented,
touched his shoulders. “Poor Lester,” she said. “You certainly have
tied yourself up in a knot. But it’s a Gordian knot, my dear, and it
will have to be cut. Why don’t you discuss this whole thing with her,
just as you have with me, and see how she feels about it?”

“It seems such an unkind thing to do,” he replied.

“You must take some action, Lester dear,” she insisted. “You can’t just
drift. You are doing yourself such a great injustice. Frankly, I can’t
advise you to marry her; and I’m not speaking for myself in that,
though I’ll take you gladly, even if you did forsake me in the first
place. I’ll be perfectly honest—whether you ever come to me or not—I
love you, and always shall love you.”

“I know it,” said Lester, getting up. He took her hands in his, and
studied her face curiously. Then he turned away. Letty paused to get
her breath. His action discomposed her.

“But you’re too big a man, Lester, to settle down on ten thousand a
year,” she continued. “You’re too much of a social figure to drift. You
ought to get back into the social and financial world where you belong.
All that’s happened won’t injure you, if you reclaim your interest in
the company. You can dictate your own terms. And if you tell her the
truth she won’t object, I’m sure. If she cares for you, as you think
she does, she will be glad to make this sacrifice. I’m positive of
that. You can provide for her handsomely, of course.”

“It isn’t the money that Jennie wants,” said Lester, gloomily.

“Well, even if it isn’t, she can live without you and she can live
better for having an ample income.”

“She will never want if I can help it,” he said solemnly.

“You must leave her,” she urged, with a new touch of decisiveness. “You
must. Every day is precious with you, Lester! Why don’t you make up
your mind to act at once—to-day, for that matter? Why not?”

“Not so fast,” he protested. “This is a ticklish business. To tell you
the truth, I hate to do it. It seems so brutal—so unfair. I’m not one
to run around and discuss my affairs with other people. I’ve refused to
talk about this to any one heretofore—my father, my mother, any one.
But somehow you have always seemed closer to me than any one else, and,
since I met you this time, I have felt as though I ought to explain—I
have really wanted to. I care for you. I don’t know whether you
understand how that can be under the circumstances. But I do. You’re
nearer to me intellectually and emotionally than I thought you were.
Don’t frown. You want the truth, don’t you? Well, there you have it.
Now explain me to myself, if you can.”

“I don’t want to argue with you, Lester,” she said softly, laying her
hand on his arm. “I merely want to love you. I understand quite well
how it has all come about. I’m sorry for myself. I’m sorry for you. I’m
sorry—” she hesitated—“for Mrs. Kane. She’s a charming woman. I like
her. I really do. But she isn’t the woman for you, Lester; she really
isn’t. You need another type. It seems so unfair for us two to discuss
her in this way, but really it isn’t. We all have to stand on our
merits. And I’m satisfied, if the facts in this case were put before
her, as you have put them before me, she would see just how it all is,
and agree. She can’t want to harm you. Why, Lester, if I were in her
position I would let you go. I would, truly. I think you know that I
would. Any good woman would. It would hurt me, but I’d do it. It will
hurt her, but she’ll do it. Now, mark you my words, she will. I think I
understand her as well as you do—better—for I am a woman. Oh,” she
said, pausing, “I wish I were in a position to talk to her. I could
make her understand.”

Lester looked at Letty, wondering at her eagerness. She was beautiful,
magnetic, immensely worth while.

“Not so fast,” he repeated. “I want to think about this. I have some
time yet.”

She paused, a little crestfallen but determined.

“This is the time to act,” she repeated, her whole soul in her eyes.
She wanted this man, and she was not ashamed to let him see that she
wanted him.

“Well, I’ll think of it,” he said uneasily, then, rather hastily, he
bade her good-by and went away.




CHAPTER LI


Lester had thought of his predicament earnestly enough, and he would
have been satisfied to act soon if it had not been that one of those
disrupting influences which sometimes complicate our affairs entered
into his Hyde Park domicile. Gerhardt’s health began rapidly to fail.

Little by little he had been obliged to give up his various duties
about the place; finally he was obliged to take to his bed. He lay in
his room, devotedly attended by Jennie and visited constantly by Vesta,
and occasionally by Lester. There was a window not far from his bed,
which commanded a charming view of the lawn and one of the surrounding
streets, and through this he would gaze by the hour, wondering how the
world was getting on without him. He suspected that Woods, the
coachman, was not looking after the horses and harnesses as well as he
should, that the newspaper carrier was getting negligent in his
delivery of the papers, that the furnace man was wasting coal, or was
not giving them enough heat. A score of little petty worries, which
were nevertheless real enough to him. He knew how a house should be
kept. He was always rigid in his performance of his self-appointed
duties, and he was so afraid that things would not go right. Jennie
made for him a most imposing and sumptuous dressing-gown of basted
wool, covered with dark-blue silk, and bought him a pair of soft,
thick, wool slippers to match, but he did not wear them often. He
preferred to lie in bed, read his Bible and the Lutheran papers, and
ask Jennie how things were getting along.

“I want you should go down in the basement and see what that feller is
doing. He’s not giving us any heat,” he would complain. “I bet I know
what he does. He sits down there and reads, and then he forgets what
the fire is doing until it is almost out. The beer is right there where
he can take it. You should lock it up. You don’t know what kind of a
man he is. He may be no good.”

Jennie would protest that the house was fairly comfortable, that the
man was a nice, quiet, respectable-looking American—that if he did
drink a little beer it would not matter. Gerhardt would immediately
become incensed.

“That is always the way,” he declared vigorously. “You have no sense of
economy. You are always so ready to let things go if I am not there. He
is a nice man! How do you know he is a nice man? Does he keep the fire
up? No! Does he keep the walks clean? If you don’t watch him he will be
just like the others, no good. You should go around and see how things
are for yourself.”

“All right, papa,” she would reply in a genial effort to soothe him, “I
will. Please don’t worry. I’ll lock up the beer. Don’t you want a cup
of coffee now and some toast?”

“No,” Gerhardt would sigh immediately, “my stomach it don’t do right. I
don’t know how I am going to come out of this.”

Dr. Makin, the leading physician of the vicinity, and a man of
considerable experience and ability, called at Jennie’s request and
suggested a few simple things—hot milk, a wine tonic, rest, but he told
Jennie that she must not expect too much. “You know he is quite well
along in years now. He is quite feeble. If he were twenty years younger
we might do a great deal for him. As it is he is quite well off where
he is. He may live for some time. He may get up and be around again,
and then he may not. We must all expect these things. I have never any
care as to what may happen to me. I am too old myself.”

Jennie felt sorry to think that her father might die, but she was
pleased to think that if he must it was going to be under such
comfortable circumstances. Here at least he could have every care.

It soon became evident that this was Gerhardt’s last illness, and
Jennie thought it her duty to communicate with her brothers and
sisters. She wrote Bass that his father was not well, and had a letter
from him saying that he was very busy and couldn’t come on unless the
danger was an immediate one. He went on to say that George was in
Rochester, working for a wholesale wall-paper house—the Sheff-Jefferson
Company, he thought. Martha and her husband had gone to Boston. Her
address was a little suburb named Belmont, just outside the city.
William was in Omaha, working for a local electric company. Veronica
was married to a man named Albert Sheridan, who was connected with a
wholesale drug company in Cleveland. “She never comes to see me,”
complained Bass, “but I’ll let her know.” Jennie wrote each one
personally. From Veronica and Martha she received brief replies. They
were very sorry, and would she let them know if anything happened.
George wrote that he could not think of coming to Chicago unless his
father was very ill indeed, but that he would like to be informed from
time to time how he was getting along. William, as he told Jennie some
time afterward, did not get her letter.

The progress of the old German’s malady toward final dissolution preyed
greatly on Jennie’s mind; for, in spite of the fact that they had been
so far apart in times past, they had now grown very close together.
Gerhardt had come to realize clearly that his outcast daughter was
goodness itself—at least, so far as he was concerned. She never
quarreled with him, never crossed him in any way. Now that he was sick,
she was in and out of his room a dozen times in an evening or an
afternoon, seeing whether he was “all right,” asking how he liked his
breakfast, or his lunch, or his dinner. As he grew weaker she would sit
by him and read, or do her sewing in his room. One day when she was
straightening his pillow he took her hand and kissed it. He was feeling
very weak—and despondent. She looked up in astonishment, a lump in her
throat. There were tears in his eyes.

“You’re a good girl, Jennie,” he said brokenly. “You’ve been good to
me. I’ve been hard and cross, but I’m an old man. You forgive me, don’t
you?”

“Oh, papa, please don’t,” she pleaded, tears welling from her eyes.
“You know I have nothing to forgive. I’m the one who has been all
wrong.”

“No, no,” he said; and she sank down on her knees beside him and cried.
He put his thin, yellow hand on her hair. “There, there,” he said
brokenly, “I understand a lot of things I didn’t. We get wiser as we
get older.”

She left the room, ostensibly to wash her face and hands, and cried her
eyes out. Was he really forgiving her at last? And she had lied to him
so! She tried to be more attentive, but that was impossible. But after
this reconciliation he seemed happier and more contented, and they
spent a number of happy hours together, just talking. Once he said to
her, “You know I feel just like I did when I was a boy. If it wasn’t
for my bones I could get up and dance on the grass.”

Jennie fairly smiled and sobbed in one breath. “You’ll get stronger,
papa,” she said. “You’re going to get well. Then I’ll take you out
driving.” She was so glad she had been able to make him comfortable
these last few years.

As for Lester, he was affectionate and considerate.

“Well, how is it to-night?” he would ask the moment he entered the
house, and he would always drop in for a few minutes before dinner to
see how the old man was getting along. “He looks pretty well,” he would
tell Jennie. “He’s apt to live some time yet. I wouldn’t worry.”

Vesta also spent much time with her grandfather, for she had come to
love him dearly. She would bring her books, if it didn’t disturb him
too much, and recite some of her lessons, or she would leave his door
open, and play for him on the piano. Lester had bought her a handsome
music-box also, which she would sometimes carry to his room and play
for him. At times he wearied of everything and everybody save Jennie;
he wanted to be alone with her. She would sit beside him quite still
and sew. She could see plainly that the end was only a little way off.

Gerhardt, true to his nature, took into consideration all the various
arrangements contingent upon his death. He wished to be buried in the
little Lutheran cemetery, which was several miles farther out on the
South Side, and he wanted the beloved minister of his church to
officiate.

“I want everything plain,” he said. “Just my black suit and those
Sunday shoes of mine, and that black string tie. I don’t want anything
else. I will be all right.”

Jennie begged him not to talk of it, but he would. One day at four
o’clock he had a sudden sinking spell, and at five he was dead. Jennie
held his hands, watching his labored breathing; once or twice he opened
his eyes to smile at her. “I don’t mind going,” he said, in this final
hour. “I’ve done what I could.”

“Don’t talk of dying, papa,” she pleaded.

“It’s the end,” he said. “You’ve been good to me. You’re a good woman.”

She heard no other words from his lips.

The finish which time thus put to this troubled life affected Jennie
deeply. Strong in her kindly, emotional relationships, Gerhardt had
appealed to her not only as her father, but as a friend and counselor.
She saw him now in his true perspective, a hard-working, honest,
sincere old German, who had done his best to raise a troublesome family
and lead an honest life. Truly she had been his one great burden, and
she had never really dealt truthfully with him to the end. She wondered
now if where he was he could see that she had lied. And would he
forgive her? He had called her a good woman.

Telegrams were sent to all the children. Bass wired that he was coming,
and arrived the next day. The others wired that they could not come,
but asked for details, which Jennie wrote. The Lutheran minister was
called in to say prayers and fix the time of the burial service. A fat,
smug undertaker was commissioned to arrange all the details. Some few
neighborhood friends called—those who had remained most faithful—and on
the second morning following his death the services were held. Lester
accompanied Jennie and Vesta and Bass to the little red brick Lutheran
church, and sat stolidly through the rather dry services. He listened
wearily to the long discourse on the beauties and rewards of a future
life and stirred irritably when reference was made to a hell. Bass was
rather bored, but considerate. He looked upon his father now much as he
would on any other man. Only Jennie wept sympathetically. She saw her
father in perspective, the long years of trouble he had had, the days
in which he had had to saw wood for a living, the days in which he had
lived in a factory loft, the little shabby house they had been
compelled to live in in Thirteenth Street, the terrible days of
suffering they had spent in Lorrie Street, in Cleveland, his grief over
her, his grief over Mrs. Gerhardt, his love and care of Vesta, and
finally these last days.

“Oh, he was a good man,” she thought. “He meant so well.” They sang a
hymn, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” and then she sobbed.

Lester pulled at her arm. He was moved to the danger-line himself by
her grief. “You’ll have to do better than this,” he whispered. “My God,
I can’t stand it. I’ll have to get up and get out.” Jennie quieted a
little, but the fact that the last visible ties were being broken
between her and her father was almost too much.

At the grave in the Cemetery of the Redeemer, where Lester had
immediately arranged to purchase a lot, they saw the plain coffin
lowered and the earth shoveled in. Lester looked curiously at the bare
trees, the brown dead grass, and the brown soil of the prairie turned
up at this simple graveside. There was no distinction to this burial
plot. It was commonplace and shabby, a working-man’s resting-place, but
so long as he wanted it, it was all right. He studied Bass’s keen, lean
face, wondering what sort of a career he was cutting out for himself.
Bass looked to him like some one who would run a cigar store
successfully. He watched Jennie wiping her red eyes, and then he said
to himself again, “Well, there is something to her.” The woman’s
emotion was so deep, so real. “There’s no explaining a good woman,” he
said to himself.

On the way home, through the wind-swept, dusty streets, he talked of
life in general, Bass and Vesta being present. “Jennie takes things too
seriously,” he said. “She’s inclined to be morbid. Life isn’t as bad as
she makes out with her sensitive feelings. We all have our troubles,
and we all have to stand them, some more, some less. We can’t assume
that any one is so much better or worse off than any one else. We all
have our share of troubles.”

“I can’t help it,” said Jennie. “I feel so sorry for some people.”

“Jennie always was a little gloomy,” put in Bass.

He was thinking what a fine figure of a man Lester was, how beautifully
they lived, how Jennie had come up in the world. He was thinking that
there must be a lot more to her than he had originally thought. Life
surely did turn out queer. At one time he thought Jennie was a hopeless
failure and no good.

“You ought to try to steel yourself to take things as they come without
going to pieces this way,” said Lester finally.

Bass thought so too.

Jennie stared thoughtfully out of the carriage window. There was the
old house now, large and silent without Gerhardt. Just think, she would
never see him any more. They finally turned into the drive and entered
the library. Jeannette, nervous and sympathetic, served tea. Jennie
went to look after various details. She wondered curiously where she
would be when she died.




CHAPTER LII


The fact that Gerhardt was dead made no particular difference to
Lester, except as it affected Jennie. He had liked the old German for
his many sterling qualities, but beyond that he thought nothing of him
one way or the other. He took Jennie to a watering-place for ten days
to help her recover her spirits, and it was soon after this that he
decided to tell her just how things stood with him; he would put the
problem plainly before her. It would be easier now, for Jennie had been
informed of the disastrous prospects of the real-estate deal. She was
also aware of his continued interest in Mrs. Gerald. Lester did not
hesitate to let Jennie know that he was on very friendly terms with
her. Mrs. Gerald had, at first, formally requested him to bring Jennie
to see her, but she never had called herself, and Jennie understood
quite clearly that it was not to be. Now that her father was dead, she
was beginning to wonder what was going to become of her; she was afraid
that Lester might not marry her. Certainly he showed no signs of
intending to do so.

By one of those curious coincidences of thought, Robert also had
reached the conclusion that something should be done. He did not, for
one moment, imagine that he could directly work upon Lester—he did not
care to try—but he did think that some influence might be brought to
bear on Jennie. She was probably amenable to reason. If Lester had not
married her already, she must realize full well that he did not intend
to do so. Suppose that some responsible third person were to approach
her, and explain how things were, including, of course, the offer of an
independent income? Might she not be willing to leave Lester, and end
all this trouble? After all, Lester was his brother, and he ought not
to lose his fortune. Robert had things very much in his own hands now,
and could afford to be generous. He finally decided that Mr. O’Brien,
of Knight, Keatley & O’Brien, would be the proper intermediary, for
O’Brien was suave, good-natured, and well-meaning, even if he was a
lawyer. He might explain to Jennie very delicately just how the family
felt, and how much Lester stood to lose if he continued to maintain his
connection with her. If Lester had married Jennie, O’Brien would find
it out. A liberal provision would be made for her—say fifty or one
hundred thousand, or even one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He
sent for Mr. O’Brien and gave him his instructions. As one of the
executors of Archibald Kane’s estate, it was really the lawyer’s duty
to look into the matter of Lester’s ultimate decision.

Mr. O’Brien journeyed to Chicago. On reaching the city, he called up
Lester, and found out to his satisfaction that he was out of town for
the day. He went out to the house in Hyde Park, and sent in his card to
Jennie. She came down-stairs in a few minutes quite unconscious of the
import of his message; he greeted her most blandly.

“This is Mrs. Kane?” he asked, with an interlocutory jerk of his head.

“Yes,” replied Jennie.

“I am, as you see by my card, Mr. O’Brien, of Knight, Keatley &
O’Brien,” he began. “We are the attorneys and executors of the late Mr.
Kane, your—ah—Mr. Kane’s father. You’ll think it’s rather curious, my
coming to you, but under your husband’s father’s will there were
certain conditions stipulated which affect you and Mr. Kane very
materially. These provisions are so important that I think you ought to
know about them—that is if Mr. Kane hasn’t already told you. I—pardon
me—but the peculiar nature of them makes me conclude that—possibly—he
hasn’t.” He paused, a very question-mark of a man—every feature of his
face an interrogation.

“I don’t quite understand,” said Jennie. “I don’t know anything about
the will. If there’s anything that I ought to know, I suppose Mr. Kane
will tell me. He hasn’t told me anything as yet.”

“Ah!” breathed Mr. O’Brien, highly gratified. “Just as I thought. Now,
if you will allow me I’ll go into the matter briefly. Then you can
judge for yourself whether you wish to hear the full particulars. Won’t
you sit down?” They had both been standing. Jennie seated herself, and
Mr. O’Brien pulled up a chair near to hers.

“Now to begin,” he said. “I need not say to you, of course, that there
was considerable opposition on the part of Mr. Kane’s father, to
this—ah—union between yourself and his son.”

“I know—” Jennie started to say, but checked herself. She was puzzled,
disturbed, and a little apprehensive.

“Before Mr. Kane senior died,” he went on, “he indicated to your—ah—to
Mr. Lester Kane, that he felt this way. In his will he made certain
conditions governing the distribution of his property which made it
rather hard for his son, your—ah—husband, to come into his rightful
share. Ordinarily, he would have inherited one-fourth of the Kane
Manufacturing Company, worth to-day in the neighborhood of a million
dollars, perhaps more; also one-fourth of the other properties, which
now aggregate something like five hundred thousand dollars. I believe
Mr. Kane senior was really very anxious that his son should inherit
this property. But owing to the conditions which your—ah—which Mr.
Kane’s father made, Mr. Lester Kane cannot possibly obtain his share,
except by complying with a—with a—certain wish which his father had
expressed.”

Mr. O’Brien paused, his eyes moving back and forth side wise in their
sockets. In spite of the natural prejudice of the situation, he was
considerably impressed with Jennie’s pleasing appearance. He could see
quite plainly why Lester might cling to her in the face of all
opposition. He continued to study her furtively as he sat there waiting
for her to speak.

“And what was that wish?” she finally asked, her nerves becoming just a
little tense under the strain of the silence.

“I am glad you were kind enough to ask me that,” he went on. “The
subject is a very difficult one for me to introduce—very difficult. I
come as an emissary of the estate, I might say as one of the executors
under the will of Mr. Kane’s father. I know how keenly your—ah—how
keenly Mr. Kane feels about it. I know how keenly you will probably
feel about it. But it is one of those very difficult things which
cannot be helped—which must be got over somehow. And while I hesitate
very much to say so, I must tell you that Mr. Kane senior stipulated in
his will that unless, unless”—again his eyes were moving sidewise to
and fro—“he saw fit to separate from—ah—you” he paused to get
breath—“he could not inherit this or any other sum or, at least, only a
very minor income of ten thousand a year; and that only on condition
that he should marry you.” He paused again. “I should add,” he went on,
“that under the will he was given three years in which to indicate his
intentions. That time is now drawing to a close.”

He paused, half expecting some outburst of feeling from Jennie, but she
only looked at him fixedly, her eyes clouded with surprise, distress,
unhappiness. Now she understood. Lester was sacrificing his fortune for
her. His recent commercial venture was an effort to rehabilitate
himself, to put himself in an independent position. The recent periods
of preoccupation, of subtle unrest, and of dissatisfaction over which
she had grieved were now explained. He was unhappy, he was brooding
over this prospective loss, and he had never told her. So his father
had really disinherited him!

Mr. O’Brien sat before her, troubled himself. He was very sorry for
her, now that he saw the expression of her face. Still the truth had to
come out. She ought to know.

“I’m sorry,” he said, when he saw that she was not going to make any
immediate reply, “that I have been the bearer of such unfortunate news.
It is a very painful situation that I find myself in at this moment, I
assure you. I bear you no ill will personally—of course you understand
that. The family really bears you no ill will now—I hope you believe
that. As I told your—ah—as I told Mr. Kane, at the time the will was
read, I considered it most unfair, but, of course, as a mere executive
under it and counsel for his father, I could do nothing. I really think
it best that you should know how things stand, in order that you may
help your—your husband”—he paused, significantly—“if possible, to some
solution. It seems a pity to me, as it does to the various other
members of his family, that he should lose all this money.”

Jennie had turned her head away and was staring at the floor. She faced
him now steadily. “He mustn’t lose it,” she said; “it isn’t fair that
he should.”

“I am most delighted to hear you say that, Mrs.—Mrs. Kane,” he went on,
using for the first time her improbable title as Lester’s wife, without
hesitation. “I may as well be very frank with you, and say that I
feared you might take this information in quite another spirit. Of
course you know to begin with that the Kane family is very clannish.
Mrs. Kane, your—ah—your husband’s mother, was a very proud and rather
distant woman, and his sisters and brothers are rather set in their
notions as to what constitute proper family connections. They look upon
his relationship to you as irregular, and—pardon me if I appear to be a
little cruel—as not generally satisfactory. As you know, there had been
so much talk in the last few years that Mr. Kane senior did not believe
that the situation could ever be nicely adjusted, so far as the family
was concerned. He felt that his son had not gone about it right in the
first place. One of the conditions of his will was that if your
husband—pardon me—if his son did not accept the proposition in regard
to separating from you and taking up his rightful share of the estate,
then to inherit anything at all—the mere ten thousand a year I
mentioned before—he must—ah—he must pardon me, I seem a little brutal,
but not intentionally so—marry you.”

Jennie winced. It was such a cruel thing to say this to her face. This
whole attempt to live together illegally had proved disastrous at every
step. There was only one solution to the unfortunate business—she could
see that plainly. She must leave him, or he must leave her. There was
no other alternative. Lester living on ten thousand dollars a year! It
seemed silly.

Mr. O’Brien was watching her curiously. He was thinking that Lester
both had and had not made a mistake. Why had he not married her in the
first place? She was charming.

“There is just one other point which I wish to make in this connection,
Mrs. Kane,” he went on softly and easily. “I see now that it will not
make any difference to you, but I am commissioned and in a way
constrained to make it. I hope you will take it in the manner in which
it is given. I don’t know whether you are familiar with your husband’s
commercial interests or not?”

“No,” said Jennie simply.

“Well, in order to simplify matters, and to make it easier for you,
should you decide to assist your husband to a solution of this very
difficult situation—frankly, in case you might possibly decide to leave
on your own account, and maintain a separate establishment of your own
I am delighted to say that—ah—any sum, say—ah—”

Jennie rose and walked dazedly to one of the windows, clasping her
hands as she went. Mr. O’Brien rose also.

“Well, be that as it may. In the event of your deciding to end the
connection it has been suggested that any reasonable sum you might
name, fifty, seventy-five, a hundred thousand dollars”—Mr. O’Brien was
feeling very generous toward her—“would be gladly set aside for your
benefit—put in trust, as it were, so that you would have it whenever
you needed it. You would never want for anything.”

“Please don’t,” said Jennie, hurt beyond the power to express herself,
unable mentally and physically to listen to another word. “Please don’t
say any more. Please go away. Let me alone now, please. I can go away.
I will. It will be arranged. But please don’t talk to me any more, will
you?”

“I understand how you feel, Mrs. Kane,” went on Mr. O’Brien, coming to
a keen realization of her sufferings. “I know exactly, believe me. I
have said all I intend to say. It has been very hard for me to do
this—very hard. I regret the necessity. You have my card. Please note
the name. I will come any time you suggest, or you can write me. I will
not detain you any longer. I am sorry. I hope you will see fit to say
nothing to your husband of my visit—it will be advisable that you
should keep your own counsel in the matter. I value his friendship very
highly, and I am sincerely sorry.”

Jennie only stared at the floor.

Mr. O’Brien went out into the hall to get his coat. Jennie touched the
electric button to summon the maid, and Jeannette came. Jennie went
back into the library, and Mr. O’Brien paced briskly down the front
walk. When she was really alone she put her doubled hands to her chin,
and stared at the floor, the queer design of the silken Turkish rug
resolving itself into some curious picture. She saw herself in a small
cottage somewhere, alone with Vesta; she saw Lester living in another
world, and beside him Mrs. Gerald. She saw this house vacant, and then
a long stretch of time, and then—

“Oh,” she sighed, choking back a desire to cry. With her hands she
brushed away a hot tear from each eye. Then she got up.

“It must be,” she said to herself in thought. “It must be. It should
have been so long ago.” And then—“Oh, thank God that papa is dead!
Anyhow, he did not live to see this.”




CHAPTER LIII


The explanation which Lester had concluded to be inevitable, whether it
led to separation or legalization of their hitherto banal condition,
followed quickly upon the appearance of Mr. O’Brien. On the day Mr.
O’Brien called he had gone on a journey to Hegewisch, a small
manufacturing town in Wisconsin, where he had been invited to witness
the trial of a new motor intended to operate elevators—with a view to
possible investment. When he came out to the house, interested to tell
Jennie something about it even in spite of the fact that he was
thinking of leaving her, he felt a sense of depression everywhere, for
Jennie, in spite of the serious and sensible conclusion she had
reached, was not one who could conceal her feelings easily. She was
brooding sadly over her proposed action, realizing that it was best to
leave but finding it hard to summon the courage which would let her
talk to him about it. She could not go without telling him what she
thought. He ought to want to leave her. She was absolutely convinced
that this one course of action—separation—was necessary and advisable.
She could not think of him as daring to make a sacrifice of such
proportions for her sake even if he wanted to. It was impossible. It
was astonishing to her that he had let things go along as dangerously
and silently as he had.

When he came in Jennie did her best to greet him with her accustomed
smile, but it was a pretty poor imitation.

“Everything all right?” she asked, using her customary phrase of
inquiry.

“Quite,” he answered. “How are things with you?”

“Oh, just the same.” She walked with him to the library, and he poked
at the open fire with a long-handled poker before turning around to
survey the room generally. It was five o’clock of a January afternoon.
Jennie had gone to one of the windows to lower the shade. As she came
back he looked at her critically. “You’re not quite your usual self,
are you?” he asked, sensing something out of the common in her
attitude.

“Why, yes, I feel all right,” she replied, but there was a peculiar
uneven motion to the movement of her lips—a rippling tremor which was
unmistakable to him.

“I think I know better than that,” he said, still gazing at her
steadily. “What’s the trouble? Anything happened?”

She turned away from him a moment to get her breath and collect her
senses. Then she faced him again. “There is something,” she managed to
say. “I have to tell you something.”

“I know you have,” he agreed, half smiling, but with a feeling that
there was much of grave import back of this. “What is it?”

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.

And it was a part of the penalty that he had become measurably soured
by what had occurred. He was feeling that he had been compelled to do
the first ugly, brutal thing of his life. Jennie deserved better of
him. It was a shame to forsake her after all the devotion she had
manifested. Truly she had played a finer part than he. Worst of all,
his deed could not be excused on the grounds of necessity. He could
have lived on ten thousand a year; he could have done without the
million and more which was now his. He could have done without the
society, the pleasures of which had always been a lure. He could have,
but he had not, and he had complicated it all with the thought of
another woman.

Was she as good as Jennie? That was a question which always rose before
him. Was she as kindly? Wasn’t she deliberately scheming under his very
eyes to win him away from the woman who was as good as his wife? Was
that admirable? Was it the thing a truly big woman would do? Was she
good enough for him after all? Ought he to marry her? Ought he to marry
any one seeing that he really owed a spiritual if not a legal
allegiance to Jennie? Was it worth while for any woman to marry him?
These things turned in his brain. They haunted him. He could not shut
out the fact that he was doing a cruel and unlovely thing.

Material error in the first place was now being complicated with
spiritual error. He was attempting to right the first by committing the
second. Could it be done _to his own satisfaction?_ Would it pay
mentally and spiritually? Would it bring him peace of mind? He was
thinking, thinking, all the while he was readjusting his life to the
old (or perhaps better yet, new) conditions, and he was not feeling any
happier. As a matter of fact he was feeling worse—grim, revengeful. If
he married Letty he thought at times it would be to use her fortune as
a club to knock other enemies over the head, and he hated to think he
was marrying her for that. He took up his abode at the Auditorium,
visited Cincinnati in a distant and aggressive spirit, sat in council
with the board of directors, wishing that he was more at peace with
himself, more interested in life. But he did not change his policy in
regard to Jennie.

Of course Mrs. Gerald had been vitally interested in Lester’s
rehabilitation. She waited tactfully some little time before sending
him any word; finally she ventured to write to him at the Hyde Park
address (as if she did not know where he was), asking, “Where are you?”
By this time Lester had become slightly accustomed to the change in his
life. He was saying to himself that he needed sympathetic
companionship, the companionship of a woman, of course. Social
invitations had begun to come to him now that he was alone and that his
financial connections were so obviously restored. He had made his
appearance, accompanied only by a Japanese valet, at several country
houses, the best sign that he was once more a single man. No reference
was made by any one to the past.

On receiving Mrs. Gerald’s note he decided that he ought to go and see
her. He had treated her rather shabbily. For months preceding his
separation from Jennie he had not gone near her. Even now he waited
until time brought a ’phoned invitation to dinner. This he accepted.

Mrs. Gerald was at her best as a hostess at her perfectly appointed
dinner-table. Alboni, the pianist, was there on this occasion, together
with Adam Rascavage, the sculptor, a visiting scientist from England,
Sir Nelson Keyes, and, curiously enough, Mr. and Mrs. Berry Dodge, whom
Lester had not met socially in several years. Mrs. Gerald and Lester
exchanged the joyful greetings of those who understand each other
thoroughly and are happy in each other’s company. “Aren’t you ashamed
of yourself, sir,” she said to him when he made his appearance, “to
treat me so indifferently? You are going to be punished for this.”

“What’s the damage?” he smiled. “I’ve been extremely rushed. I suppose
something like ninety stripes will serve me about right.”

“Ninety stripes, indeed!” she retorted. “You’re letting yourself off
easy. What is it they do to evil-doers in Siam?”

“Boil them in oil, I suppose.”

“Well, anyhow, that’s more like. I’m thinking of something terrible.”

“Be sure and tell me when you decide,” he laughed, and passed on to be
presented to distinguished strangers by Mrs. De Lincum who aided Mrs.
Gerald in receiving.

The talk was stimulating. Lester was always at his ease intellectually,
and this mental atmosphere revived him. Presently he turned to greet
Berry Dodge, who was standing at his elbow.

Dodge was all cordiality. “Where are you now?” he asked. “We haven’t
seen you in—oh, when? Mrs. Dodge is waiting to have a word with you.”
Lester noticed the change in Dodge’s attitude.

“Some time, that’s sure,” he replied easily. “I’m living at the
Auditorium.”

“I was asking after you the other day. You know Jackson Du Bois? Of
course you do. We were thinking of running up into Canada for some
hunting. Why don’t you join us?”

“I can’t,” replied Lester. “Too many things on hand just now. Later,
surely.”

Dodge was anxious to continue. He had seen Lester’s election as a
director of the C. H. & D. Obviously he was coming back into the world.
But dinner was announced and Lester sat at Mrs. Gerald’s right hand.

“Aren’t you coming to pay me a dinner call some afternoon after this?”
asked Mrs. Gerald confidentially when the conversation was brisk at the
other end of the table.

“I am, indeed,” he replied, “and shortly. Seriously, I’ve been wanting
to look you up. You understand though how things are now?”

“I do. I’ve heard a great deal. That’s why I want you to come. We need
to talk together.”

Ten days later he did call. He felt as if he must talk with her; he was
feeling bored and lonely; his long home life with Jennie had made hotel
life objectionable. He felt as though he must find a sympathetic,
intelligent ear, and where better than here? Letty was all ears for his
troubles. She would have pillowed his solid head upon her breast in a
moment if that had been possible.

“Well,” he said, when the usual fencing preliminaries were over, “what
will you have me say in explanation?”

“Have you burned your bridges behind you?” she asked.

“I’m not so sure,” he replied gravely. “And I can’t say that I’m
feeling any too joyous about the matter as a whole.”

“I thought as much,” she replied. “I knew how it would be with you. I
can see you wading through this mentally, Lester. I have been watching
you, every step of the way, wishing you peace of mind. These things are
always so difficult, but don’t you know I am still sure it’s for the
best. It never was right the other way. It never could be. You couldn’t
afford to sink back into a mere shell-fish life. You are not organized
temperamentally for that any more than I am. You may regret what you
are doing now, but you would have regretted the other thing quite as
much and more. You couldn’t work your life out that way—now, could
you?”

“I don’t know about that, Letty. Really, I don’t. I’ve wanted to come
and see you for a long time, but I didn’t think that I ought to. The
fight was outside—you know what I mean.”

“Yes, indeed, I do,” she said soothingly.

“It’s still inside. I haven’t gotten over it. I don’t know whether this
financial business binds me sufficiently or not. I’ll be frank and tell
you that I can’t say I love her entirely; but I’m sorry, and that’s
something.”

“She’s comfortably provided for, of course,” she commented rather than
inquired.

“Everything she wants. Jennie is of a peculiar disposition. She doesn’t
want much. She’s retiring by nature and doesn’t care for show. I’ve
taken a cottage for her at Sandwood, a little place north of here on
the lake; and there’s plenty of money in trust, but, of course, she
knows she can live anywhere she pleases.”

“I understand exactly how she feels, Lester. I know how you feel. She
is going to suffer very keenly for a while—we all do when we have to
give up the thing we love. But we can get over it, and we do. At least,
we can live. She will. It will go hard at first, but after a while she
will see how it is, and she won’t feel any the worse toward you.”

“Jennie will never reproach me, I know that,” he replied. “I’m the one
who will do the reproaching. I’ll be abusing myself for some time. The
trouble is with my particular turn of mind. I can’t tell, for the life
of me, how much of this disturbing feeling of mine is habit—the
condition that I’m accustomed to—and how much is sympathy. I sometimes
think I’m the the most pointless individual in the world. I think too
much.”

“Poor Lester!” she said tenderly. “Well, I understand for one. You’re
lonely living where you are, aren’t you?”

“I am that,” he replied.

“Why not come and spend a few days down at West Baden? I’m going
there.”

“When?” he inquired.

“Next Tuesday.”

“Let me see,” he replied. “I’m not sure that I can.” He consulted his
notebook. “I could come Thursday, for a few days.”

“Why not do that? You need company. We can walk and talk things out
down there. Will you?”

“Yes, I will,” he replied.

She came toward him, trailing a lavender lounging robe. “You’re such a
solemn philosopher, sir,” she observed comfortably, “working through
all the ramifications of things. Why do you? You were always like
that.”

“I can’t help it,” he replied. “It’s my nature to think.”

“Well, one thing I know—” and she tweaked his ear gently. “You’re not
going to make another mistake through sympathy if I can help it,” she
said daringly. “You’re going to stay disentangled long enough to give
yourself a chance to think out what you want to do. You must. And I
wish for one thing you’d take over the management of my affairs. You
could advise me so much better than my lawyer.”

He arose and walked to the window, turning to look back at her
solemnly. “I know what you want,” he said doggedly.

“And why shouldn’t I?” she demanded, again approaching him. She looked
at him pleadingly, defiantly. “Yes, why shouldn’t I?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he grumbled; but he kept on looking
at her; she stood there, attractive as a woman of her age could be,
wise, considerate, full of friendship and affection.

“Letty,” he said. “You ought not to want to marry me. I’m not worth it.
Really I’m not. I’m too cynical. Too indifferent. It won’t be worth
anything in the long run.”

“It will be worth something to me,” she insisted. “I know what you are.
Anyhow, I don’t care. I want you!”

He took her hands, then her arms. Finally he drew her to him, and put
his arms about her waist. “Poor Letty!” he said; “I’m not worth it.
You’ll be sorry.”

“No, I’ll not,” she replied. “I know what I’m doing. I don’t care what
you think you are worth.” She laid her cheek on his shoulder. “I want
you.”

“If you keep on I venture to say you’ll have me,” he returned. He bent
and kissed her.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, and hid her hot face against his breast.

“This is bad business,” he thought, even as he held her within the
circle of his arms. “It isn’t what I ought to be doing.”

Still he held her, and now when she offered her lips coaxingly he
kissed her again and again.




CHAPTER LVI


It is difficult to say whether Lester might not have returned to Jennie
after all but for certain influential factors. After a time, with his
control of his portion of the estate firmly settled in his hands and
the storm of original feeling forgotten, he was well aware that
diplomacy—if he ignored his natural tendency to fulfil even implied
obligations—could readily bring about an arrangement whereby he and
Jennie could be together. But he was haunted by the sense of what might
be called an important social opportunity in the form of Mrs. Gerald.
He was compelled to set over against his natural tendency toward Jennie
a consciousness of what he was ignoring in the personality and fortunes
of her rival, who was one of the most significant and interesting
figures on the social horizon. For think as he would, these two women
were now persistently opposed in his consciousness. The one polished,
sympathetic, philosophic—schooled in all the niceties of polite
society, and with the means to gratify her every wish; the other
natural, sympathetic, emotional, with no schooling in the ways of
polite society, but with a feeling for the beauty of life and the
lovely things in human relationship which made her beyond any question
an exceptional woman. Mrs. Gerald saw it and admitted it. Her criticism
of Lester’s relationship with Jennie was not that she was not worth
while, but that conditions made it impolitic. On the other hand, union
with her was an ideal climax for his social aspirations. This would
bring everything out right. He would be as happy with her as he would
be with Jennie—almost—and he would have the satisfaction of knowing
that this Western social and financial world held no more significant
figure than himself. It was not wise to delay either this latter
excellent solution of his material problems, and after thinking it over
long and seriously he finally concluded that he would not. He had
already done Jennie the irreparable wrong of leaving her. What
difference did it make if he did this also? She was possessed of
everything she could possibly want outside of himself. She had herself
deemed it advisable for him to leave. By such figments of the brain, in
the face of unsettled and disturbing conditions, he was becoming used
to the idea of a new alliance.

The thing which prevented an eventual resumption of relationship in
some form with Jennie was the constant presence of Mrs. Gerald.
Circumstances conspired to make her the logical solution of his mental
quandary at this time. Alone he could do nothing save to make visits
here and there, and he did not care to do that. He was too indifferent
mentally to gather about him as a bachelor that atmosphere which he
enjoyed and which a woman like Mrs. Gerald could so readily provide.
United with her it was simple enough. Their home then, wherever it was,
would be full of clever people. He would need to do little save to
appear and enjoy it. She understood quite as well as any one how he
liked to live. She enjoyed to meet the people he enjoyed meeting. There
were so many things they could do together nicely. He visited West
Baden at the same time she did, as she suggested. He gave himself over
to her in Chicago for dinners, parties, drives. Her house was quite as
much his own as hers—she made him feel so. She talked to him about her
affairs, showing him exactly how they stood and why she wished him to
intervene in this and that matter. She did not wish him to be much
alone. She did not want him to think or regret. She came to represent
to him comfort, forgetfulness, rest from care. With the others he
visited at her house occasionally, and it gradually became rumored
about that he would marry her. Because of the fact that there had been
so much discussion of his previous relationship, Letty decided that if
ever this occurred it should be a quiet affair. She wanted a simple
explanation in the papers of how it had come about, and then afterward,
when things were normal again and gossip had subsided, she would enter
on a dazzling social display for his sake.

“Why not let us get married in April and go abroad for the summer?” she
asked once, after they had reached a silent understanding that marriage
would eventually follow. “Let’s go to Japan. Then we can come back in
the fall, and take a house on the drive.”

Lester had been away from Jennie so long now that the first severe wave
of self-reproach had passed. He was still doubtful, but he preferred to
stifle his misgivings. “Very well,” he replied, almost jokingly. “Only
don’t let there be any fuss about it.”

“Do you really mean that, sweet?” she exclaimed, looking over at him;
they had been spending the evening together quietly reading and
chatting.

“I’ve thought about it a long while,” he replied. “I don’t see why
not.”

She came over to him and sat on his knee, putting her arms upon his
shoulders.

“I can scarcely believe you said that,” she said, looking at him
curiously.

“Shall I take it back?” he asked.

“No, no. It’s agreed for April now. And we’ll go to Japan. You can’t
change your mind. There won’t be any fuss. But my, what a trousseau I
will prepare!”

He smiled a little constrainedly as she tousled his head; there was a
missing note somewhere in this gamut of happiness; perhaps it was
because he was getting old.




CHAPTER LVII


In the meantime Jennie was going her way, settling herself in the
markedly different world in which henceforth she was to move. It seemed
a terrible thing at first—this life without Lester. Despite her own
strong individuality, her ways had become so involved with his that
there seemed to be no possibility of disentangling them. Constantly she
was with him in thought and action, just as though they had never
separated. Where was he now? What was he doing? What was he saying? How
was he looking? In the mornings when she woke it was with the sense
that he must be beside her. At night as if she could not go to bed
alone. He would come after a while surely—ah, no, of course he would
not come. Dear heaven, think of that! Never any more. And she wanted
him so.

Again there were so many little trying things to adjust, for a change
of this nature is too radical to be passed over lightly. The
explanation she had to make to Vesta was of all the most important.
This little girl, who was old enough now to see and think for herself,
was not without her surmises and misgivings. Vesta recalled that her
mother had been accused of not being married to her father when she was
born. She had seen the article about Jennie and Lester in the Sunday
paper at the time it had appeared—it had been shown to her at
school—but she had had sense enough to say nothing about it, feeling
somehow that Jennie would not like it. Lester’s disappearance was a
complete surprise; but she had learned in the last two or three years
that her mother was very sensitive, and that she could hurt her in
unexpected ways. Jennie was finally compelled to tell Vesta that
Lester’s fortune had been dependent on his leaving her, solely because
she was not of his station. Vesta listened soberly and half suspected
the truth. She felt terribly sorry for her mother, and, because of
Jennie’s obvious distress, she was trebly gay and courageous. She
refused outright the suggestion of going to a boarding-school and kept
as close to her mother as she could. She found interesting books to
read with her, insisted that they go to see plays together, played to
her on the piano, and asked for her mother’s criticisms on her drawing
and modeling. She found a few friends in the excellent Sandwood school,
and brought them home of an evening to add lightness and gaiety to the
cottage life. Jennie, through her growing appreciation of Vesta’s fine
character, became more and more drawn toward her. Lester was gone, but
at least she had Vesta. That prop would probably sustain her in the
face of a waning existence.

There was also her history to account for to the residents of Sandwood.
In many cases where one is content to lead a secluded life it is not
necessary to say much of one’s past, but as a rule something must be
said. People have the habit of inquiring—if they are no more than
butchers and bakers. By degrees one must account for this and that
fact, and it was so here. She could not say that her husband was dead.
Lester might come back. She had to say that she had left him—to give
the impression that it would be she, if any one, who would permit him
to return. This put her in an interesting and sympathetic light in the
neighborhood. It was the most sensible thing to do. She then settled
down to a quiet routine of existence, waiting what dénouement to her
life she could not guess.

Sandwood life was not without its charms for a lover of nature, and
this, with the devotion of Vesta, offered some slight solace. There was
the beauty of the lake, which, with its passing boats, was a
never-ending source of joy, and there were many charming drives in the
surrounding country. Jennie had her own horse and carryall—one of the
horses of the pair they had used in Hyde Park. Other household pets
appeared in due course of time, including a collie, that Vesta named
Rats; she had brought him from Chicago as a puppy, and he had grown to
be a sterling watch-dog, sensible and affectionate. There was also a
cat, Jimmy Woods, so called after a boy Vesta knew, and to whom she
insisted the cat bore a marked resemblance. There was a singing thrush,
guarded carefully against a roving desire for bird-food on the part of
Jimmy Woods, and a jar of goldfish. So this little household drifted
along quietly and dreamily indeed, but always with the undercurrent of
feeling which ran so still because it was so deep.

There was no word from Lester for the first few weeks following his
departure; he was too busy following up the threads of his new
commercial connections and too considerate to wish to keep Jennie in a
state of mental turmoil over communications which, under the present
circumstances, could mean nothing. He preferred to let matters rest for
the time being; then a little later he would write her sanely and
calmly of how things were going. He did this after the silence of a
month, saying that he had been pretty well pressed by commercial
affairs, that he had been in and out of the city frequently (which was
the truth), and that he would probably be away from Chicago a large
part of the time in the future. He inquired after Vesta and the
condition of affairs generally at Sandwood. “I may get up there one of
these days,” he suggested, but he really did not mean to come, and
Jennie knew that he did not.

Another month passed, and then there was a second letter from him, not
so long as the first one. Jennie had written him frankly and fully,
telling him just how things stood with her. She concealed entirely her
own feelings in the matter, saying that she liked the life very much,
and that she was glad to be at Sandwood. She expressed the hope that
now everything was coming out for the best for him, and tried to show
him that she was really glad matters had been settled. “You mustn’t
think of me as being unhappy,” she said in one place, “for I’m not. I
am sure it ought to be just as it is, and I wouldn’t be happy if it
were any other way. Lay out your life so as to give yourself the
greatest happiness, Lester,” she added. “You deserve it. Whatever you
do will be just right for me. I won’t mind.” She had Mrs. Gerald in
mind, and he suspected as much, but he felt that her generosity must be
tinged greatly with self-sacrifice and secret unhappiness. It was the
one thing which made him hesitate about taking that final step.

The written word and the hidden thought—how they conflict! After six
months the correspondence was more or less perfunctory on his part, and
at eight it had ceased temporarily.

One morning, as she was glancing over the daily paper, she saw among
the society notes the following item:

The engagement of Mrs. Malcolm Gerald, of 4044 Drexel Boulevard, to
Lester Kane, second son of the late Archibald Kane, of Cincinnati, was
formally announced at a party given by the prospective bride on Tuesday
to a circle of her immediate friends. The wedding will take place in
April.


The paper fell from her hands. For a few minutes she sat perfectly
still, looking straight ahead of her. Could this thing be so? she asked
herself. Had it really come at last? She had known that it must come,
and yet—and yet she had always hoped that it would not. Why had she
hoped? Had not she herself sent him away? Had not she herself suggested
this very thing in a roundabout way? It had come now. What must she do?
Stay here as a pensioner? The idea was objectionable to her. And yet he
had set aside a goodly sum to be hers absolutely. In the hands of a
trust company in La Salle Street were railway certificates aggregating
seventy-five thousand dollars, which yielded four thousand five hundred
annually, the income being paid to her direct. Could she refuse to
receive this money? There was Vesta to be considered.

Jennie felt hurt through and through by this denouement, and yet as she
sat there she realized that it was foolish to be angry. Life was always
doing this sort of a thing to her. It would go on doing so. She was
sure of it. If she went out in the world and earned her own living what
difference would it make to him? What difference would it make to Mrs.
Gerald? Here she was walled in this little place, leading an obscure
existence, and there was he out in the great world enjoying life in its
fullest and freest sense. It was too bad. But why cry? Why?

Her eyes indeed were dry, but her very soul seemed to be torn in pieces
within her. She rose carefully, hid the newspaper at the bottom of a
trunk, and turned the key upon it.




CHAPTER LVIII


Now that his engagement to Mrs. Gerald was an accomplished, fact,
Lester found no particular difficulty in reconciling himself to the new
order of things; undoubtedly it was all for the best. He was sorry for
Jennie—very sorry. So was Mrs. Gerald; but there was a practical
unguent to her grief in the thought that it was best for both Lester
and the girl. He would be happier—was so now. And Jennie would
eventually realize that she had done a wise and kindly thing; she would
be glad in the consciousness that she had acted so unselfishly. As for
Mrs. Gerald, because of her indifference to the late Malcolm Gerald,
and because she was realizing the dreams of her youth in getting Lester
at last—even though a little late—she was intensely happy. She could
think of nothing finer than this daily life with him—the places they
would go, the things they would see. Her first season in Chicago as
Mrs. Lester Kane the following winter was going to be something worth
remembering. And as for Japan—that was almost too good to be true.

Lester wrote to Jennie of his coming marriage to Mrs. Gerald. He said
that he had no explanation to make. It wouldn’t be worth anything if he
did make it. He thought he ought to marry Mrs. Gerald. He thought he
ought to let her (Jennie) know. He hoped she was well. He wanted her
always to feel that he had her real interests at heart. He would do
anything in his power to make life as pleasant and agreeable for her as
possible. He hoped she would forgive him. And would she remember him
affectionately to Vesta? She ought to be sent to a finishing school.

Jennie understood the situation perfectly. She knew that Lester had
been drawn to Mrs. Gerald from the time he met her at the Carlton in
London. She had been angling for him. Now she had him. It was all
right. She hoped he would be happy. She was glad to write and tell him
so, explaining that she had seen the announcement in the papers. Lester
read her letter thoughtfully; there was more between the lines than the
written words conveyed. Her fortitude was a charm to him even in this
hour. In spite of all he had done and what he was now going to do, he
realized that he still cared for Jennie in a way. She was a noble and a
charming woman. If everything else had been all right he would not be
going to marry Mrs. Gerald at all. And yet he did marry her.

The ceremony was performed on April fifteenth, at the residence of Mrs.
Gerald, a Roman Catholic priest officiating. Lester was a poor example
of the faith he occasionally professed. He was an agnostic, but because
he had been reared in the church he felt that he might as well be
married in it. Some fifty guests, intimate friends, had been invited.
The ceremony went off with perfect smoothness. There were jubilant
congratulations and showers of rice and confetti. While the guests were
still eating and drinking Lester and Letty managed to escape by a side
entrance into a closed carriage, and were off. Fifteen minutes later
there was pursuit pell-mell on the part of the guests to the Chicago,
Rock Island and Pacific depôt; but by that time the happy couple were
in their private car, and the arrival of the rice throwers made no
difference. More champagne was opened; then the starting of the train
ended all excitement, and the newly wedded pair were at last safely
off.

“Well, now you have me,” said Lester, cheerfully pulling Letty down
beside him into a seat, “what of it?”

“This of it,” she exclaimed, and hugged him close, kissing him
fervently. In four days they were in San Francisco, and two days later
on board a fast steamship bound for the land of the Mikado.

In the meanwhile Jennie was left to brood. The original announcement in
the newspapers had said that he was to be married in April, and she had
kept close watch for additional information. Finally she learned that
the wedding would take place on April fifteenth at the residence of the
prospective bride, the hour being high noon. In spite of her feeling of
resignation, Jennie followed it all hopelessly, like a child, hungry
and forlorn, looking into a lighted window at Christmas time.

On the day of the wedding she waited miserably for twelve o’clock to
strike; it seemed as though she were really present—and looking on. She
could see in her mind’s eye the handsome residence, the carriages, the
guests, the feast, the merriment, the ceremony—all. Telepathically and
psychologically she received impressions of the private car and of the
joyous journey they were going to take. The papers had stated that they
would spend their honeymoon in Japan. Their honeymoon! Her Lester! And
Mrs. Gerald was so attractive. She could see her now—the new Mrs.
Kane—the only _Mrs._ Kane that ever was, lying in his arms. He had held
her so once. He had loved her. Yes, he had! There was a solid lump in
her throat as she thought of this. Oh, dear! She sighed to herself, and
clasped her hands forcefully; but it did no good. She was just as
miserable as before.

When the day was over she was actually relieved; anyway, the deed was
done and nothing could change it. Vesta was sympathetically aware of
what was happening, but kept silent. She too had seen the report in the
newspaper. When the first and second day after had passed Jennie was
much calmer mentally, for now she was face to face with the inevitable.
But it was weeks before the sharp pain dulled to the old familiar ache.
Then there were months before they would be back again, though, of
course, that made no difference now. Only Japan seemed so far off, and
somehow she had liked the thought that Lester was near her—somewhere in
the city.

The spring and summer passed, and now it was early in October. One
chilly day Vesta came home from school complaining of a headache. When
Jennie had given her hot milk—a favorite remedy of her mother’s—and had
advised a cold towel for the back of her head, Vesta went to her room
and lay down. The following morning she had a slight fever. This
lingered while the local physician, Dr. Emory, treated her tentatively,
suspecting that it might be typhoid, of which there were several cases
in the village. This doctor told Jennie that Vesta was probably strong
enough constitutionally to shake it off, but it might be that she would
have a severe siege. Mistrusting her own skill in so delicate a
situation, Jennie sent to Chicago for a trained nurse, and then began a
period of watchfulness which was a combination of fear, longing, hope,
and courage.

Now there could be no doubt; the disease was typhoid. Jennie hesitated
about communicating with Lester, who was supposed to be in New York;
the papers had said that he intended to spend the winter there. But
when the doctor, after watching the case for a week, pronounced it
severe, she thought she ought to write anyhow, for no one could tell
what would happen. Lester had been so fond of Vesta. He would probably
want to know.

The letter sent to him did not reach him, for at the time it arrived he
was on his way to the West Indies. Jennie was compelled to watch alone
by Vesta’s sick-bed, for although sympathetic neighbors, realizing the
pathos of the situation were attentive, they could not supply the
spiritual consolation which only those who truly love us can give.
There was a period when Vesta appeared to be rallying, and both the
physician and the nurse were hopeful; but afterward she became weaker.
It was said by Dr. Emory that her heart and kidneys had become
affected.

There came a time when the fact had to be faced that death was
imminent. The doctor’s face was grave, the nurse was non-committal in
her opinion. Jennie hovered about, praying the only prayer that is
prayer—the fervent desire of her heart concentrated on the one
issue—that Vesta should get well. The child had come so close to her
during the last few years! She understood her mother. She was beginning
to realize clearly what her life had been. And Jennie, through her, had
grown to a broad understanding of responsibility. She knew now what it
meant to be a good mother and to have children. If Lester had not
objected to it, and she had been truly married, she would have been
glad to have others. Again, she had always felt that she owed Vesta so
much—at least a long and happy life to make up to her for the ignominy
of her birth and rearing. Jennie had been so happy during the past few
years to see Vesta growing into beautiful, graceful, intelligent
womanhood. And now she was dying. Dr. Emory finally sent to Chicago for
a physician friend of his, who came to consider the case with him. He
was an old man, grave, sympathetic, understanding. He shook his head.
“The treatment has been correct,” he said. “Her system does not appear
to be strong enough to endure the strain. Some physiques are more
susceptible to this malady than others.” It was agreed that if within
three days a change for the better did not come the end was close at
hand.

No one can conceive the strain to which Jennie’s spirit was subjected
by this intelligence, for it was deemed best that she should know. She
hovered about white-faced—feeling intensely, but scarcely thinking. She
seemed to vibrate consciously with Vesta’s altering states. If there
was the least improvement she felt it physically. If there was a
decline her barometric temperament registered the fact.

There was a Mrs. Davis, a fine, motherly soul of fifty, stout and
sympathetic, who lived four doors from Jennie, and who understood quite
well how she was feeling. She had co-operated with the nurse and doctor
from the start to keep Jennie’s mental state as nearly normal as
possible.

“Now, you just go to your room and lie down, Mrs. Kane,” she would say
to Jennie when she found her watching helplessly at the bedside or
wandering to and fro, wondering what to do. “I’ll take charge of
everything. I’ll do just what you would do. Lord bless you, don’t you
think I know? I’ve been the mother of seven and lost three. Don’t you
think I understand?” Jennie put her head on her big, warm shoulder one
day and cried. Mrs. Davis cried with her. “I understand,” she said.
“There, there, you poor dear. Now you come with me.” And she led her to
her sleeping-room.

Jennie could not be away long. She came back after a few minutes
unrested and unrefreshed. Finally one midnight, when the nurse had
persuaded her that all would be well until morning anyhow, there came a
hurried stirring in the sick-room. Jennie was lying down for a few
minutes on her bed in the adjoining room. She heard it and arose. Mrs.
Davis had come in, and she and the nurse were conferring as to Vesta’s
condition—standing close beside her.

Jennie understood. She came up and looked at her daughter keenly.
Vesta’s pale, waxen face told the story. She was breathing faintly, her
eyes closed. “She’s very weak,” whispered the nurse. Mrs. Davis took
Jennie’s hand.

The moments passed, and after a time the clock in the hall struck one.
Miss Murfree, the nurse, moved to the medicine-table several times,
wetting a soft piece of cotton cloth with alcohol and bathing Vesta’s
lips. At the striking of the half-hour there was a stir of the weak
body—a profound sigh. Jennie bent forward eagerly, but Mrs. Davis drew
her back. The nurse came and motioned them away. Respiration had
ceased.

Mrs. Davis seized Jennie firmly. “There, there, you poor dear,” she
whispered when she began to shake. “It can’t be helped. Don’t cry.”

Jennie sank on her knees beside the bed and caressed Vesta’s still warm
hand. “Oh no, Vesta,” she pleaded. “Not you! Not you!”

“There, dear, come now,” soothed the voice of Mrs. Davis. “Can’t you
leave it all in God’s hands? Can’t you believe that everything is for
the best?”

Jennie felt as if the earth had fallen. All ties were broken. There was
no light anywhere in the immense darkness of her existence.




CHAPTER LIX


This added blow from inconsiderate fortune was quite enough to throw
Jennie back into that state of hyper-melancholia from which she had
been drawn with difficulty during the few years of comfort and
affection which she had enjoyed with Lester in Hyde Park. It was really
weeks before she could realize that Vesta was gone. The emaciated
figure which she saw for a day or two after the end did not seem like
Vesta. Where was the joy and lightness, the quickness of motion, the
subtle radiance of health? All gone. Only this pale, lily-hued
shell—and silence. Jennie had no tears to shed; only a deep, insistent
pain to feel. If only some counselor of eternal wisdom could have
whispered to her that obvious and convincing truth—there are no dead.

Miss Murfree, Dr. Emory, Mrs. Davis, and some others among the
neighbors were most sympathetic and considerate. Mrs. Davis sent a
telegram to Lester saying that Vesta was dead, but, being absent, there
was no response. The house was looked after with scrupulous care by
others, for Jennie was incapable of attending to it herself. She walked
about looking at things which Vesta had owned or liked—things which
Lester or she had given her—sighing over the fact that Vesta would not
need or use them any more. She gave instructions that the body should
be taken to Chicago and buried in the Cemetery of the Redeemer, for
Lester, at the time of Gerhardt’s death, had purchased a small plot of
ground there. She also expressed her wish that the minister of the
little Lutheran church in Cottage Grove Avenue, where Gerhardt had
attended, should be requested to say a few words at the grave. There
were the usual preliminary services at the house. The local Methodist
minister read a portion of the first epistle of Paul to the
Thessalonians, and a body of Vesta’s classmates sang “Nearer My God to
Thee.” There were flowers, a white coffin, a world of sympathetic
expressions, and then Vesta was taken away. The coffin was properly
incased for transportation, put on the train, and finally delivered at
the Lutheran cemetery in Chicago.

Jennie moved as one in a dream. She was dazed, almost to the point of
insensibility. Five of her neighborhood friends, at the solicitation of
Mrs. Davis, were kind enough to accompany her. At the grave-side when
the body was finally lowered she looked at it, one might have thought
indifferently, for she was numb from suffering. She returned to
Sandwood after it was all over, saying that she would not stay long.
She wanted to come back to Chicago, where she could be near Vesta and
Gerhardt.

After the funeral Jennie tried to think of her future. She fixed her
mind on the need of doing something, even though she did not need to.
She thought that she might like to try nursing, and could start at once
to obtain the training which was required. She also thought of William.
He was unmarried, and perhaps he might be willing to come and live with
her. Only she did not know where he was, and Bass was also in ignorance
of his whereabouts. She finally concluded that she would try to get
work in a store. Her disposition was against idleness. She could not
live alone here, and she could not have her neighbors sympathetically
worrying over what was to become of her. Miserable as she was, she
would be less miserable stopping in a hotel in Chicago, and looking for
something to do, or living in a cottage somewhere near the Cemetery of
the Redeemer. It also occurred to her that she might adopt a homeless
child. There were a number of orphan asylums in the city.

Some three weeks after Vesta’s death Lester returned to Chicago with
his wife, and discovered the first letter, the telegram, and an
additional note telling him that Vesta was dead. He was truly grieved,
for his affection for the girl had been real. He was very sorry for
Jennie, and he told his wife that he would have to go out and see her.
He was wondering what she would do. She could not live alone. Perhaps
he could suggest something which would help her. He took the train to
Sandwood, but Jennie had gone to the Hotel Tremont in Chicago. He went
there, but Jennie had gone to her daughter’s grave; later he called
again and found her in. When the boy presented his card she suffered an
upwelling of feeling—a wave that was more intense than that with which
she had received him in the olden days, for now her need of him was
greater.

Lester, in spite of the glamor of his new affection and the restoration
of his wealth, power, and dignities, had had time to think deeply of
what he had done. His original feeling of doubt and dissatisfaction
with himself had never wholly quieted. It did not ease him any to know
that he had left Jennie comfortably fixed, for it was always so plain
to him that money was not the point at issue with her. Affection was
what she craved. Without it she was like a rudderless boat on an
endless sea, and he knew it. She needed him, and he was ashamed to
think that his charity had not outweighed his sense of
self-preservation and his desire for material advantage. To-day as the
elevator carried him up to her room he was really sorry, though he knew
now that no act of his could make things right. He had been to blame
from the very beginning, first for taking her, then for failing to
stick by a bad bargain. Well, it could not be helped now. The best
thing he could do was to be fair, to counsel with her, to give her the
best of his sympathy and advice.

“Hello, Jennie,” he said familiarly as she opened the door to him in
her hotel room, his glance taking in the ravages which death and
suffering had wrought. She was thinner, her face quite drawn and
colorless, her eyes larger by contrast. “I’m awfully sorry about
Vesta,” he said a little awkwardly. “I never dreamed anything like that
could happen.”

It was the first word of comfort which had meant anything to her since
Vesta died—since Lester had left her, in fact. It touched her that he
had come to sympathize; for the moment she could not speak. Tears
welled over her eyelids and down upon her cheeks.

“Don’t cry, Jennie,” he said, putting his arm around her and holding
her head to his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry for a good many
things that can’t be helped now. I’m intensely sorry for this. Where
did you bury her?”

“Beside papa,” she said, sobbing.

“Too bad,” he murmured, and held her in silence. She finally gained
control of herself sufficiently to step away from him; then wiping her
eyes with her handkerchief, she asked him to sit down.

“I’m so sorry,” he went on, “that this should have happened while I was
away. I would have been with you if I had been here. I suppose you
won’t want to live out at Sandwood now?”

“I can’t, Lester,” she replied. “I couldn’t stand it.”

“Where are you thinking of going?”

“Oh, I don’t know yet. I didn’t want to be a bother to those people out
there. I thought I’d get a little house somewhere and adopt a baby
maybe, or get something to do. I don’t like to be alone.”

“That isn’t a bad idea,” he said, “that of adopting a baby. It would be
a lot of company for you. You know how to go about getting one?”

“You just ask at one of these asylums, don’t you?”

“I think there’s something more than that,” he replied thoughtfully.
“There are some formalities—I don’t know what they are. They try to
keep control of the child in some way. You had better consult with
Watson and get him to help you. Pick out your baby, and then let him do
the rest. I’ll speak to him about it.”

Lester saw that she needed companionship badly. “Where is your brother
George?” he asked.

“He’s in Rochester, but he couldn’t come. Bass said he was married,”
she added.

“There isn’t any other member of the family you could persuade to come
and live with you?”

“I might get William, but I don’t know where he is.”

“Why not try that new section west of Jackson Park,” he suggested, “if
you want a house here in Chicago? I see some nice cottages out that
way. You needn’t buy. Just rent until you see how well you’re
satisfied.”

Jennie thought this good advice because it came from Lester. It was
good of him to take this much interest in her affairs. She wasn’t
entirely separated from him after all. He cared a little. She asked him
how his wife was, whether he had had a pleasant trip, whether he was
going to stay in Chicago. All the while he was thinking that he had
treated her badly. He went to the window and looked down into Dearborn
Street, the world of traffic below holding his attention. The great
mass of trucks and vehicles, the counter streams of hurrying
pedestrians, seemed like a puzzle. So shadows march in a dream. It was
growing dusk, and lights were springing up here and there.

“I want to tell you something, Jennie,” said Lester, finally rousing
himself from his fit of abstraction. “I may seem peculiar to you, after
all that has happened, but I still care for you—in my way. I’ve thought
of you right along since I left. I thought it good business to leave
you—the way things were. I thought I liked Letty well enough to marry
her. From one point of view it still seems best, but I’m not so much
happier. I was just as happy with you as I ever will be. It isn’t
myself that’s important in this transaction apparently; the individual
doesn’t count much in the situation. I don’t know whether you see what
I’m driving at, but all of us are more or less pawns. We’re moved about
like chessmen by circumstances over which we have no control.”

“I understand, Lester,” she answered. “I’m not complaining. I know it’s
for the best.”

“After all, life is more or less of a farce,” he went on a little
bitterly. “It’s a silly show. The best we can do is to hold our
personality intact. It doesn’t appear that integrity has much to do
with it.”

Jennie did not quite grasp what he was talking about, but she knew it
meant that he was not entirely satisfied with himself and was sorry for
her.

“Don’t worry over me, Lester,” she consoled. “I’m all right; I’ll get
along. It did seem terrible to me for a while—getting used to being
alone. I’ll be all right now. I’ll get along.”

“I want you to feel that my attitude hasn’t changed,” he continued
eagerly. “I’m interested in what concerns you. Mrs.—Letty understands
that. She knows just how I feel. When you get settled I’ll come in and
see how you’re fixed. I’ll come around here again in a few days. You
understand how I feel, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” she said.

He took her hand, turning it sympathetically in his own. “Don’t worry,”
he said. “I don’t want you to do that. I’ll do the best I can. You’re
still Jennie to me, if you don’t mind. I’m pretty bad, but I’m not all
bad.”

“It’s all right, Lester. I wanted you to do as you did. It’s for the
best. You probably are happy since—”

“Now, Jennie,” he interrupted; then he pressed affectionately her hand,
her arm, her shoulder. “Want to kiss me for old times’ sake?” he
smiled.

She put her hands over his shoulders, looked long into his eyes, then
kissed him. When their lips met she trembled. Lester also felt
unsteady. Jennie saw his agitation, and tried hard to speak.

“You’d better go now,” she said firmly. “It’s getting dark.”

He went away, and yet he knew that he wanted above all things to
remain; she was still the one woman in the world for him. And Jennie
felt comforted even though the separation still existed in all its
finality. She did not endeavor to explain or adjust the moral and
ethical entanglements of the situation. She was not, like so many,
endeavoring to put the ocean into a tea-cup, or to tie up the shifting
universe in a mess of strings called law. Lester still cared for her a
little. He cared for Letty too. That was all right. She had hoped once
that he might want her only. Since he did not, was his affection worth
nothing? She could not think, she could not feel that. And neither
could he.




CHAPTER LX


The drift of events for a period of five years carried Lester and
Jennie still farther apart; they settled naturally into their
respective spheres, without the renewal of the old time relationship
which their several meetings at the Tremont at first seemed to
foreshadow. Lester was in the thick of social and commercial affairs;
he walked in paths to which Jennie’s retiring soul had never aspired.
Jennie’s own existence was quiet and uneventful. There was a simple
cottage in a very respectable but not showy neighborhood near Jackson
Park, on the South Side, where she lived in retirement with a little
foster-child—a chestnut-haired girl taken from the Western Home for the
Friendless—as her sole companion. Here she was known as Mrs. J. G.
Stover, for she had deemed it best to abandon the name of Kane. Mr. and
Mrs. Lester Kane when resident in Chicago were the occupants of a
handsome mansion on the Lake Shore Drive, where parties, balls,
receptions, dinners were given in rapid and at times almost pyrotechnic
succession.

Lester, however, had become in his way a lover of a peaceful and
well-entertained existence. He had cut from his list of acquaintances
and associates a number of people who had been a little doubtful or
overfamiliar or indifferent or talkative during a certain period which
to him was a memory merely. He was a director, and in several cases the
chairman of a board of directors, in nine of the most important
financial and commercial organizations of the West—The United Traction
Company of Cincinnati, The Western Crucible Company, The United
Carriage Company, The Second National Bank of Chicago, the First
National Bank of Cincinnati, and several others of equal importance. He
was never a personal factor in the affairs of The United Carriage
Company, preferring to be represented by counsel—Mr. Dwight L. Watson,
but he took a keen interest in its affairs. He had not seen his brother
Robert to speak to him in seven years. He had not seen Imogene, who
lived in Chicago, in three. Louise, Amy, their husbands, and some of
their closest acquaintances were practically strangers. The firm of
Knight, Keatley & O’Brien had nothing whatever to do with his affairs.

The truth was that Lester, in addition to becoming a little phlegmatic,
was becoming decidedly critical in his outlook on life. He could not
make out what it was all about. In distant ages a queer thing had come
to pass. There had started on its way in the form of evolution a minute
cellular organism which had apparently reproduced itself by division,
had early learned to combine itself with others, to organize itself
into bodies, strange forms of fish, animals, and birds, and had finally
learned to organize itself into man. Man, on his part, composed as he
was of self-organizing cells, was pushing himself forward into comfort
and different aspects of existence by means of union and organization
with other men. Why? Heaven only knew. Here he was endowed with a
peculiar brain and a certain amount of talent, and he had inherited a
certain amount of wealth which he now scarcely believed he deserved,
only luck had favored him. But he could not see that any one else might
be said to deserve this wealth any more than himself, seeing that his
use of it was as conservative and constructive and practical as the
next one’s. He might have been born poor, in which case he would have
been as well satisfied as the next one—not more so. Why should he
complain, why worry, why speculate?—the world was going steadily
forward of its own volition, whether he would or no. Truly it was. And
was there any need for him to disturb himself about it? There was not.
He fancied at times that it might as well never have been started at
all. “The one divine, far-off event” of the poet did not appeal to him
as having any basis in fact. Mrs. Lester Kane was of very much the same
opinion.

Jennie, living on the South Side with her adopted child, Rose Perpetua,
was of no fixed conclusion as to the meaning of life. She had not the
incisive reasoning capacity of either Mr. or Mrs. Lester Kane. She had
seen a great deal, suffered a great deal, and had read some in a
desultory way. Her mind had never grasped the nature and character of
specialized knowledge. History, physics, chemistry, botany, geology,
and sociology were not fixed departments in her brain as they were in
Lester’s and Letty’s. Instead there was the feeling that the world
moved in some strange, unstable way. Apparently no one knew clearly
what it was all about. People were born and died. Some believed that
the world had been made six thousand years before; some that it was
millions of years old. Was it all blind chance, or was there some
guiding intelligence—a God? Almost in spite of herself she felt there
must be something—a higher power which produced all the beautiful
things—the flowers, the stars, the trees, the grass. Nature was so
beautiful! If at times life seemed cruel, yet this beauty still
persisted. The thought comforted her; she fed upon it in her hours of
secret loneliness.

It has been said that Jennie was naturally of an industrious turn. She
liked to be employed, though she thought constantly as she worked. She
was of matronly proportions in these days—not disagreeably large, but
full bodied, shapely, and smooth-faced in spite of her cares. Her eyes
were gray and appealing. Her hair was still of a rich brown, but there
were traces of gray in it. Her neighbors spoke of her as
sweet-tempered, kindly, and hospitable. They knew nothing of her
history, except that she had formerly resided in Sandwood, and before
that in Cleveland. She was very reticent as to her past.

Jennie had fancied, because of her natural aptitude for taking care of
sick people, that she might get to be a trained nurse. But she was
obliged to abandon that idea, for she found that only young people were
wanted. She also thought that some charitable organization might employ
her, but she did not understand the new theory of charity which was
then coming into general acceptance and practice—namely, only to help
others to help themselves. She believed in giving, and was not inclined
to look too closely into the credentials of those who asked for help;
consequently her timid inquiry at one relief agency after another met
with indifference, if not unqualified rebuke. She finally decided to
adopt another child for Rose Perpetua’s sake; she succeeded in securing
a boy, four years old, who was known as Henry—Henry Stover. Her support
was assured, for her income was paid to her through a trust company.
She had no desire for speculation or for the devious ways of trade. The
care of flowers, the nature of children, the ordering of a home were
more in her province.

One of the interesting things in connection with this separation once
it had been firmly established related to Robert and Lester, for these
two since the reading of the will a number of years before had never
met. Robert had thought of his brother often. He had followed his
success since he had left Jennie with interest. He read of his marriage
to Mrs. Gerald with pleasure; he had always considered her an ideal
companion for his brother. He knew by many signs and tokens that his
brother, since the unfortunate termination of their father’s attitude
and his own peculiar movements to gain control of the Kane Company, did
not like him. Still they had never been so far apart mentally—certainly
not in commercial judgment. Lester was prosperous now. He could afford
to be generous. He could afford to make up. And after all, he had done
his best to aid his brother to come to his senses—and with the best
intentions. There were mutual interests they could share financially if
they were friends. He wondered from time to time if Lester would not be
friendly with him.

Time passed, and then once, when he was in Chicago, he made the friends
with whom he was driving purposely turn into the North Shore in order
to see the splendid mansion which the Kanes occupied. He knew its
location from hearsay and description.

When he saw it a touch of the old Kane home atmosphere came back to
him. Lester in revising the property after purchase had had a
conservatory built on one side not unlike the one at home in
Cincinnati. That same night he sat down and wrote Lester asking if he
would not like to dine with him at the Union Club. He was only in town
for a day or two, and he would like to see him again. There was some
feeling he knew, but there was a proposition he would like to talk to
him about. Would he come, say, on Thursday?

On the receipt of this letter Lester frowned and fell into a brown
study. He had never really been healed of the wound that his father had
given him. He had never been comfortable in his mind since Robert had
deserted him so summarily. He realized now that the stakes his brother
had been playing for were big. But, after all, he had been his brother,
and if he had been in Robert’s place at the time, he would not have
done as he had done; at least he hoped not. Now Robert wanted to see
him.

He thought once of not answering at all. Then he thought he would write
and say no. But a curious desire to see Robert again, to hear what he
had to say, to listen to the proposition he had to offer, came over
him; he decided to write yes. It could do no harm. He knew it could do
no good. They might agree to let by-gones be by-gones, but the damage
had been done. Could a broken bowl be mended and called whole? It might
be _called_ whole, but what of it? Was it not broken and mended? He
wrote and intimated that he would come.

On the Thursday in question Robert called up from the Auditorium to
remind him of the engagement. Lester listened curiously to the sound of
his voice. “All right,” he said, “I’ll be with you.” At noon he went
down-town, and there, within the exclusive precincts of the Union Club,
the two brothers met and looked at each other again. Robert was thinner
than when Lester had seen him last, and a little grayer. His eyes were
bright and steely, but there were crow’s-feet on either side. His
manner was quick, keen, dynamic. Lester was noticeably of another
type—solid, brusque, and indifferent. Men spoke of Lester these days as
a little hard. Robert’s keen blue eyes did not disturb him in the
least—did not affect him in any way. He saw his brother just as he was,
for he had the larger philosophic and interpretative insight; but
Robert could not place Lester exactly. He could not fathom just what
had happened to him in these years. Lester was stouter, not gray, for
some reason, but sandy and ruddy, looking like a man who was fairly
well satisfied to take life as he found it. Lester looked at his
brother with a keen, steady eye. The latter shifted a little, for he
was restless. He could see that there was no loss of that mental force
and courage which had always been predominant characteristics in
Lester’s make-up.

“I thought I’d like to see you again, Lester,” Robert remarked, after
they had clasped hands in the customary grip. “It’s been a long time
now—nearly eight years, hasn’t it?”

“About that,” replied Lester. “How are things with you?”

“Oh, about the same. You’ve been fairly well, I see.”

“Never sick,” said Lester. “A little cold now and then. I don’t often
go to bed with anything. How’s your wife?”

“Oh, Margaret’s fine.”

“And the children?”

“We don’t see much of Ralph and Berenice since they married, but the
others are around more or less. I suppose your wife is all right,” he
said hesitatingly. It was difficult ground for Robert.

Lester eyed him without a change of expression.

“Yes,” he replied. “She enjoys pretty fair health. She’s quite well at
present.”

They drifted mentally for a few moments, while Lester inquired after
the business, and Amy, Louise, and Imogene. He admitted frankly that he
neither saw nor heard from them nowadays. Robert told him what he
could.

“The thing that I was thinking of in connection with you, Lester,” said
Robert finally, “is this matter of the Western Crucible Steel Company.
You haven’t been sitting there as a director in person I notice, but
your attorney, Watson, has been acting for you. Clever man, that. The
management isn’t right—we all know that. We need a practical steel man
at the head of it, if the thing is ever going to pay properly. I have
voted my stock with yours right along because the propositions made by
Watson have been right. He agrees with me that things ought to be
changed. Now I have a chance to buy seventy shares held by Rossiter’s
widow. That with yours and mine would give us control of the company. I
would like to have you take them, though it doesn’t make a bit of
difference so long as it’s in the family. You can put any one you
please in for president, and we’ll make the thing come out right.”

Lester smiled. It was a pleasant proposition. Watson had told him that
Robert’s interests were co-operating with him. Lester had long
suspected that Robert would like to make up. This was the olive
branch—the control of a property worth in the neighborhood of a million
and a half.

“That’s very nice of you,” said Lester solemnly. “It’s a rather liberal
thing to do. What makes you want to do it now?”

“Well, to tell you the honest truth, Lester,” replied Robert, “I never
did feel right about that will business. I never did feel right about
that secretary-treasurership and some other things that have happened.
I don’t want to rake up the past—you smile at that—but I can’t help
telling you how I feel. I’ve been pretty ambitious in the past. I was
pretty ambitious just about the time that father died to get this
United Carriage scheme under way, and I was afraid you might not like
it. I have thought since that I ought not to have done it, but I did. I
suppose you’re not anxious to hear any more about that old affair. This
other thing though—”

“Might be handed out as a sort of compensation,” put in Lester quietly.

“Not exactly that, Lester—though it may have something of that in it. I
know these things don’t matter very much to you now. I know that the
time to do things was years ago—not now. Still I thought sincerely that
you might be interested in this proposition. It might lead to other
things. Frankly, I thought it might patch up matters between us. We’re
brothers after all.”

“Yes,” said Lester, “we’re brothers.”

He was thinking as he said this of the irony of the situation. How much
had this sense of brotherhood been worth in the past? Robert had
practically forced him into his present relationship, and while Jennie
had been really the only one to suffer, he could not help feeling
angry. It was true that Robert had not cut him out of his one-fourth of
his father’s estate, but certainly he had not helped him to get it, and
now Robert was thinking that this offer of his might mend things. It
hurt him—Lester—a little. It irritated him. Life was strange.

“I can’t see it, Robert,” he said finally and determinedly. “I can
appreciate the motive that prompts you to make this offer. But I can’t
see the wisdom of my taking it. Your opportunity is your opportunity. I
don’t want it. We can make all the changes you suggest if you take the
stock. I’m rich enough anyhow. Bygones are bygones. I’m perfectly
willing to talk with you from time to time. That’s all you want. This
other thing is simply a sop with which to plaster an old wound. You
want my friendship and so far as I’m concerned you have that. I don’t
hold any grudge against you. I won’t.”

Robert looked at him fixedly. He half smiled. He admired Lester in
spite of all that he had done to him—in spite of all that Lester was
doing to him now.

“I don’t know but what you’re right, Lester,” he admitted finally. “I
didn’t make this offer in any petty spirit though. I wanted to patch up
this matter of feeling between us. I won’t say anything more about it.
You’re not coming down to Cincinnati soon, are you?”

“I don’t expect to,” replied Lester.

“If you do I’d like to have you come and stay with us. Bring your wife.
We could talk over old times.”

Lester smiled an enigmatic smile.

“I’ll be glad to,” he said, without emotion. But he remembered that in
the days of Jennie it was different. They would never have receded from
their position regarding her. “Well,” he thought, “perhaps I can’t
blame them. Let it go.”

They talked on about other things. Finally Lester remembered an
appointment. “I’ll have to leave you soon,” he said, looking at his
watch.

“I ought to go, too,” said Robert. They rose. “Well, anyhow,” he added,
as they walked toward the cloakroom, “we won’t be absolute strangers in
the future, will we?”

“Certainly not,” said Lester. “I’ll see you from time to time.” They
shook hands and separated amicably. There was a sense of unsatisfied
obligation and some remorse in Robert’s mind as he saw his brother
walking briskly away. Lester was an able man. Why was it that there was
so much feeling between them—had been even before Jennie had appeared?
Then he remembered his old thoughts about “snaky deeds.” That was what
his brother lacked, and that only. He was not crafty; not darkly cruel,
hence. “What a world!” he thought.

On his part Lester went away feeling a slight sense of opposition to,
but also of sympathy for, his brother. He was not so terribly bad—not
different from other men. Why criticize? What would he have done if he
had been in Robert’s place? Robert was getting along. So was he. He
could see now how it all came about—why he had been made the victim,
why his brother had been made the keeper of the great fortune. “It’s
the way the world runs,” he thought. “What difference does it make? I
have enough to live on. Why not let it go at that?”




CHAPTER LXI


The days of man under the old dispensation, or, rather, according to
that supposedly biblical formula, which persists, are threescore years
and ten. It is so ingrained in the race-consciousness by mouth-to-mouth
utterance that it seems the profoundest of truths. As a matter of fact,
man, even under his mortal illusion, is organically built to live five
times the period of his maturity, and would do so if he but knew that
it is spirit which endures, that age is an illusion, and that there is
no death. Yet the race-thought, gained from what dream of materialism
we know not, persists, and the death of man under the mathematical
formula so fearfully accepted is daily registered.

Lester was one of those who believed in this formula. He was nearing
sixty. He thought he had, say, twenty years more at the utmost to
live—perhaps not so long. Well, he had lived comfortably. He felt that
he could not complain. If death was coming, let it come. He was ready
at any time. No complaint or resistance would issue from him. Life, in
most of its aspects, was a silly show anyhow.

He admitted that it was mostly illusion—easily proved to be so. That it
might all be one he sometimes suspected. It was very much like a dream
in its composition truly—sometimes like a very bad dream. All he had to
sustain him in his acceptance of its reality from hour to hour and day
to day was apparent contact with this material proposition and
that—people, meetings of boards of directors, individuals and
organizations planning to do this and that, his wife’s social functions
Letty loved him as a fine, grizzled example of a philosopher. She
admired, as Jennie had, his solid, determined, phlegmatic attitude in
the face of troubled circumstance. All the winds of fortune or
misfortune could not apparently excite or disturb Lester. He refused to
be frightened. He refused to budge from his beliefs and feelings, and
usually had to be pushed away from them, still believing, if he were
gotten away at all. He refused to do anything save as he always said,
“Look the facts in the face” and fight. He could be made to fight
easily enough if imposed upon, but only in a stubborn, resisting way.
His plan was to resist every effort to coerce him to the last ditch. If
he had to let go in the end he would when compelled, but his views as
to the value of not letting go were quite the same even when he had let
go under compulsion.

His views of living were still decidedly material, grounded in creature
comforts, and he had always insisted upon having the best of
everything. If the furnishings of his home became the least dingy he
was for having them torn out and sold and the house done over. If he
traveled, money must go ahead of him and smooth the way. He did not
want argument, useless talk, or silly palaver as he called it. Every
one must discuss interesting topics with him or not talk at all. Letty
understood him thoroughly. She would chuck him under the chin mornings,
or shake his solid head between her hands, telling him he was a brute,
but a nice kind of a brute. “Yes, yes,” he would growl. “I know. I’m an
animal, I suppose. You’re a seraphic suggestion of attenuated thought.”

“No; you hush,” she would reply, for at times he could cut like a knife
without really meaning to be unkind. Then he would pet her a little,
for, in spite of her vigorous conception of life, he realized that she
was more or less dependent upon him. It was always so plain to her that
he could get along without her. For reasons of kindliness he was trying
to conceal this, to pretend the necessity of her presence, but it was
so obvious that he really could dispense with her easily enough. Now
Letty did depend upon Lester. It was something, in so shifty and
uncertain a world, to be near so fixed and determined a quantity as
this bear-man. It was like being close to a warmly glowing lamp in the
dark or a bright burning fire in the cold. Lester was not afraid of
anything. He felt that he knew how to live and to die.

It was natural that a temperament of this kind should have its solid,
material manifestation at every point. Having his financial affairs
well in hand, most of his holding being shares of big companies, where
boards of solemn directors merely approved the strenuous efforts of
ambitious executives to “make good,” he had leisure for living. He and
Letty were fond of visiting the various American and European
watering-places. He gambled a little, for he found that there was
considerable diversion in risking interesting sums on the spin of a
wheel or the fortuitous roll of a ball; and he took more and more to
drinking, not in the sense that a drunkard takes to it, but as a high
liver, socially, and with all his friends. He was inclined to drink the
rich drinks when he did not take straight whiskey—champagne, sparkling
Burgundy, the expensive and effervescent white wines. When he drank he
could drink a great deal, and he ate in proportion. Nothing must be
served but the best—soup, fish, entree, roast, game, dessert—everything
that made up a showy dinner and he had long since determined that only
a high-priced chef was worth while. They had found an old _cordon
bleu,_ Louis Berdot, who had served in the house of one of the great
dry goods princes, and this man he engaged. He cost Lester a hundred
dollars a week, but his reply to any question was that he only had one
life to live.

The trouble with this attitude was that it adjusted nothing, improved
nothing, left everything to drift on toward an indefinite end. If
Lester had married Jennie and accepted the comparatively meager income
of ten thousand a year he would have maintained the same attitude to
the end. It would have led him to a stolid indifference to the social
world of which now necessarily he was a part. He would have drifted on
with a few mentally compatible cronies who would have accepted him for
what he was—a good fellow—and Jennie in the end would not have been so
much better off than she was now.

One of the changes which was interesting was that the Kanes transferred
their residence to New York. Mrs. Kane had become very intimate with a
group of clever women in the Eastern four hundred, or nine hundred, and
had been advised and urged to transfer the scene of her activities to
New York. She finally did so, leasing a house in Seventy-eighth Street,
near Madison Avenue. She installed a novelty for her, a complete staff
of liveried servants, after the English fashion, and had the rooms of
her house done in correlative periods. Lester smiled at her vanity and
love of show.

“You talk about your democracy,” he grunted one day. “You have as much
democracy as I have religion, and that’s none at all.”

“Why, how you talk!” she denied. “I am democratic. We all run in
classes. You do. I’m merely accepting the logic of the situation.”

“The logic of your grandmother! Do you call a butler and doorman in red
velvet a part of the necessity of the occasion?”

“I certainly do,” she replied. “Maybe not the necessity exactly, but
the spirit surely. Why should you quarrel? You’re the first one to
insist on perfection—to quarrel if there is any flaw in the order of
things.”

“You never heard me quarrel.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that literally. But you demand perfection—the exact
spirit of the occasion, and you know it.”

“Maybe I do, but what has that to do with your democracy?”

“I am democratic. I insist on it. I’m as democratic in spirit as any
woman. Only I see things as they are, and conform as much as possible
for comfort’s sake, and so do you. Don’t you throw rocks at my glass
house, Mister Master. Yours is so transparent I can see every move you
make inside.”

“I’m democratic and you’re not,” he teased; but he approved thoroughly
of everything she did. She was, he sometimes fancied, a better
executive in her world than he was in his.

Drifting in this fashion, wining, dining, drinking the waters of this
curative spring and that, traveling in luxurious ease and taking no
physical exercise, finally altered his body from a vigorous,
quick-moving, well-balanced organism into one where plethora of
substance was clogging every essential function. His liver, kidneys,
spleen, pancreas—every organ, in fact—had been overtaxed for some time
to keep up the process of digestion and elimination. In the past seven
years he had become uncomfortably heavy. His kidneys were weak, and so
were the arteries of his brain. By dieting, proper exercise, the right
mental attitude, he might have lived to be eighty or ninety. As a
matter of fact, he was allowing himself to drift into a physical state
in which even a slight malady might prove dangerous. The result was
inevitable, and it came.

It so happened that he and Letty had gone to the North Cape on a cruise
with a party of friends. Lester, in order to attend to some important
business, decided to return to Chicago late in November; he arranged to
have his wife meet him in New York just before the Christmas holidays.
He wrote Watson to expect him, and engaged rooms at the Auditorium, for
he had sold the Chicago residence some two years before and was now
living permanently in New York.

One late November day, after having attended to a number of details and
cleared up his affairs very materially, Lester was seized with what the
doctor who was called to attend him described as a cold in the
intestines—a disturbance usually symptomatic of some other weakness,
either of the blood or of some organ. He suffered great pain, and the
usual remedies in that case were applied. There were bandages of red
flannel with a mustard dressing, and specifics were also administered.
He experienced some relief, but he was troubled with a sense of
impending disaster. He had Watson cable his wife—there was nothing
serious about it, but he was ill. A trained nurse was in attendance and
his valet stood guard at the door to prevent annoyance of any kind. It
was plain that Letty could not reach Chicago under three weeks. He had
the feeling that he would not see her again.

Curiously enough, not only because he was in Chicago, but because he
had never been spiritually separated from Jennie, he was thinking about
her constantly at this time. He had intended to go out and see her just
as soon as he was through with his business engagements and before he
left the city. He had asked Watson how she was getting along, and had
been informed that everything was well with her. She was living quietly
and looking in good health, so Watson said. Lester wished he could see
her.

This thought grew as the days passed and he grew no better. He was
suffering from time to time with severe attacks of griping pains that
seemed to tie his viscera into knots, and left him very weak. Several
times the physician administered cocaine with a needle in order to
relieve him of useless pain.

After one of the severe attacks he called Watson to his side, told him
to send the nurse away, and then said: “Watson, I’d like to have you do
me a favor. Ask Mrs. Stover if she won’t come here to see me. You’d
better go and get her. Just send the nurse and Kozo (the valet) away
for the afternoon, or while she’s here. If she comes at any other time
I’d like to have her admitted.”

Watson understood. He liked this expression of sentiment. He was sorry
for Jennie. He was sorry for Lester. He wondered what the world would
think if it could know of this bit of romance in connection with so
prominent a man. Lester was decent. He had made Watson prosperous. The
latter was only too glad to serve him in any way.

He called a carriage and rode out to Jennie’s residence. He found her
watering some plants; her face expressed her surprise at his unusual
presence.

“I come on a rather troublesome errand, Mrs. Stover,” he said, using
her assumed name. “Your—that is, Mr. Kane is quite sick at the
Auditorium. His wife is in Europe, and he wanted to know if I wouldn’t
come out here and ask you to come and see him. He wanted me to bring
you, if possible. Could you come with me now?”

“Why yes,” said Jennie, her face a study. The children were in school.
An old Swedish housekeeper was in the kitchen. She could go as well as
not. But there was coming back to her in detail a dream she had had
several nights before. It had seemed to her that she was out on a dark,
mystic body of water over which was hanging something like a fog, or a
pall of smoke. She heard the water ripple, or stir faintly, and then
out of the surrounding darkness a boat appeared. It was a little boat,
oarless, or not visibly propelled, and in it were her mother, and
Vesta, and some one whom she could not make out. Her mother’s face was
pale and sad, very much as she had often seen it in life. She looked at
Jennie solemnly, sympathetically, and then suddenly Jennie realized
that the third occupant of the boat was Lester. He looked at her
gloomily—an expression she had never seen on his face before—and then
her mother remarked, “Well, we must go now.” The boat began to move, a
great sense of loss came over her, and she cried, “Oh, don’t leave me,
mamma!”

But her mother only looked at her out of deep, sad, still eyes, and the
boat was gone.

She woke with a start, half fancying that Lester was beside her. She
stretched out her hand to touch his arm; then she drew herself up in
the dark and rubbed her eyes, realizing that she was alone. A great
sense of depression remained with her, and for two days it haunted her.
Then, when it seemed as if it were nothing, Mr. Watson appeared with
his ominous message.

She went to dress, and reappeared, looking as troubled as were her
thoughts. She was very pleasing in her appearance yet, a sweet, kindly
woman, well dressed and shapely. She had never been separated mentally
from Lester, just as he had never grown entirely away from her. She was
always with him in thought, just as in the years when they were
together. Her fondest memories were of the days when he first courted
her in Cleveland—the days when he had carried her off, much as the
cave-man seized his mate—by force. Now she longed to do what she could
for him. For this call was as much a testimony as a shock. He loved
her—he loved her, after all.

The carriage rolled briskly through the long streets into the smoky
down-town district. It arrived at the Auditorium, and Jennie was
escorted to Lester’s room. Watson had been considerate. He had talked
little, leaving her to her thoughts. In this great hotel she felt
diffident after so long a period of complete retirement. As she entered
the room she looked at Lester with large, gray, sympathetic eyes. He
was lying propped up on two pillows, his solid head with its growth of
once dark brown hair slightly grayed. He looked at her curiously out of
his wise old eyes, a light of sympathy and affection shining in
them—weary as they were. Jennie was greatly distressed. His pale face,
slightly drawn from suffering, cut her like a knife. She took his hand,
which was outside the coverlet, and pressed it. She leaned over and
kissed his lips.

“I’m so sorry, Lester,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry. You’re not very
sick though, are you? You must get well, Lester—and soon!” She patted
his hand gently.

“Yes, Jennie, but I’m pretty bad,” he said. “I don’t feel right about
this business. I don’t seem able to shake it off. But tell me, how have
you been?”

“Oh, just the same, dear,” she replied. “I’m all right. You mustn’t
talk like that, though. You’re going to be all right very soon now.”

He smiled grimly. “Do you think so?” He shook his head, for he thought
differently. “Sit down, dear,” he went on, “I’m not worrying about
that. I want to talk to you again. I want you near me.” He sighed and
shut his eyes for a minute.

She drew up a chair close beside the bed, her face toward his, and took
his hand. It seemed such a beautiful thing that he should send for her.
Her eyes showed the mingled sympathy, affection, and gratitude of her
heart. At the same time fear gripped her; how ill he looked!

“I can’t tell what may happen,” he went on. “Letty is in Europe. I’ve
wanted to see you again for some time. I was coming out this trip. We
are living in New York, you know. You’re a little stouter, Jennie.”

“Yes, I’m getting old, Lester,” she smiled.

“Oh, that doesn’t make any difference,” he replied, looking at her
fixedly. “Age doesn’t count. We are all in that boat. It’s how we feel
about life.”

He stopped and stared at the ceiling. A slight twinge of pain reminded
him of the vigorous seizures he had been through. He couldn’t stand
many more paroxysms like the last one.

“I couldn’t go, Jennie, without seeing you again,” he observed, when
the slight twinge ceased and he was free to think again. “I’ve always
wanted to say to you, Jennie,” he went on, “that I haven’t been
satisfied with the way we parted. It wasn’t the right thing, after all.
I haven’t been any happier. I’m sorry. I wish now, for my own peace of
mind, that I hadn’t done it.”

“Don’t say that, Lester,” she demurred, going over in her mind all that
had been between them. This was such a testimony to their real
union—their real spiritual compatibility. “It’s all right. It doesn’t
make any difference. You’ve been very good to me. I wouldn’t have been
satisfied to have you lose your fortune. It couldn’t be that way. I’ve
been a lot better satisfied as it is. It’s been hard, but, dear,
everything is hard at times.” She paused.

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t right. The thing wasn’t worked out right from
the start; but that wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you
that. I’m glad I’m here to do it.”

“Don’t talk that way, Lester—please don’t,” she pleaded. “It’s all
right. You needn’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for. You have
always been so good to me. Why, when I think—” she stopped, for it was
hard for her to speak. She was choking with affection and sympathy. She
pressed his hands. She was recalling the house he took for her family
in Cleveland, his generous treatment of Gerhardt, all the long ago
tokens of love and kindness.

“Well, I’ve told you now, and I feel better. You’re a good woman,
Jennie, and you’re kind to come to me this way.” I loved you. I love
you now. I want to tell you that. It seems strange, but you’re the only
woman I ever did love truly. We should never have parted.

Jennie caught her breath. It was the one thing she had waited for all
these years—this testimony. It was the one thing that could make
everything right—this confession of spiritual if not material union.
Now she could live happily. Now die so. “Oh, Lester,” she exclaimed
with a sob, and pressed his hand. He returned the pressure. There was a
little silence. Then he spoke again.

“How are the two orphans?” he asked.

“Oh, they’re lovely,” she answered, entering upon a detailed
description of their diminutive personalities. He listened comfortably,
for her voice was soothing to him. Her whole personality was grateful
to him. When it came time for her to go he seemed desirous of keeping
her.

“Going, Jennie?”

“I can stay just as well as not, Lester,” she volunteered. “I’ll take a
room. I can send a note out to Mrs. Swenson. It will be all right.”

“You needn’t do that,” he said, but she could see that he wanted her,
that he did not want to be alone.

From that time on until the hour of his death she was not out of the
hotel.




CHAPTER LXII


The end came after four days during which Jennie was by his bedside
almost constantly. The nurse in charge welcomed her at first as a
relief and company, but the physician was inclined to object. Lester,
however, was stubborn. “This is my death,” he said, with a touch of
grim humor. “If I’m dying I ought to be allowed to die in my own way.”

Watson smiled at the man’s unfaltering courage. He had never seen
anything like it before.

There were cards of sympathy, calls of inquiry, notices in the
newspaper. Robert saw an item in the _Inquirer_ and decided to go to
Chicago. Imogene called with her husband, and they were admitted to
Lester’s room for a few minutes after Jennie had gone to hers. Lester
had little to say. The nurse cautioned them that he was not to be
talked to much. When they were gone Lester said to Jennie, “Imogene has
changed a good deal.” He made no other comment.

Mrs. Kane was on the Atlantic three days out from New York the
afternoon Lester died. He had been meditating whether anything more
could be done for Jennie, but he could not make up his mind about it.
Certainly it was useless to leave her more money. She did not want it.
He had been wondering where Letty was and how near her actual arrival
might be when he was seized with a tremendous paroxysm of pain. Before
relief could be administered in the shape of an anesthetic he was dead.
It developed afterward that it was not the intestinal trouble which
killed him, but a lesion of a major blood-vessel in the brain.

Jennie, who had been strongly wrought up by watching and worrying, was
beside herself with grief. He had been a part of her thought and
feeling so long that it seemed now as though a part of herself had
died. She had loved him as she had fancied she could never love any
one, and he had always shown that he cared for her—at least in some
degree. She could not feel the emotion that expresses itself in
tears—only a dull ache, a numbness which seemed to make her insensible
to pain. He looked so strong—her Lester—lying there still in death. His
expression was unchanged—defiant, determined, albeit peaceful. Word had
come from Mrs. Kane that she would arrive on the Wednesday following.
It was decided to hold the body. Jennie learned from Mr. Watson that it
was to be transferred to Cincinnati, where the Paces had a vault.
Because of the arrival of various members of the family, Jennie
withdrew to her own home; she could do nothing more.

The final ceremonies presented a peculiar commentary on the anomalies
of existence. It was arranged with Mrs. Kane by wire that the body
should be transferred to Imogene’s residence, and the funeral held from
there. Robert, who arrived the night Lester died; Berry Dodge,
Imogene’s husband; Mr. Midgely, and three other citizens of prominence
were selected as pall-bearers. Louise and her husband came from
Buffalo; Amy and her husband from Cincinnati. The house was full to
overflowing with citizens who either sincerely wished or felt it
expedient to call. Because of the fact that Lester and his family were
tentatively Catholic, a Catholic priest was called in and the ritual of
that Church was carried out. It was curious to see him lying in the
parlor of this alien residence, candles at his head and feet, burning
sepulchrally, a silver cross upon his breast, caressed by his waxen
fingers. He would have smiled if he could have seen himself, but the
Kane family was too conventional, too set in its convictions, to find
anything strange in this.

The Church made no objection, of course. The family was distinguished.
What more could be desired?

On Wednesday Mrs. Kane arrived. She was greatly distraught, for her
love, like Jennie’s, was sincere. She left her room that night when all
was silent and leaned over the coffin, studying by the light of the
burning candles Lester’s beloved features. Tears trickled down her
cheeks, for she had been happy with him. She caressed his cold cheeks
and hands. “Poor, dear Lester!” she whispered. “Poor, brave soul!” No
one told her that he had sent for Jennie. The Kane family did not know.

Meanwhile in the house on South Park Avenue sat a woman who was
enduring alone the pain, the anguish of an irreparable loss. Through
all these years the subtle hope had persisted, in spite of every
circumstance, that somehow life might bring him back to her. He had
come, it is true—he really had in death—but he had gone again. Where?
Whither her mother, whither Gerhardt, whither Vesta had gone? She could
not hope to see him again, for the papers had informed her of his
removal to Mrs. Midgely’s residence, and of the fact that he was to be
taken from Chicago to Cincinnati for burial. The last ceremonies in
Chicago were to be held in one of the wealthy Roman Catholic churches
of the South Side, St. Michael’s, of which the Midgelys were members.

Jennie felt deeply about this. She would have liked so much to have had
him buried in Chicago, where she could go to the grave occasionally,
but this was not to be. She was never a master of her fate. Others
invariably controlled. She thought of him as being taken from her
finally by the removal of the body to Cincinnati, as though distance
made any difference. She decided at last to veil herself heavily and
attend the funeral at the church. The paper had explained that the
services would be at two in the afternoon. Then at four the body would
be taken to the depôt, and transferred to the train; the members of the
family would accompany it to Cincinnati. She thought of this as another
opportunity. She might go to the depôt.

A little before the time for the funeral cortege to arrive at the
church there appeared at one of its subsidiary entrances a woman in
black, heavily veiled, who took a seat in an inconspicuous corner. She
was a little nervous at first, for, seeing that the church was dark and
empty, she feared lest she had mistaken the time and place; but after
ten minutes of painful suspense a bell in the church tower began to
toll solemnly. Shortly thereafter an acolyte in black gown and white
surplice appeared and lighted groups of candles on either side of the
altar. A hushed stirring of feet in the choir-loft indicated that the
service was to be accompanied by music. Some loiterers, attracted by
the bell, some idle strangers, a few acquaintances and citizens not
directly invited appeared and took seats.

Jennie watched all this with wondering eyes. Never in her life had she
been inside a Catholic church. The gloom, the beauty of the windows,
the whiteness of the altar, the golden flames of the candles impressed
her. She was suffused with a sense of sorrow, loss, beauty, and
mystery. Life in all its vagueness and uncertainty seemed typified by
this scene.

As the bell tolled there came from the sacristy a procession of
altar-boys. The smallest, an angelic youth of eleven, came first,
bearing aloft a magnificent silver cross. In the hands of each
subsequent pair of servitors was held a tall, lighted candle. The
priest, in black cloth and lace, attended by an acolyte on either hand,
followed. The procession passed out the entrance into the vestibule of
the church, and was not seen again until the choir began a mournful,
responsive chant, the Latin supplication for mercy and peace.

Then, at this sound the solemn procession made its reappearance. There
came the silver cross, the candles, the dark-faced priest, reading
dramatically to himself as he walked, and the body of Lester in a great
black coffin, with silver handles, carried by the pall-bearers, who
kept an even pace. Jennie stiffened perceptibly, her nerves responding
as though to a shock from an electric current. She did not know any of
these men. She did not know Robert. She had never seen Mr. Midgely. Of
the long company of notables who followed two by two she recognized
only three, whom Lester had pointed out to her in times past. Mrs. Kane
she saw, of course, for she was directly behind the coffin, leaning on
the arm of a stranger; behind her walked Mr. Watson, solemn, gracious.
He gave a quick glance to either side, evidently expecting to see her
somewhere; but not finding her, he turned his eyes gravely forward and
walked on. Jennie looked with all her eyes, her heart gripped by pain.
She seemed so much a part of this solemn ritual, and yet infinitely
removed from it all.

The procession reached the altar rail, and the coffin was put down. A
white shroud bearing the insignia of suffering, a black cross, was put
over it, and the great candles were set beside it. There were the
chanted invocations and responses, the sprinkling of the coffin with
holy water, the lighting and swinging of the censer and then the
mumbled responses of the auditors to the Lord’s Prayer and to its
Catholic addition, the invocation to the Blessed Virgin. Jennie was
overawed and amazed, but no show of form colorful, impression imperial,
could take away the sting of death, the sense of infinite loss. To
Jennie the candles, the incense, the holy song were beautiful. They
touched the deep chord of melancholy in her, and made it vibrate
through the depths of her being. She was as a house filled with
mournful melody and the presence of death. She cried and cried. She
could see, curiously, that Mrs. Kane was sobbing convulsively also.

When it was all over the carriages were entered and the body was borne
to the station. All the guests and strangers departed, and finally,
when all was silent, she arose. Now she would go to the depôt also, for
she was hopeful of seeing his body put on the train. They would have to
bring it out on the platform, just as they did in Vesta’s case. She
took a car, and a little later she entered the waiting-room of the
depôt. She lingered about, first in the concourse, where the great iron
fence separated the passengers from the tracks, and then in the
waiting-room, hoping to discover the order of proceedings. She finally
observed the group of immediate relatives waiting—Mrs. Kane, Robert,
Mrs. Midgely, Louise, Amy, Imogene, and the others. She actually
succeeded in identifying most of them, though it was not knowledge in
this case, but pure instinct and intuition.

No one had noticed it in the stress of excitement, but it was
Thanksgiving Eve. Throughout the great railroad station there was a hum
of anticipation, that curious ebullition of fancy which springs from
the thought of pleasures to come. People were going away for the
holiday. Carriages were at the station entries. Announcers were calling
in stentorian voices the destination of each new train as the time of
its departure drew near. Jennie heard with a desperate ache the
description of a route which she and Lester had taken more than once,
slowly and melodiously emphasized. “Detroit, Toledo, Cleveland,
Buffalo, and New York.” There were cries of trains for “Fort Wayne,
Columbus, Pittsburg, Philadelphia, and points East,” and then finally
for “Indianapolis, Louisville, Columbus, Cincinnati, and points South.”
The hour had struck.

Several times Jennie had gone to the concourse between the waiting-room
and the tracks to see if through the iron grating which separated her
from her beloved she could get one last look at the coffin, or the
great wooden box which held it, before it was put on the train. Now she
saw it coming. There was a baggage porter pushing a truck into position
near the place where the baggage car would stop. On it was Lester, that
last shadow of his substance, incased in the honors of wood, and cloth,
and silver. There was no thought on the part of the porter of the agony
of loss which was represented here. He could not see how wealth and
position in this hour were typified to her mind as a great fence, a
wall, which divided her eternally from her beloved. Had it not always
been so? Was not her life a patchwork of conditions made and affected
by these things which she saw—wealth and force—which had found her
unfit? She had evidently been born to yield, not seek. This panoply of
power had been paraded before her since childhood. What could she do
now but stare vaguely after it as it marched triumphantly by? Lester
had been of it. Him it respected. Of her it knew nothing. She looked
through the grating, and once more there came the cry of “Indianapolis,
Louisville, Columbus, Cincinnati, and points South.” A long red train,
brilliantly lighted, composed of baggage cars, day coaches, a
dining-car, set with white linen and silver, and a half dozen
comfortable Pullmans, rolled in and stopped. A great black engine,
puffing and glowing, had it all safely in tow.

As the baggage car drew near the waiting truck a train-hand in blue,
looking out of the car, called to some one within.

“Hey, Jack! Give us a hand here. There’s a stiff outside!”

Jennie could not hear.

All she could see was the great box that was so soon to disappear. All
she could feel was that this train would start presently, and then it
would all be over. The gates opened, the passengers poured out. There
were Robert, and Amy, and Louise, and Midgely—all making for the
Pullman cars in the rear. They had said their farewells to their
friends. No need to repeat them. A trio of assistants “gave a hand” at
getting the great wooden case into the car. Jennie saw it disappear
with an acute physical wrench at her heart.

There were many trunks to be put aboard, and then the door of the
baggage car half closed, but not before the warning bell of the engine
sounded. There was the insistent calling of “all aboard” from this
quarter and that; then slowly the great locomotive began to move. Its
bell was ringing, its steam hissing, its smoke-stack throwing aloft a
great black plume of smoke that fell back over the cars like a pall.
The fireman, conscious of the heavy load behind, flung open a flaming
furnace door to throw in coal. Its light glowed like a golden eye.

Jennie stood rigid, staring into the wonder of this picture, her face
white, her eyes wide, her hands unconsciously clasped, but one thought
in her mind—they were taking his body away. A leaden November sky was
ahead, almost dark. She looked, and looked until the last glimmer of
the red lamp on the receding sleeper disappeared in the maze of smoke
and haze overhanging the tracks of the far-stretching yard.

“Yes,” said the voice of a passing stranger, gay with the anticipation
of coming pleasures. “We’re going to have a great time down there.
Remember Annie? Uncle Jim is coming and Aunt Ella.”

Jennie did not hear that or anything else of the chatter and bustle
around her. Before her was stretching a vista of lonely years down
which she was steadily gazing. Now what? She was not so old yet. There
were those two orphan children to raise. They would marry and leave
after a while, and then what? Days and days in endless reiteration, and
then—?

THE END